i am a distorted man,
from inside.
i draw disfigured figures
distorted,
from outside.
i write poems,
incoherent,
trying to write something
beautiful in distortion.
I think about strange things
like the leaves that the tree
abandoned yesterday,
but why did it abandon them?
maybe, they were distorted ,
like the figures I draw,
from outside.
neglected people in rags,
in squalid corners,
made invisible by the
blinding brightness of the world
catch my attention,
I want to talk to them,
because I know
they are perfect
like everybody is,
in their own distortions.
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