Simple

Simple

It is a simple imbalance

the lack of a step

and your heart dies

that's what happens when the ink dries

and I doubt

I doubt in my courage

and in the certainty of my words

My words are lost in a labyrinth of my mind

and I'm left alone and abandoned in a dark

with the echo of my demons

laughing with familiar voices

and have long arms to stifle me in their consolations

It is an easy action that triggers it

an easy stumble

an unresponsive leg

and my hands burn because I no longer remember how I ended there

the empty bottles

the empty box

and bleeding skin

and still the words do not come back

there is no beauty

as there is no talent

to say what it is like to write what is like living in this world

is simply torturing and being tortured

Your own sentence

there are no rules to learn

no languages ​​to interleave

and there is no salvation to pray

just you and a dry pen

in an abandoned room

waiting for everything to be quiet

just to write,

just to , finally, write

and being able to breathe

Because in how simple it is,

is that we understand that writing

it is freedom from our guilts and penalties

and it is dirty and macabre

and it's simple

T.M.