I would like to say many things,
I just know that I’m here again
to write.
I would like to say many things,
and the only resource,
the only “weapon” I have
is always this passion,
this writing.
Sometimes I thought
Of having to brake it.
Because I was afraid
To hurt
Who I love.
Since I was
So scared,
knowing
to have been afraid.
But then the pain dominated me,
and I couldn’t do anything else,
because I didn’t know how to stop it.
I know they tell you so many things,
who think they understand me,
to have understood you,
but here nobody had ever.
I do not understand
If it’s like “friends” said,
that you only want people with money,
or with the muscular ones?
Or if what I thought of you,
maybe looking a little beyond that fog
of your fake “superficiality”,
there really was something more.
And if, maybe, you can also love people like me.
I know I have to be honest with myself,
and that I continue to love,
despite all this bullshit.
That’s how we are done,
we infamous with the heart.
Other than being how others think
We are just more human,
prey to feelings,
more vulnerable.
But I don’t want to hold back anymore,
because otherwise I hurt myself more.
You know,
I gave you my heart,
I wanted it back,
but you can keep it, you know?
I made a new one.
And I got it,
that I prefer this way,
that I will always want you to be okay,
that I will always love you.
And maybe, got to talk to each other, once again…
And I don’t care about what everyone thinks!
maybe they come to say something to me for the umpteenth time,
I’m calm, I know there is no end
always pain is.
But the thing that hurts me the most,
it’s just having no real way
to relieve it,
and I can’t make anyone understand,
not even with these words.
You know,
I happen to see your photos again,
and I feel alone
a great tenderness.
In some photos,
you don’t even go out very well,
as you are live,
but for me,
always fantastic.
I understand that unlike
Of all the bullshit they’ve always said,
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with eyes,
but above all you,
the heart has seen you
and understood even better than me.
I write for myself, you know,
I think about it for myself,
because I want to be well,
I want to kill this pain.
And I’m succeeding,
only when I recognize,
that there is nothing but love.
No, keep that heart,
that never really broke,
that was the mind,
after all the things they put in
keep that heart, I gave it to you, don’t worry:
it was a gift,
I made a new one.
that lives in this gash that is in the chest
and I see it bright,
more than ever.
And the good that I want,
it does not end, nothing ends in life. They tell you a lot of bullshit, because they don’t want to listen to themselves, because you know, it’s easier that way to live.
Lies, they tell you that evil passes, but at the most it changes shape, it always stays inside, because there is no peace in the head, especially for people like me, always with the desire to be different.
Nobody gives us consolations, only kicks and stabs. And these were my certainties. And who really loves me, I hold it tight in this hand that writes, and I always think of them when I write,
as well as you.
And you know that you, what do I tell you? That I’m tired of pretending that everything is okay, that it has passed me by, because I have to pretend, because I have to be “afraid” of something.
I have to thank all of this, a little, because now I know who I am. I have my identity, a new identity, and my former self, vanishes. I know who I am, I owe it to all of this.
I know that I am the most distant thing from being a violent person, to have been prey to the anger and pain that has fallen on me. Of course, I’m not perfect, but the only approach I can want to a person is a hug.
I want to feel free to say I love someone, despite everything, and to hate those who prevent me from doing so.
Fuck off.
.
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Lo scrittore Volante 