I write poems in my sleep
or when I wake up or when I cry.
I was many years in silencing,
now the cup has overflowed.
I talked to myself metering syllables,
every time my inhuman logic retreated,
I let my emotion to breathe.
My best poems are unwritten,
they are inscribed on my heart’s scars.
I protected you, my reason,
when you were chirping arrogantly,
showing off to me your big words…
Until now I withstood to do not yell,
to keep the tones low.
I reduced myself with rhymes and meters,
hid myself behind the pace,
or earlier sung the pain of others.
The knot in the neck is now cureless.
I suffer from benign lumpiness of the spirit,
Overproduction of emotional cells.
I must methodically remove the extra
to avoid harming of my vital organs …
I always hope the prognosis to be true:
My disease not to be contagious.
