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Poetic Reality

I need to write a poem
about all the things I am passing through,
because only when I'm writing
I can tell if it's true.

Madness is nothing new,
such an old friend, the usual hitchhiker.
But is it a little bit more naked?
Or am I being a hasty striker?

I'm much madder than a hatter,
yeah, I know I shouldn't, no objections.
Now I don't drink tea at 5 a.m.,
I just drive with vague directions.


(Júlio B.)
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