The poems I wrote in my mind and on paper are a Moment. I’m not ashamed! They are part of me. Art exercised, even when not done perfectly attracts benevolence.
Thoughts thought
Feelings felt
Emotions put in motion
Make art of it. There is nothing more important. Break the ice.
So here I am.
43 years old. I wish a baby more than anything.
But I don’t want just a baby, I want a baby with a man who wants to have it with me.
I must admit, I feel I’m too late. That the time is gone.
That I would need a miracle.
But maybe miracles do exist.
And I don’t feel lucky enough to have it. It’s strange, my sister didn’t have a baby, she adopted at the end. And I didn’t till now have a baby.
What are we living here?
What is the bigger picture?
Who is participating in this story that we don’t see?
Is it our brother that died in between the two sisters?
Is it the two older sisters that didn’t have their father, so us who had him have to pay a price for it? Is it our grandfathers, both died young? Is it our grandmothers, both stayed alone for the rest of their life? Is it my mother that seems to be raped young? Is it my father that kept the secret till the day she died? Is it someone we don’t even know about? Some long long distant family member that demands the right to be there, and no one is giving it to him or her?
Can I wish for something this big?
I know, for someone that reads this, it does seem chaotic. Maybe.
Do I look desperate? Or just hopeful?
And hopefully at the end, I will have a baby.
Hopefully I will give my whole life to the future, to this small baby that will become the future.
And I hope to become just become less important. That is my wish, my hope, my desire. And I hope I am worth it although I have no clue what this means!
The strange anxiety that has no name yet
The blurb from inside
The wave coming in from the center of the ocean net
Hitting me, standing on the shore, blind
I don’t know what it is, do you?
I don’t have a name for it yet
I surrender and I cry too
And then I feel so stupid because I cried, damn it
Not knowing myself so much
Is this it?
Is it my incapacity to express and clutch?
I’m not trained — that is true
But I am standing up
And next time I will try to ride that wave
I might not succeed but who cares, yup!
I am determined
The poem last written was when I was crying
Loosing something, feeling lonely, yearning…
Can I write when I feel good?
It’s easy to see how it’s difficult to be Human
Not knowing who we are, what drives us toward a new one…
Can you tell me more?
Playing with reality, researching, asking questions
And most of the time supporting the unknowing tension…
Are you strong enough?
In anticipation of the new,
Die a little bit every day.
Not knowing who you will become,
Being certain it will not be who you are today.
This feeling inside.
Moving and trembling.
Not knowing what it is,
But following the rhythm.
My heart is beating steady,
Changes every second.
How come it beats every time?
Bringing the new.
It’s true
There must be something in the feeling I don’t want this to work
But there is also one big part that just wants to see where this leads
And I know I’m a mess
But so are you
And when I feel your smell I dive
In this immense world I never knew existed
When I touch your skin
I can see skies far away
I’m playing with the crack in between
Hoping it will work this time
I don’t know what else to do
Minding I wanna be with you.
Everyone these days wants easy access.
Well, not everyone, but my exaggeration wishes to make a point.
Too much fast food experience. Too little chewing of life.
Many ask for easier steps, lesser effort.
More lessons, less work.
Shorter videos. Longer swipes.
Is this lockdown teaching us something?
To slow down? To stop searching for quick results? Start asking questions…
And the patience to wait for answers.
I hear someone considering thought to be a strategy.
But the thought deep from withing emerges…
When you make a place easy to get to…
… you start attracting wrong people.
Hey, I hope you are fine!
Please send me a sign.
The scenario seems like a doom.
Look what is happening,
Is it a trapanning?
Or is it just a false alarm?
Are we worth saving?
Or is it just craving
For long lost happier times?
From renaissance onward
We behave like cowards.
And ignorance is not far away.
I’m writing to ask
Did we throw away the mask?
And start asking questions that are outside of time?
I said it seemed doom.
But I choose to believe it’s a bloom.
And I can’t wait to meet you and the new worldview.
Does it smell like a rose?
My heart is racing.
Did I come home?
The travel was long, I feel tired. Please don’t make me walk more.
How many times did I pass through here?
Felt I arrived when it was just one more hurt.
Please give me an oasis, a place where I can wash away the dirt.
I promise I’ll be good. Please don’t let me be alone, I cannot bear it.
Alone in this desert.
Oh, here it comes… one more dart.
Till the moment I learned you were guiding me home.
To come to stand on my feet when I felt nothing but bone.
And bit by bit I learned to stop looking at you. Searching for answers when the filter is blue.
And now I know that the home is here:
I have the strength to stand up. Yes, one more time.
I could walk some more, I will conquer that cime!
Dear Beatrice, I’m writing this letter although you are not alive anymore. You are a kind of me, in a different life. A long long time ago. In Verona it was, I think. I can still feel your presence, your emotions, sensations. I feel your pain and melancholy, and I feel your tears, often rolling down my cheeks.
You were a courtesan, your mother was a courtesan, this was your world. You were made to give pleasure, and you felt pleasure yourself. But you did discover sentiments as well. You fell in love. And he didn’t. You took your life because of it. The pain was too much, you thought. You jumped off a bridge. Alone, in the heart and on the bridge.
You made a mistake. You made a sin. Not the one someone else says it is. A sin. An error. A big one. A true sin–refusing life! If I had the power to go there, I would tell you not to jump. DON’T DO IT! Not because it was not real, the pain you were feeling, but it would have passed if you gave it time.
Once dead, you couldn’t change it, and there was no more time to heal the pain. So the pain remained imprinted like a seal you didn’t know how to wash away. I am here now, thankfully, grateful to all the souls that guided me, helping in bringing me back. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!
I am living the reverberance of your life, and I accept it. I accept it from the love I feel for you. Because you knew how to love because you were capable of loving and brave enough to show it. To love. I want to love just like you! Even if it’s not reciprocated. I want to love strong like you!
I have two gifts for you…
– the courage to wait for the pain to pass. It will pass. I promise.
– and the joy to live life with a lightness of a soul that knows how to return home.
Stories told 