Poem: History
It won’t be easy, you’ll think it strange
When I try to explain what is real and what is not,
How I still need your help after all I have done.
No, I mean really.
All you will see is a poet, one who
(Although one with only an Engineer’s degree)
Seems clueless with his poesy.
I had to decide, I had to make
Some decision about poetry or lies,
Sitting at table, writing odd writings
So I chose lies.
Damn, I’m sorry, but what should I have done?
I mean I, that is really what I was good for.
And, well, I mean lies I mean.
Don’t cry, O preciosa!
The truth is, I never wrote for you,
without restrictions,
that I didn’t mean for you
Your love made me just crazy
Unlike all else from my past.
So. Sometimes theory and sometimes shame
With verse things I screwed up again
When I should have been thinking of only our love.
Society
Within limits, as I mean, is not the only
Thing. Writing isn’t a crime,
Because we’re only people and
We do things for love. .
Have I said too much?
There’s nothing more Victor Hugo would say.
But all you have to do is look at us now to know
You want to say “Me too.”
Don’t cry for me, O precisiosa!
The truth is, I never wrote for you.
Without restrictions,
Of all those crazy things
Which made you just crazy,
Unlike now.
(2015)
