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White Flowers

The white unknown flower on top of a white unknown tree that blessed my view
With its existence, is bending towards my window
The window I haven’t looked that for a long time
I, who used to wake up at sunrise
Just to greet the morning breeze

I think I spent all my sadness last autumn
Pondering on the absence of clouds, browning quiescent leaves of grass
Reminiscent from forgotten myths

I wrote it all
And by the equinox’s fall
I could feel something alike to joy
That was carried buy the fading perfume of flowers
Until the rise of summer

I smiled more than I’d like to admit

And now that summer’s gone again
I live loneliness through nights
In the morning breeze that I left behind
Is safe for when the writing is done

A breath of relief in a valise to my holiday
From myself, the poet

I’m collecting tragedies
Sending lovers away
Redecorating the melancholy
With fancy words
So I can’t complain about it
And let it poetry be

At last I can admit now
Every letter I put in there is intentional
Every occult comma
Every dash and lose tilde
And even the weep

Never let poets deceive you
We’re not perpetually unhappy
The truth is we experienced happiness
But it was too silent to be able to write itself
Through strange flowers, last glasses of wine
And dying cigarettes

We overcomplicate being human
We’re not happy with the original art
We do it over

In an attempt of making it better

And sometimes we lose ourselves along the path
And take a shortcut to madness

The chaos
That will lead us back
To the source

And we become the creator