Eyes bring down shutters
against casualties of the world,
that tire with habits and constant
formalities.
Fingers rigid;
results of monotonous activity
burden creativity and sense of
originality -
acting on reactions too cold
for affection.
Home silently stutters,
planting hiccups in daily routines
and placing homesickness in stomachs
that have stopped churning
for survival -
emotion staggers, leaving behind pebbles
of lost nostalgia:
a longing for something that doesn't
exist.
Muse is beaten, as dust particles
roam the air, choking my conscience
and painting regret on foreheads.
But remorse dwells over those
that breathe
and I have no will
to
live.


it's the truth 









Granny 
18 old applause
