my mind is a crowded house,

home to many voices.

faceless voices,

bound to no name in particular.

sometimes believing does not matter,

for the senses are deceiftul.

it matters not racionality,

my perception is flawded.

even before I try,

I'm already destined to fail.

I get up only to fall again,

this time to nobody's arms.

feeling sad has become vulgar,

as ordinary as the air we breathe,

without even realizing.

the answers shall come,

maybe after my eyes close forever,

my course is already set in motion.

my poems are meaningless,

my words, feelings,

they're of no value.

if a broken toy could be restored,

it would only mean it was never broken,

for as much as you glue the pieces of a broken vase,

no matter how much you fill a hole on a beach,

what once was can never be.

I eager the silence,

I yearn the cold,

and my oblivion.