I’m sitting here
{on this thorny chair}
reading Neruda
and Bukowski,
actually no,
I’m not reading
{I tried and got tired of it}
but I am listening to Lana Del Rey,
to her dripping voice
{so wet, so embellished}
while I also write
and think.
But none of that matters
{I don’t write to talk about such things}
what I want to say is this:
I’m afraid
{I feel this fear deep inside}
it unrolls on my conscience
as waves of pungent stone,
cold stone,
{as darkened snow
over that mountain, over my soul}.
I feel this fear
{that one that nearly seduces you}
that fear made of a warm mirror
{that melts and spills}
that is thick
and speaks to you.
I am afraid
but I’m still here
{I still breathe and beat}
and I read Neruda, Bukowski,
{I listen to Lana}
and I write
{I write it with a pen
and ink}
with a lively hand,
a hand that sees everything
{almost all}
but that has not seen fear.
