My darkest moments are those leading to my success,
a hesitation where I question – do I deserve this?
where my ambition drains like a time lapse in reverse
and I set out to seek a great perhaps through verse.

Notes tuck themselves back into books,
passages fold themselves into memories
my tongue reabsorbs every spoken word
which precipitates into a torrent of thoughts
pulling back from the page
each letter lifts
swallowed by the inky entrance of a pen
a vial of darkness
from which every thought came
and I fold myself into stillness
camouflaged clean within the wilderness

        It’s not about the village I came from,
        the bloodline I was born from
        the people that I learned from
        how I managed to conform.

Possibility accumulates in the thoughts that I form,
a connection which reminds me word is bond.

        Gloria, we were once so many words
        Gloria, our fingers were bookmarks in other worlds
        Gloria, we were still ascending on dying stars
        Gloria, we had learned the language of light years

Darling, I had wrapped those memories in tears
but something still sticks after all these years.

It’s something like a spark
something like the start
something that a soothsayer might say
something that sets me apart,

the power of laying letters

I play with words and pay for progress in syllables.
Every symbol I unearth in verse binds me to greater meaning,
grows me to a greater being – gets me off
and paper folds are how I set it off.

        Often, the fastest way to change is starting
        Often, the past tense of pain is parting
        Often, the punctuation of fear is loving

but what’s more important
is being relentless in loving yourself regardless
is freeing your mind to other lanes of learning
to shed off your burdens to shape shift
allow yourself to forge a great rift
between who you are and who you could’ve been
and somewhere in the gap you glimpse
a future you’d have never seen

There – the power of imagination

The tangible tactic of turning the tables,
unlearning the fables and re-writing the story, starting
from scratch, better yet, stripping away the syntax
the grammar the letters
tearing the skin, ripping the fetters
until there’s no worse and no better
until nothing but nothing is left
what’s to come will never be the same
and this is what it means to be born again
a blank page

Not every story is an escape.
Not every poem is a matter of applause.
Not every talent comes at a high cost.
Not every commitment is lifeless.
Not every freedom is priceless.
We haven’t written every story in existence.
What we’ve penned can still be edited.
Not every creator will be credited.
But inspiration is a golden string to an exit,
or a golden noose, still, an exit
a chance, and I’m taking it.

In other words, nothing is guaranteed.

Even the grief you release returns as belief and belief burns bright as relief and relief runs silent as peace and peace punishes comprehension, folds it complacent until desire is another closed compartment that cracks open with loss, a sentence to sorrow, a surrender to grief, release.

In other words, nothing is guaranteed.

I present to you another bridge to be burned.
Every so often another life to be earned.
I present to you possibilities on loop,
a tune chopped, chopped, and screwed.
I present to you a new new new you
Every day, a new you you you.
Every day, a new new new you
Every day, a new you you you

***

Link to the Italian translation