The language / or my language/ is insufficient/
Indefinitely finite/
Incorrect and in its error rate infinite /
It´s like I say words/ form sentences/
in attempts/
to make myself seen/
though every time/ for you/
I don´t even seem/
to be in it/
The inability to speak my soul/ my heart/
leaves my fractured self in the dark/
for you/
and in the black corner of the room/
My form is vague/ as is my hand/
that cannot reach/
cannot reach/
you in the instant of a dazzling loom/
The unspeakable remains/
in the blind spot of your eye/
where the You cannot meet the I/
my souls twisted parts/
the horror of my thousand hearts/
beating in my chest/
beating me to death/
I cannot share/
cannot make you understand/
and in disregard of that/
you try your best to hold my hand/
still you are/
and ever will be/
a foreigner in my land/
who´s unable to see
At times you seek to capture/
me/
where I begin and where I end/
although my own notion/
runs through fingers quick like sand/
what lingers/
of the words not left unspoken/
attempts not unattempted/
is a mere sediment of your cautious, angry voice/
that begins to hate my wearing black/
my intangibility/
a voice that begins to hate all the cracks/
in my skull/
in my soul/
that let doubts and fears in just like rats/
and suddenly and bit by bit/
I detect in your language/ in your words/
your longing to get rid/
of those infected atoms in my matter/
the very ones I try to gather/
in my light/
to make better/
what´s to hate/
your words they tell/
that you yourself are well/
on the way to hate/
what I already hid too late/
lilizagro 