A copy of a copy of a copy 

​Isn’t it all 

a copy of a copy 

of a copy after all ? 

Isn’t art just someone else’s

idea melted into some new artist’s? 

isn’t love just a copy of your first lover?

aren’t we just copies of what our parents were? 

somehow trapped even when we try to rebel ?

what’s the point of wanting to create

if everything is already there? 

We live once, and never have the chance

to come back and look at the choices we had

because there is no text book or school

that can teach us what life screams for

We are here to live life

we are here to kill time

we are here to drink and fuck

to scream and fight

until Death comes visit us

and the day we’ll die

there won’t be no time, 

you could only wish

to offer her a drink

and hope she’s too drunk

so she falls asleep

and your lips don’t kiss.

But she’ll be back again

whores always do

even if they were satisfied

you could never run too far.

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2 thoughts on “A copy of a copy of a copy 

    1. Somos mucho más que un cuerpo repleto de huesos y músculos, nuestro alma es lo que nos define; pero muy seguido nos vemos repetir los mismos errores que en el pasado, esos que ya están escritos, sobre eso intento debatir aquí. Gracias por leer como siempre, me alegra mucho ver tus comentarios, ¡saludos!

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