Writing and poetry, a way to give vent to one's despairs.

I was cleaning out closets the other day. And what do I find? Writings from my childhood and youth. Poems and short stories written between 1988 and 1992...

I write because I need to. I can't do without it.

I write poems and songs (which are eventually poems set to music) to craft my story, to figure out who I am.

To fill voids and anorexia of emotions that sometimes gags the soul.

To look for someone feeling as I do, to be less lonely. To shout to the world the meaninglessness of existence, which becomes a dark cage.

You feel trapped inside life, inside a body, and you do not even know how you got into it. How it could have happened. Maybe in a moment of terrible distraction. And how do you get out of it? By distracting from yourself. Writing is also this. Most of all, poetry allows a soul to speak freely. Sometimes it looks like someone else is directing your hand.

Your demon narrating you. He knows you better than anyone else.

I love my demons. I will repeat it to the bitter end. Without them I would be nothing.

What a self-reading effect!

This is one of my poems. ...I must say, nothing has changed... I was sad and angry by then!

Here's a little foretaste.

The poetry is an urgent and impulsive form of writing. Brushstrokes of emotions. Sudden. Misplaced, messy. Imbued with irreverent incoherence. But above all fleeting.

What better representation of life?

TIME

(by Silversnake Michelle)

I hate Time

It deface faces

It tires minds

It steals memories

I hate Time

It rinses words

It dries dreams

It destroys the Present

I hate Time

la sua derisione

Its fierce lies

I hate Time

Its immortality making me mortal

Its cold and relentless flowing

Its perfection

I hate Time and its utter silence

But only He knows that is not mute.