Blogging poetico

Trashy poetry


I will never be a poet
neither a hope
nor an inner silence.
I will never try
to fly again
the sky is forbidden
for cowards.
I will never get again
over my sight
the smiling song
of quiet air.
This world is corrupt.
Here, where the death is an everyday coin,
being alive is not a treasure
is the price of being
a slave of the present.


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