My texts undergo a chemical synapse between the distracted schizophrenic’s hands, that impregnates himself with the shrapnel of the margins of these pieces of paper that cut his fingers. I’m writing from the dangerous prison of the dreams that lead his spirit through of the cement fields.

Sad sentences building the puzzle of his being after he’s hugged shadows of his bedroom. Letters that stalk his heart of recycled paper, where my eyes dye with poetry. The scars decorate the arteries that go over his body, threads of promises weaved among the rustlings of the wind that rustle the leafs of the trees of concrete on the deserted wasteland that he’s got among his ribs.


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