I could play with words,

And forget about it,

But my guts on the page,

Would spill the vitriolic true,

My warm bellied carry all day…


The poet foetus is indeed,

The abnormalities of my reason!

The liquid I drunk to forget,

The food I starved on!

To regenerated from my degeneration!


I know is eyes,

Black like the ink, running through my veins!

Fair is his hair, like the falling angel,

Red is his desire, like burning love….

Consume his soul, is….


This child shall never born,

This star shall never see the sky,

But only the pit where he has learns to growth secretly…

Hidden from the eyes,

Expose to the spirit!


Time has lost any senses,

Season has lost their perfumes,

Space has become the only true,

The only painting,

Where one does still dared laid his images!


Love has become a burning sensation,

Doubtfully happy at time,

When the pain his strong enough to make you remember,

This anesthetique word you have become

Can you feel it move inside of you?


Shall my regard fall on him first?

Shall I be the hand to kill him?

Shall I be the force to let it fly?

Or shall I smother him, inside my warm bellied?

And let it rotten?


Insanity has never felt so close,

Close is indeed the abyss, of my decay…

But strong is the maternal instinct to let it free,

Slippery is the falls, of my life,

As I watch him growth stronger inside of me!


The poet child is….

But I guess u have seen,

What as become so dark

So let it be,

And enjoy his warm,

While he can….




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