Thick layers. 

All of them got thick layers, 

you skin one; you’ll get another, 


Grown by the stupid urban mess…

the loneliness, 

the blue eyed whore who once asked to stop reasoning everything, 

the mother who holds all the way, 

the man who let the cigarettes burn inside four middle-aged walls, 

the slouching amendments, 

the orange skies of wastelands… 

All fuming inside the parallel layers. 

Show me one peeled motherfucker. 

I will give him my pen,

and I will leave for containment…

Only he will realize why I became poet since the first time I saw blood and drank whiskey.