I told a friend of mine a few days ago that some of us wandering on this wretched world are the children of lesser gods, that have paid with pain and solitude for an agonizing span of time for the crimes that our "parents" committed and condoned that others did it to us as well.
Time, for some, is too short because they wish to live forever, for the ones in the emotional dungeons it already has been too long.

I said
when running out of words
start writing everything down
until the last remaining though.

I painted,
with all the darkest tones,
forgetting happy colors
giving a face to one storm.

I carved,
a sculpture made of nothing,
one begging extended hand
towards two faces without a body.

I say,
I will never run out of words,
or have a forgiving smile
when writing of an hateful soul,

and paint,
a future with the brightest color,
forgetting winter’s dead sparrows
or yellow leaves from last autumn,

and carve
from the heart of the hardest stone,
with the sharpest of all chisels,
the sculpture of the coldest mother.