(a lot of references in this, I don’t know if anyone will get them. I’m still learning to write; I usually speak.)

Speaking words


Exiting myself with fanciful poetry

Explanations of experience

I settle myself, spotting a book

My many lives Told by another

Now I sit Reading Pessoa

Riding along side him, in 1928, on the road to Sintra.

Time has no time when print is bold

After all is gone

Still the soul


Shit! I’m lucid

I see life as well; From behind my eyes

I want to shake Pessoa’s shoulders

(Or campos, or reis, or caeiro, or whatever…)

I want to step through time, and Capture his cognizant attention

“I’m here too!”

I saw the tobacconists assistant

(Well, I remember his clothes, but…)

“I’m here!”

“I am with you”

“I can see…”

But so what? So we see

Who doesn’t?

I’m just mad, I want to write good poems, but I don’t know how…

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