Click here, for original version: https://loscrittorevolante.com/2021/06/12/poesiaspensierato/



without the same worries,

maybe, in the end I just got tired.

I almost have nothing else to tell.

So I feel my head empty,

and I write things on an empty head.

Strange, isn’t it?

Yet it is so.

Finally, to tell the truth.

I am really broken

at a certain point…

but calmly.

I write on my empty head,

I have almost nothing more to say,

and I write about nothing.

This poem may not have therefore,

no importance.

Maybe it’s a joke,

yet, I don’t feel “forced” to write it at all.

After all, you know,

I had other plans for my future,

which has now become the present.

Before there was

The need to carefree.

And I write words that don’t exist …

It’s strange.

Still, I write the same.

Almost convinced that he is thoughtless,

that good things happen,

and they arrive.

Or maybe it’s just the train,

of hopes

on which I climb.



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