No Saint

sometimes I turn
when my mouth
forget its name,
and spark tinders
of rage that
spread the smoke
all over the

I’d bite my tongue
and wish that
my bones would
end the rattling
of the heat of
my spirit;
as I hold my breath
and beat myself up
to bottling up
my wounds

I’d crack under
and smoothen
the creases
of my excuses;
I turn my head
the other way,
and held my
shallow ground

I’m no saint.
I’m far from the
good that
this life requires
to be canonized
by people who
has the same
sharp pen
as I do

I’m no saint;
I am a darker
shade than the
world, I am
my lips,
I am my tongue
I am what I
want to say




reaching to a point where

breathing is necessary to exist.

Where it’s nothing more but a

quiet action that fills silences and

gaps of the unknown.



reaching to a point where having someone

is just a leisure. A miracle of a perhaps

great mishap of fate. Having the wrong thing

insert to the right lives of people, intertwining,

tangling their threads into something so beautiful

and yet destructive, it could pull their lives over

their heads.



Reaching to a point where this liquid is

just a trace of apathy, of numbness,

a perfect definition of suppressed emptiness

and words too strong to be quivered between

lips. To be heard or to be understood.




Reaching to a point where everything

is in its last exhausting energy,

like a train running out of coals,

where I only wished that everything would

stop.  Ceasing life, ceasing the travel, the

faces passing by, the wasted time, the

long nights and longer mornings of senseless

conversations over stale coffee…