by Maria Santos
words on surviving
we,
flesh and bone creatures,
seek for blood in the veins
we,
intense spirits,
build the scenarios
we,
passionate idiots,
frolic on the grass
when the sun is settling down
and all our thoughts
are washed out
we,
real nature’s proofs,
had become the nemesis
of our own kind
we,
blind lovers,
pick the darkest wine
and heartbreaks to resign from
when the sun hides
and the moon is shimmering
we are all running
gasping for breath
not air
searching for agreements
not answers
begging for forgiveness
not politeness
loving for life
not happiness
is there a purpose?
there is no flame,
but I can see the candles
burning and melting
in soft layers of red,
like that hope we have for ourselves
we are told
the objectification of
affection will meet us
right in the end of the
line we call a complex life
the ports full of movement,
but there is not a single
boat. so we stay afloat and
wait for the next wave to
take us somewhere.
if we rely on world’s
instruments, are we really the
owners
of our future plot?
can we expect something
so authentic and brutal
that we created
under our reality of consequence?
so we ask,
still afloat,
is there a purpose?
efemero
overseers of passion,
we’re the secretaries,
sitting behind the desks
of loud and heavy expectation
our chins rest on the palm of our unsteady
hands,
the ones who hug each
other when there’s nothing
else
to hold
the bittersweet taste
of life itself
is what we put on our lips
before opening them
breathing is like
feeling the acid
of the fruits we picked,
fresh or rotten
growing is thinking
your clothes are inside
out, and eventually
realizing
you’re wearing them
the right way
learning is precisely
loving to know something, without ever
needing it
after all,
since the time
when angels dreamt of us, we
are these ethereal sculptures,
made of curves, scars, intensity,
craving, softness and loss
so let your chest
rise and fall,
like the leaves let go
of the tree branches,
like the sunlight
looks for an entrance,
like the dreams
invade our sleep,
because time is not
one of condescendence
Maria Santos, also known as Mils, is a student, who finds comfort in creative writing, reading and deepening their knowledge about what surrounds them. Their dream is to study medicine, but writing whenever they please is truly essential on their daily basis.