Right now
taxes stands between me and myself
and numbers fell from the open drawer
i never thought knowledge would save me.
nah.it is a refuge, a shield,
the clothes i wear everyday
to provoke people and keep them thinking.
"who are you?" the voices inside my head ask.
"nobody."
i am nothing after all these years
and my subjectivity blindfolds me
because numbers have always made me suffer.
i don't have much to say.
my shoulder still aches
and my dignity too.
sometimes poetry comes close:
it always happens when
my muse is depressed
or drunk.
there is nothing here
in my dictionary of emotions.
there used to be a mad woman.
but i guess she is killing
more one (aesthetic) ideal
in the attic
right now.
