No, I don’t have anything to say.

Nor about poets, neither about you.

There’re eyes that grow everywhere on me: on my hair’s root, my foots’ sole and nails, too.

Distances become closer, and what is close become a distance

Inside, outside, just a constant flux.

The falling down epidermis return with their outside’s depth

And float high like sad waves

Till I saw myself tonight in a dead center:

I was sitting down there all smashed,

All prevalent just like a real

Death.

There’s no letter at the past-perfect-simple time

And all is hideous, erased and filled by the future where another wound

Is waiting for me as another day you forget

To know me…

You flow inside my blood as the space and time feeling

Kills me…

My fingers are stuck in your small universe

And you permeate through my body for you’re a stretched wings ill,

You’re a dumb crowd of words in mouth,

Just a month with imperfect people- the reason I must loose myself there, surrounding

My immense childhood down to the earth.

It’s your unfair smile, your artificial diversion that I don’t believe,

I don’t believe with all soul’s power.

Some day I would be about to tell you more, not even close:

But that’s it, that’s me

No less, no more!