Darkness falls on my thoughts, a web of glue trapping a handful of flies.
Can’t run away from there.
You’d really like to point your finger at someone,
screaming to the world that it’s not your fault.
But you can’t, you know it.
Time goes by, the fresh brushwood you cut off a year ago now dry, and ready to be brought home.
Time goes by, water under the bridge, it rains.
To you, oh cursed poet.

Because you know it. You’re building it, just to destroy it.
Your future. You’re just waiting for the right moment.
When you’ll be successful, when you’ll have everything you ever wanted.
You’ll simply start over.
Like that wall, you carefully built inside yourself over the years.
It’s there just to be swept away.
You would like to scream to the world.
But you can’t.
You live so deep in torment, you can’t even see your own face, covered by the patches of your life.
To you, artist of the self-destruction.

You block doors and windows, you allow yourself to fall into the darkness.
Into the abyss.
You are drowning in your own words.
You wake up just to face the world, you live to die.
The times you let yourself be carried away, the times when it ends badly.
You are numb, you gasp, and you’d like to see a hand out there.
To pick you up from the darkness.
You would never admit it, but you are the one who is not afraid of being torn to pieces.

Because you know it. You’re just training.
For the final battle.
The one without walls, the one without your fucking patches over the face.
Your fucking masks.
Meanwhile, the glue descends, slowly.
Covering that tornado of photographs and memories.
It ends here. To you, some verses among the many that I could choose.
Because I’m just this, I’m an impostor.

I stole something from you,
I stole something from everyone I met.

I always steal something.
Because I have nothing of my own.