I can’t see the beauty in other people.

I know they’re not ugly, but

they’re not beautiful, either.

They might as well be aliens, that act like I do.

We are all aliens.

The pastor gives me a simple book on sin

“Jesus, is our redemption.”

I feel more and more, that the human race needs that

I keep trying to redeem myself

but I fail

Maybe, I need to surrender to God, again

but if I stop fighting, I don’t know what might happen…

If you stop believing in yourself

If you lose your pride

your drive

If you deactivate your bomb

there is nothing that can go off

no surprise

I big part of me, has so much arrogance


without it,

I would not have been able to do this

and then people tell me, “It’s good that I can write down my feelings.”

“I want to be like F—in F. Scott Fitzgerald. Forget the personal therapy that’s free,”

I might say.

People mock me, while trying to give me sympathy.

You got to admire somebody who doesn’t stop.

The trick is, you can’t care about them

and you probably won’t know about them. They’ll be the ones in the nursing homes

unable to hold a pencil, to write three lines down.

They’ll be mumbling through stroke-frozen lips

while the bible man leans closer. “What’s that, you say, Mr. Johnson? You finally want to give your life away, to Jesus?”

And the bedridden man believes, but he doesn’t tell anybody.

There are no golden people, with golden light

Just, men and women, in black and white

passing-out pamphlets

the old man mutters to himself

his dreams, were like butterflies

a life, without flowers

all those insects of the sun

unable to alight,

on anything.


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