The first one 

She was not the first one

I’ll write verses about. 

The first one 

I’ll fall in love with.

The first one

I’d love to please. 

She was not the first one

To penetrate my soul.

The first one

To forget that I’m alone.

But she is the first one

To make me love again.

The first one 

That showed me life is great.

The first one 

To tell me I’m not fucked up.

The first one

To share my passion for the stars. 

The sky is full of beautiful asteroids 

But I keep looking for the void

Her eyes keep filling with love

As you hold on a brilliant soul. 

She is the first one

To love as I love,

To hate as I hate,

To think as I think. 

She is the first one

To make me believe

In something more than fate, 

To make me want more and more.
The moment I knew I couldn’t feel

She came to me with poison on her lips

Wondering why I was so mild and phlegmatic

The truth is inside my mind I am a lunatic;

But I prefer to keep quiet,

Make art of the silence,

Sleep on a highway 

And leave when they’re calling. 

I’m not a people’s man

I don’t like any man

More than I like myself

So here is your stupid phrase 

Now let me run away. 

She was not the first one

But she is probably the last one

I could write about 

I could trust with my insides. 

So don’t leave me sweetheart

Since I am nothing without

Your hair on my hand 

Your verses in my mind,

And when I’m feeling down

Do not let my lips tell you lies

About how you were never the one.

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Lost at sea 

‘Winter, 2010’

I don’t know what the hell 

Women want from men, 

You could fuck her brains out 

Then leave her to grown up 

And she wouldn’t be satisfied. 

You could give her your heart 

Love her like only a broken can 

And she wouldn’t be satisfied. 

I may be such a psychopath 

Writing this verses so sad, 

That even dead Christmas trees 

Wouldn’t cry as much as for thee. 

I may not feel anything 

I’ve never wanted a thing, 

I may give you my entirety 

My crashed soul and my poetry 

But you’ll never know me

Although what I may give. 

Cause there’s a great emptiness 

That lives in the surface of every cell 

That composes my decomposed being, 

And I really never learnt 

How to deal with this paint 

I keep swallowing for my need 

Of writing about this pain 

That never leaves my hand. 

You probably love my eyes 

Cause they’re blue like the sky, 

But you know nothing about the darkness 

That keeps emerging from them. 

I am like a abandoned little lost ship 

Drowning even knowing how to swim

Begging life for just a recess 

Lighting new cigarettes,

It sure was a beautiful fight 

But it’s time for this cold heart. 

A hundred and three women

​Someone once told me 

That he had sex with a hundred women, 

A hundred and three 

To be completely honest. 

Between beers and white sock whisky

I asked faithfully, 

‘did you love any of them? ‘

‘ I don’t even remember their names 

They were all one-night stands 

Setting up wasn’t even a chance’

And straight up 

he drank all his wine. 

As I ordered another 

For the little man sitting 

Right besides me, 

I asked myself the same question;

All those late-night two-weeks long parties 

Those crazy partners 

Those sick nights of sex 

Love, poetry and whiskies 

Were they worth it? 

Was I better? 

Did I love any of them? 

I do think I loved every single women I touched 

Even if sex never happened 

Even if it was all pure humanism, 

But was I bad for not reaching for more? 

Or that was the deal

In a bottle of whisky sealed? 

Truth is, I love every single woman 

They all have poetry inside 

And poetry calls me down every time. 

So, I ordered again 

And here we became friends 

As the clock gave five 

And time, as women, had us tied up. 

Writer survival

Sitting drunk
Trying to write
Cigarette in the left hand
Whisky dripped all around
Trying to write
Trying
To
Survive.
The beer flows
And i’m broke
The women
Seem to run from me
As they get closer to me
The drunken street-walkers
Seem nicer.
I go from party
To party
Every night
we smoke
Our brains out
We drink ourselves
Into coma
And every night
There’s this girl,
It’s always a different girl
Outwardly at least
But every night
At every party
The same thing arrives.
Sometimes we talk
Around a smoke
Or many drinks for me
Sometimes not that much
It always ends the same
And no-one seems to care.
I don’t know how
I am supposed to act
But everything comes back
To the first woman
That loved you once
And then everything decay
To the point of misery
And all these
Party-women
Make the words flow
And my soul go on
A little more.
So, should I let
This party end?
I’ll sour a drink
And write with this ink
Not a masterpiece maybe
But something at least finished.

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