I wanted to be a journalist, to express any
my point of view,
I find myself doing the bully with words,
myself that life is brief,
thoughts are talkative.
is why I write so much, just to make me alone
some crying.
My life slips away, I miss
Dida's hands, seem
its parody, are
more ridiculous than a hermaphrodite.
to make sense of all this?
Look, just do not think about it.
one of my friends advised him,
not to think of the trouble,
to sleep less and fuck more, and I should fuck
less and work more, and then she drew
to live with me some hours damage to be done.
welcomed minds,
sad soul,
cuddly friends as they were kittens.
This is my mission, then
a vocation in me there, maybe not so
asshole.
Other than the end of the world in duemiladodici,
I slew the first with a pair of scissors, that is why
I want to leave a beautiful memory,
because there is no time for me and meanwhile
already running my crocodile anywhere.
thank those who supported me, who I
bears,
thanks to their patience is not dead yet.
all my effort is useless,
this seems to be my destiny,
have decided, even though I disagree.
The decline of this idiot
is marked.
greet everyone without distinction,
who loved me and whom I hated,
yes, even that dick.
Francesco Favia
Tuesday, May 27 '08 00:30
http://ciscofavia.blogspot.com/
www.nonsolocronache.com
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