In the morning I open my eyes and I count
silently, dusting wrinkles
off the clock.
The perfect hour
when sleep is
At noon I open the information
they have put me in:
or have they deleted me?
I sprawl and open my big mouth.
My soul its out,
and now tears flow down
my cheeks with rage
on to the floor:
very precious dreams.
My wrath makes me scream.
My hands tremble on one blue wedge,
that was from a celebrity writer.
Somebody said if I wrote with him
I would be a celebrity, too.
If I had been born in Paris I would be a lady,
but I was born in a different world.
Better to forget who I am, sometimes.
I run with no identity on the bank of deep water.
Maybe it will swallow me
with all my ideas;
with all my words spoken (or not)
I will be free!