all authors are frauds
and all their books are inked lies-
you can't articulate pain nor can you encompass beauty-
do you think yourself God,mirrored soul?
I'll let you in on a secret: the sunset belongs in the sky
and you should all be caged like the wounded wolves
that you portray-
why should I trust a soul more damaged than my own?
losing your dignity has its perks:
the curtains fall and the naked truth can now
perform in the middle of glorified filth;
seeking refuge in burlesque words,trembling sentences,
stained pages,what a demanding world!
I could just slap you all!
...then kiss you hard on the mouth,breathless and numb,
gnawing at a dark "thank you!" behind my lips;
blessed bastards,how you make my life an art,
my eyes saints and my insides warm!
a cursed miracle,all authors are frauds...