Every night I sit down in front of my confessor,
to tell it the torments of my troubled soul:
I want to scream to the world what I feel,
hear my fingers, write my scares.

Source

It's not for you, not for me, not for anybody or others,
It's because is necessary to sleep in peace, rest,
while my dark circles remind me every morning
that without this confessional rite, the meaning would be lost.

For more:

I'm drunk [a sparkling poem]


The hands of the world [a poem under the sun]


Ma' Papa' [an old man poem]

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