Why are you angry?
Throwing falchions at windows,
sucking blood through empty reflections,
because you can't contain yourself.
You are always looking
in the houses abandoned thousands of ages.

What makes you angry?
Anxiety of solitude abound.
Aplomb of insecurities scream aloud.
You are not young anymore:
centuries of weight hanging over those clouds.
Crawling and craving daylight underneath the misty graves,
and nights swinging with rabid rats for piece of tube,
Don’t try to hide; you are finally ashore.

Beaten and ripped through young years.
Mirrors with mosaic of haunted faces,
reflections that you can't bear to graze.
Hating every thread of your soul.
Don't swallow those precious potions,
Tuck away your needles, for they will burn you,
and rip open what's inside to see a hollow surprise.

Every face is a lie!
Your trust is washed away,
you can't face them,
or wash their paint in streams.
Can't be free,
to let yourself flow, what a mystery.
I need answers, but I'm angry
I need bodies to feed my hunger.

Where is he now?
Writing poems under the gaze of the sun,
in the shade of a flowers without a care.
And here are my words flowing endlessly,
without no avail or hope to where they are going.
What there did my time go?
I wonder where my love went,
damned to this eternal wasteland.

They say you can't write in a day;
A sun wasn't made in a day,
but my pen is slithering
through my emotions I'm flickering.
I wonder if these lines are worth,
or I'll forever damned to judge,
because I was always an angry goblin.
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