How Do You Know When A Plantar Wart Is Dying

Vento che graffia
una vita senza àncora, soltanto
un vento freddo e un sole
pallido, ricordo di sentimenti non miei.

Stanca come una foglia
in autunno, riposo le ossa fragili,
bambini, che guardano il sole
con la bocca aperta senza
bruiciarsi gli occhi, ma con
l'anima in flames.

Every day is a piece of my mosaic
colorless
road with no beginning and no end

white book with its pages uncut
wrinkled. Crumpled
are my thoughts,
that are lost in rows with no rhyme nor glory.
I will not write because you read the sentence,

want to suffer to write a lie majestic
increasingly resembling the truth.
prose poem is not chewed and then spat out, is a mush
infamous desire and rejection.
vomiting soul.

The acrid odor of my thoughts dissolve into laughter at times felt
sometimes pretend humanitarian purposes.
Ball and chain myself to waste my desires
like candy and throw them on these blank pages, where you will stay stuck,
until the next sunny day ..

E. - 11/02/10

Do not ask me what it is. I do not know.