Poets

I am not a poet, not even a writer, what I write is nothing more then the ramblings of the hand and heart of a simple boy that, with an unsharpened pencil and a small notebook, wrote down on his everyday train rides to his real world obligations.

It's origin is closely related to his first real love, A.S.N.N., one he endured alone in his heart for years on without any retribution and, when some retribution of that felling he had nurtured so gently come, it was brief and confusing, like the tell-tale light of a firefly running away from a wildfire.

These crude attempts at greater art started on the final dismay of the beauty that that love proclaimed... the end of a journey and the start of a new one that, at the time I wrote these simple lines, I still fought to figure out what was the grand scheme of things set upon my life by the hands of an insinuous destiny that no one has ever been able to perceived its true nature.

Other then pure pristine love, there is also the fight between moral and lust, the uncertainty of destiny, the feelings of failure towards a greater plan and so many other fears, hopes, dreams not so different then those everyone else in the World in all times and eras must have felt, some more then others.

After all, I am no one, just one more. One more of so many, like one tiny imperceptibly faint dot of light in a summer night sky. Just one more of so many that have been before me and who knows how many more after...

Life... funny thing.