Poetry

Tired of exhibitionism, 
nostalgia for an eternal 
herd of thoughts - 
moves for the real intent 
the intensive thirst for unknown. 
 
The lie stamps the vanity on a pseudo book. 
Everything turns in a rage, 
and pain strips to bone. 
 
Dressed in his gaudy fame, 
great idol lifts the arm. 
Must I become a part of this motley crowd? 
 
The return is difficult 
for the disowned faith. 
Great hips, broad shoulders and pointed nose 
reach nowhere. 
 
Beneath the disillusion lie the shades 
of hope and banality, 
to choose a tomorrow 
which will never arrive.