The sailor

I hold myself back, I hold myself back
While they leap on ropes of flowers,
I remain seated on the old wooden bench.

I know they see me as a living shadow.
I sense it, I perceive it.

I want to escape,
I want to run desesperately,
But I’m stuck and cursed to be on this bench.

My feet have no motivation
Against this painful, bipolar breeze
My words,
Confused and clumsy,
Is an old gray chain of lies
That only sinks and sinks deeper into the sea.

I see it,
Every time the chain experiences
Different layers of state and light.

When it’s deep,
It wants to return to its ship,
But it’s stuck,
And every creature will know.

The sailor, owner of the chain,
Watches how all sailors and pirates
Have their chains beside them,
Clear and new.

They explore more of the sea without stopping,
But the sailor is stuck.

She believed that by talking more
About his treasure chest,
She could got on others ships,
So she searched thinking in just one place to find a chest,
With abundance,
“The things the sailor doesn’t have”
Simply to make other sailors’ eyes shine,
And finally be accepted

Among their luxurious suits and ships.

The sailor looks around.

Around her,
Some wait for the expected treasure,
But all the sailors around are slowly leaving.

Sure,
And now they leave and are free,
While the sailor is stuck.

The sailor regrets and wishes extreme happiness for them through clenched teeth.

Dystopian norm

We are programmed robots; when the time comes, we just walk, following what the norm order.
“Norms” says: do all we say in a few seconds and devastate your fingerprints until there’s
nothing left.
Don’t close your eyes and follow one method.
“Norms” says: have the same brain, with red lines intertwined, full of memories, genetics, and
experience equal to the others.
Keep it, Keep it to yourself.

For the, we have bunnies red ayes,
Machinery that needs to be fixed.
For us they are gluttons.
The more robots they create, the more they cover the country with their bodies.
Then we are stuck to these invisible webs.
Then what will happen?
We will sink into the dirty earth we didn’t create.

Underground

They cover their eyes involuntarily,
and walk over them as if they were earth.
You, the ones who will never consider yourselves nothing,
float slowly in turbulent water.

No one is born to not be seen.
While they laugh in luxury,
you, the invisibles, work in the shadows
behind their big backs,
only to receive a step on the hand, something admirable.

Oh, nobody’s, you keep living in filth.
And no one will stop the rage I feel
when clenching my teeth and closing my mouth.
Not only in me: between blood and blood,

the rage of their avengers and descendants
will become more fulminescent
and will explode on their pretty and rare porcelain