• Poetry

    Only pain can make a writer to let off its voice

    I checked my conscience, counted my errors, one by one, or what’s left of them, such recklessly corrects by itself. And what I saw was nothing; the bones of a poet long decomposed, ending up lying under a hill from which I pushed my conscience. I guess, at a certain point, it was too heavy to hold. I took my boots and my shovel, the one with whom I also buried the part of myself who once believed he could choose quality, that he has to throw out the quantity of the equation. I started digging up my bones, just enough to upset them. Surely, a lesser crime than to…

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