Tired, tired
I go.
I get up in the morning
and there is still a little 'light:
the sunset is just two minutes.
before washing my face I do not want to do anything
after the coffee is over the day.
Only cigarettes, boredom and a duty, a duty to help
,
duty to do
supports me.
Poor, poor my commitment,
poor, too poor life.
The magic spring that sustains you
has fallen apart,
desire is over, the anger becomes
indolence and speeches ... silence.
Holidays? Holidays from myself?
No, I always carry my being tired
perrennemente at rest.
Escape? Which flight?
to finish between two comforting arms?
to change a life cast?
"I do not feel anything and I'm afraid of this"
wrote at eighteen
"I had nothing and I'm afraid of this"
I could write now.
logical conclusion
for which I can only blame myself
.
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