segunda-feira, 8 de setembro de 2014

Soul's recession...

This could be a poem if you may read it,
this could be a poem if I could write it.
We don't read,
we don't write,
there is just a flat cold screen.
Surveillance sorrounds us,
the dark screen that follows.
We live in times of recession,
a human's recession,
a soul's recession.
With men in suits telling what's the new order,
with men in tunics exploding each others,
a soul’s recession.
With unpaid jobs that doens’t suit us,
with unpaidness lives that doesn’t fit us,
like abandoned dogs trying hard to survive,
one day at time,
a soul’s recession.
Like an uncontrolled silent killer release by blind judges,
everyday wiseheads fully your pockets with anger,
recession in the human body.
a body that couldn’t understands the world,
the real world,
the real body.
An empty space with no air,
the everyday pollution turn into soul’s canvas,
minds in automatic mode breathing nothing,
the gaps of coexistence,
men beating and killing wives,
burying their children with pills and apathy,
a soul’s recession.
Ending seasons and separating water in pieces,
poor portions of noting creating puddles,
sinking guns and arms in faceless youth,
with lawyers paid to unleash the beasts,
the corruption in shots by the police exterminating protests,
the endless brain fucked up with no pilot.
We live in a soul’s recession,
nowhere to run or hide,
photographs revelling more than we want,
by people that we don’t know.
We are born in this times,
growing in this times,
suffer in this times,
die in this times,
but at the sme time love in this times,
choose to reborn if we could in this times,
because in this times,
where the soul’s colour is fading,
are the best times to fight for our soul.

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