i don’t like writing poems
i hate this superhuman struggle
to give a shape to my dreams & thoughts
in the end i come to understand
the futility of everything

soap bubbles bursting in the air

i deceive myself to keep going
by thinking that in the next word or line
i’ll find pleasure
but there’s no such thing
just the masturbation of a dead organ

i’m not a poet
but – i know it sounds awfully pathetic –
the truth is that my blood
is the blood of a poet
and the worst thing of all
is that it knows it

i’m the holographic image of a mad god
trying to create a solid reality