I hate you. I hate you, hate you, hate you again and you'll hate you until I have more, until it slipped out of my blood every drop of you. When the veins protrude, blue, skin dry and rough, worn and exhausted from the blood no longer young, then I'll regret, no remorse in a fund.
twist inside me, upsetting the gut: I scattered thoughts, breaking the sentences into words disordered sheets as the wind, entering through a broken window in the fall sweeps a desk, in the dust a dark room, into a new house already abandoned, soiled by a short time has passed.
I who are you? It is you who are me?
exists, I, I do not have you, now, now, now?
I am yours: you sow seed on the passing world. My roots, only they, my, I parted from you, I will, slowly cutting into every link in your own silent agony that my labors, their only exit from me, your order will mark the end of your empire, the end of your domain, in my submission, signs of my body forever engraved on me to testify, the signs of your loss, signs of my defeat.
hold me in your grip, fake dream of freedom, false appearance of frivolity. I crush, preventing me from breathing in the days that run too fast, but never pass.
You are my torture, but without you, what they are: a young without youth, is it?
A young old, old, already old and rotten inside, no.
are an empty shell: What is old age, without the youth to overtake?
What is the wisdom, without the experience that built?
What am I, if I did not you? They are birch bark, brittle. Dried bark. Empty.
Without you, skip the stages of the path: the path is lost, and without aid are still in a fog that hides the path, hides the left, while the return is dissolved.
incomplete, missing a piece of life, incomplete, useless, broken, useless waiting for peace, which will not, will not arrive, I can find. The road experience: youth, abandoned. You lost, also lost the experience. The life lived. Life becomes suspended, bulging and helpless in trying to achieve an end that does not arrive, without the slight movement, not knowing where to go.
Can not delete: I have to pay, which subjugated by your weight crushes me to the ground, pressed by those fake wings of youth wings of fresh decanted lightness, from those of lead painted blue curtains that do not make me run away: they are included in my flesh, they will dissolve powder, will melt away the knots that bind them together, with time: the complex, the Paturnie: crashing at hand hand while walking, while streaking in a direction that I learn.
I can not take them off, those wings, I can not get rid of it and run. I have to wait to confront them, fight on its last legs until, exhausted from the battle, aged, you'll watch the horizon turn away forever, while a prevailing gloom spreads.
am a prisoner of myself, am a prisoner of my youth.
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