The man inside the Poet

I wish I could wipe out

this fading life

with a wild stroke.

I would be, then,

the leader of my own ressurection.

It stands alone.

Whilst I sit on this plastic chair,

the world remains the same.

I am a medíocre man

living my spotless life

dealing, now, with a deep gutting silence.

People talk to me only dreamly.

Poets were meant to be loved in another life.

The gift becomes the curse.

Oh, yet, the oblivion.

It feels like living inside a plastic bag.

If you breath, your space shrinks.

My face against the plastic. It smells horribly.

Nobody ever comes close enough.

Oh, the endeavor!

But it’s all a false respect,

not a single person ever sinks himself into your soul.

They do not care.

I am alone. Deeply, profoundly lost.

Life is an endless maze.

This theater wears me.

It’s not natural. I have no masks left.

No suits to wash. No ties to tie.

My shoes will wander without me.

They come to me and demand beautiful words,

and lovely dreams and heart-warming ideas.

I am not essential. Only my poems are.

And, ironically, if I ever (even if it takes only a blink of an eye)

show pain or sorrow or sadness, they get shocked.

Am I not human? Do I look like a wall of happiness?

I’m just an ordinary man.

Please, I beg you.

Just accept me as an ordinary man.

I need this.

Caio Bio Mello

23/01/2016