Poem — Tears of those who never cried

Oh Night
muse of my daydreams
the disturbing dream of a lonely child

That your cold cloak
serve as a blanket for the worms
that feed on my corpse;

My soul
wandered into my past
sat beside me in my old childhood

And proclaimed words
that no child should be told

Why were you born?
O filthy scourge!

I killed myself at the age of ten
and to this day I can hear
my cries of despair

I’ve always been a damn child
they looked at me like a monster they wished to kill

They cut me off from others
like a plague that eats away
And make the nuns perverse nymphs
the innards of the saints

Oh so much pain in me
pain I can’t even explain

And these pains
that make me feel and cry are part
of who I am forces that help me fight

I tore my fists
in front of all the gods
and drowned them in my own blood

Now your children recite my poems
on the tomb of his parents

Feel my pain in my verses!

Let the devil live in your bosom
destroy what’s left of your life

Turning them into dreams
of a future that never happened

In the poetic harmonies of these metaphors
there are such cruel truths

Who would make Pilate a saint
and Christ the devil himself

If my poems are cries of help
and your readings cry for help

So let me die in his name
Spill over my dead body
all your pains

Dance with the witches
about the midnight moonlight!

Feel sin flowing in your blood like
the worms that fed on the rotten spoils of Christ

Let my madness infect your soul
and kill your spirit

I have traveled between living galaxies filled with life
but only in the death of the stars have I found myself

I’m not a man! I’m not a poet

I am the misery that lives in your chest
and the suicide of all your convictions!

- Gerson De Rodrigues