I stay every day in front of this screen, praying for something to come out.

I say, please give me the vowels that I’ll put in the consonants because I’m empty, I’m a seashell that mumbles, but that has no one that understands it. 

Thus when I close my eyes I don’t sleep I hear the screams, the howls, and pleads of mercy that seek to converse with what feels dead. And that's why I’m on my knees, with dry eyes and broken lips that are pleading that what my fingers write isn’t shit that even the beggar doesn't want. 

Because the only thing I was betting on was this, this was mine, my condemnation, my pride, and my salvation. 

However, now I’m every hour of every minute with my gaze locked on this screen, yet my heart is the Sahara and there is nothing, there is no voice, no feeling, no poetry.

TA.

It came back it came back it came back

My voice is not screaming or howling to the moon

My voice is ink in the fingerprints and tears on the dry skin

My voice is made of sighs and grimaces.

And it’s to say that it has finally come back

At last, I can translate these torments that had me imprisoned in my dementia

And it’s a joy that silences those pains that feed on my definitions

God

All I want to do is write the word it came back while between each vocal you’ll see me dancing with my arms to the sky thanking for the happiness of once again being able to unite sentences that alleviate this torture of staying alive.

TA.

I feel like the lie of life, as if everything that makes me I don't know it, but I can taste it and when they ask me who I am I don't know what fable to give. 

Because everyone tells me I have the Alzheimer’s of dementia with the way I tell my hours and that’s why I always doubt if I really am as I say.

Since these feelings have the echo of a question that I never answer, because how to know if what torments me is really me or the illusion of the torture that I need to be.

And I know it's madness, its philosophy and a waste of time, but I didn't grow up honest, always thinking that all that I remember of myself it's made up in a past of which I don't have any recollection of and in another lifetime I would have asked.

But everyone seems to know me and I don't want to disappoint, so I bite my lips and go make up another story. And this is how I always end up feeling as an Oscar winner, remembering names that are salt in the tongue and blind eyes. Because I’m saying that I feel like a vampire with reflection but without knowledge.

TA.