Would you ever write

if no one ever could read your work?

how many books would you finish?

how many stories you would conjure?

if they die with you

you ask me my passion

well here it is

to write,

but reading

that is your part

not mine

you can make me immortal

or just flesh waiting to taste death.

Perplexed

infitine nerves

a billion sensations

no one shares my vision

or the tunes that drives me

crazy and calm

at the same time
could have thought of snow,

love, candles or maybe a drink

but I lie down to reason

why are we perplexed and

also in peace with ourselves

but never notice

Just how.

Wonderland