It often rains, but not tonight.
The silence is filled, it’s quite late.
So many answers that lie dormant.
So many questions awakening.
On the other side of the window, I notice depression.
But in this mythical instant, such a beautiful acceleration
Of thought, mystical intensification
Supposed rewarded without offset.
Arrange in cadence.
Insomnia: full state of agitation. High. Middle of the night.
Then, I meditate on the rest which spread.
A tip, friend, follows the thread.
Shakes the flight of ideas.
In your eye, remove the eyelash.
See this: I’m all powerful here, serene.
I fear that you can’t prevent me from behaving as a martyr.
Those who do nothing always have easy criticism.
You don’t risk to follow my action the nose stuck to your television.
I admire them jubilating on my fertile island.
I begin the ascent with passion.
Are we in a mercantile line?
Thus, he enters into meditation,
And begins the dynamic of creation.
Great sensitivity and compassion;
Thoughts and feelings through observations.
Introspection – Association
Structuring – Composition;
Introspection – Association
Structuration – Composition.
Extreme empathy exalts a shy cyclone.
Knotted, but incredibly quiet.
He suffers from it in face of the typical Cyclop:
All this is only a slight lull.
A magnifying glass intimately amplifying the ego,
Thanks to an ability to concentrate
Which surely reflect itself the evening
Because the peculiarity is aberration.
By prolonging, he confronts experiences.
Peace is rancid after a night of wandering;
Between the turbulence, he has no expectance.
Absence is pure ambivalence and purifies silence.
I have often preferred the playground to your classes and lessons.
It’s especially in high school that the curve was reversed to be honest.
On the pavement, I move with determination;
On the paper, I’m responsible for my creation.
I’ll be myself at any price,
With or without money, I’ve plenty of cravings.
I no longer count the positive disintegrations,
Now I want to live.
So I live my life facing you,
If you don’t understand my rhymes,
It’s that they bend your neck.
I kneeled in balance,
I oscillate between chasms and summits,
At the bottom, I get a taste of it before the big sleep.
I start dynamic because I master dynamite;
What didn’t you understand? I have empathy in my schoolbag
Tragoc gift because the path is n’t easy or comfortable
The cards are on the table, I run towards the target.
I found my own way alone,
I listened to my lonely little voice ;
I reached harmony,
Aware of my decisions
On a chosen hierarchy.
My experiences are intense, resentment increased,
Powerful perception, you didn’t believe it.
I have developed specific skills,
You’re disgusted by my magical perception,
Poetic, and tragic.
I’m struggling, but not with myself,
I only make my own cream.
They will remain in a primary integration
It will remain to me a bitter taste,
I’ll only have to make love to your mind,
Because there is no body here.
My eyelids open and already the flood of thoughts covers me with a veil of dust that reveals itself after another dream of stone.
I saw the end approaching and I wander.
I don’t know if I’m wrong to believe that yesterday is already dead.
I remember looking at this last moment,
Assistant unsuspecting this stagnant present.
Outside, I can hear the birds singing; but soon
A sad music interferes and sends me under the vault.
Here’s a stone immersed in a bottomless well where the farewell falls in disgrace,
Because a succession of seasons flees into the night of ice.
Move away is to cease to exist little by little and to renounce disavowal.
Here is a part of me that is offered to you who dwells in every place and hour.
I know you’re scared, but know that loneliness of spirit also fills my heart.
I learned it in the course of a gloomy anterior stupor
Who will survive beyond this sinister sketch.
Why do I systematically lose myself out of time? Why do I persist as a whimsical person sitting on the frieze?
I sometimes insist with joy, moving away from a certain laziness.
It seems there is almost nothing magical about that tragic day.
The melancholy sun rises and removes the critical doubt that drips:
The tacit liquid passed and I could stop to create.