Chronicle of an announced wound

My soul is tired,

tired of fight against something i can never win,

goin to that dark and lonely abysm

where only me i can see my own tears

falling down.. in silence.
Tired to feel as i feel, to belive what i belive,

to be stucked in that way that dries my inside..
I'm tired to taste my own prision,
to hurt what i love, not to do what is right,

to be static as a rock in the storm..
to dream and longing what i'll never possess..

Collector of wounds..
seller of dreams..

I'm the naive soul that always wants the rose

beyond its own garden..

the nightinale of Wilde,

the frozen shadow writing about
the white of the light while i'm in the darkest room..

In my own place,
my voice is a whisper singing a lullaby to myself,

to fall asleep into the deepest sleep

that let's me forget and wake up again as reborn..

thinking that i'm purer, whiter, a better soul..
then maybe i can have the strenght to cross the line  

that lets me see and feel with the eyes of a child.