Etcétera, etcétera

Weird plastic bottles
Everybody leaves
To the plastic fishes
They eat our feces
There’s nobody in here
Can’t you see them?
Whispering thoughts
Into young boys
The bottom of the ocean
Feels sick of our peace
We are nobody
Can’t you stay a little?
They send me messages
Blur my meaninglessness
Burn your clothes
Hide your ropes
Your father is after us
Run naked into the forest
Meet the plastic people
Kill the plastic people
Don’t you see them?
Don’t bother to fight
We have no right
Left is all that’s left
Feel it in your chest
Empty your consciousness
Fake plastic people
Making more fake plastic people
Elevating more fake plastic people
What happened?
Are you there?
Weird plastic bottles
I am done with my project
Lost all the passion
To people way too shit-fashion
Trapped in complexiness
Dying of simpleness
They’re everywhere
Can’t you take me?
They don’t see
They don’t speak
They don’t think
But I can’t weep
No more.

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Paris

Paris I’ve loved you
But I must leave you.
It really is a lovely city,
I do have to admit it.
I’ve been so drunk
On music or love,
On shrooms or widow,
But never felt the joy
Of your eternal home.
There’s so many girls,
self-confident-skinny girls
That everything seem to know.
Then there are men
By their balls chased,
They only desire women
But get lost in their own game.
Everyone is so scared
Of the one they face,
It makes me cry as I fade
Into the lines of Albert.
Culture is pretty good around here
But no one wants to hear about it.
The bars are fun sometimes
But beer prices are way too high,
And go on and make an attempt
To get into one of those trains.
Oh man, I’ve known so much here,
Poverty, misery, excess and beauty
Happy hours, late walks, moonlight talks
The exotic side of the unfriendly,
Thought of going on a break
Found true love instead.
You could find some romance
But time only gives you a glance,
Beauty in you truly lies
Oh but leave you I must
Before you break my mind,
With all these city lies
Empty and absent eyes.

I’m so tired

I’m sorry for everything
But it’s getting really boring
People so absorbed
By these fake worlds we made
Always wanting the attention
Searching the perfect mixture
To show how they’re superior.
I’m getting really tired
Of listening to your ‘achievements’
Your false morality
Your thoughts of monetary.
I want people who care
People who really do.
They say it’s when you’ve suffered
That you begin to understand them
The poor, the crazy, the vagabond
The broken, the insiders, the misanthrope
It’s when you free yourself that the bond
Is born.
But we live in a society where the ones
That have always had too much
Are those who complain the most
So the other one’s are lost.
Cause what does a difference mean
When everyone else says the opposite
And I wonder why we’re still here
As people keep being this mean.
So I am sorry, truly sorry
For humanity,
But I must be gone
Before they begin to talk;
And if this is our fate
Let there at least be art
To make good of all this bad
And try to calm this sad man.

People are wrong

You know?
People are wrong,
It’s good to cry sometimes
It’s good to shout once in a while,
It’s recommended to write long lines.
We have everything we need
Inside our tired, absent beings
There’s no thought that can’t be
Built inside these walls we seek.
But you have to let yourself
Be the person you pretend,
Your weaknesses is your power
Now go, darling, light your fire!
Burn yourself inside of it
Feel the bad tear you up and weep
Sweetheart, weep now, it is time
To reborn from the ashes
Of what your soul crashes.
Don’t be afraid please,
I promise it’d be worth it,
Take these sad verses
And make them sonnets
About two stupid lovers
That the World curses.
I know you can’t hear it
But at least know this,
There’ll always be rhymes
About your whereabouts
But it’s your mission
To change our vision.
So you know?
People are wrong
It’s good to feel nostalgic
It’s better to free your magic.
Join me under the rain
Let’s go insane,
I’ll be back in a minute
When we end the dispute.

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.