A vulgar poetry.

A poetry of sadness,
Of childish feelings,
A poetry for fear,
Fears of solitude,
Pain for what it’s not.
A poetry for the fake,
A poetry for the lies,
A poetry for self indulgence,
A poetry for madness,
A poetry for despair,
A poetry for delusions,
A poetry that is not poetry
Untill the moment it’s written on a paper,
And tossed to oblivion’s heart.
Sing poetries of wisdom,
Poetries of forgiveness,
Poetries of friendship,
Poetries of love,
Poetries of bliss,
Or just write them on a paper
And toss them to oblivion’s heart.
That may be the destiny of poetry,
Of a poetry that’s just made of compassion,
Made only of hopes,
But that may be the key for waking up oblivion’s heart,
And leaving behind the fear,
Fears of making poetry,
Poetries about what is life,
Trascending from sorrow,
To an horizon of new wind,
Winds that will carry our souls,
Winds that will clean our minds,
Like holy waters,
Winds that will carry poetry,
As whispers to the ears of God,
Winds that will carry papers to oblivion’s heart,
Winds that will save us from darkness.
A final poetry, I sing,
To call my own name out of the night,
I wrote this poetry with my fears,
Denying the option of oblivion,
Looking for a redemption to myself,
Trusting all of my wishes on a paper,
That will not be tossed to oblivion’s heart,
That will be my only wish in this night,
A night of poetry.