The pleasure of writing

That which the brain can never really translate.

And so it is true

As with an everlasting last time

As with a beautiful song

We hum long after it ends

As with the cold breeze

That leaves us shaking

Even the first minutes in the warmth

As with this bottle that never made it to shore

As with the last poem that was deleted

As with this book that will not be finished

As with this bird

And so the dream will come true.

Imagine it hard and long enough

And the imagination will soar on its own

And the freedom that rushes afterward

is like this rain ….

What a cheap poem!

Words are really not enough.

And so it is true

Not everything can be written.

Some words are for feelings

Some words have no shape

Some words are internal

They are not meant for papers.

Still we try because it needs to be said

Because there is absolutely no other way.

Let this fade and disappear

Let this heal and be forgiven

Let this melt into deep emotions

Let this ….let it be.

Let this fall like quicksand

And dissolve in nothingness

As with the last 5 sentences deleted

As with this loud music confusing these words

As with these last pages just written

As with the next song that asked for pause

As with this image that just brought a smile

As with this deep breath

As with the incoherence of these words

And so it is true

Words are never really enough.

This piece feels unfinished

Bu how do you write what cannot be written?

The best journeys are the one travelled without a map

could it be the same for the words that will never make it

on this page?