I feel the force of the lines in my hand.
I feel it so strongly that from my lines,
Spills the unsettled ink in my paper sheet,
Thrust by my harpoon!
I grab my pen and drop everything.
The "line after line" once was a "letter after letter". One day, these letters, theses lines, will be a book.
So many fights and struggles against a society of castrating ones which tighten your lungs until they burst, squeezing clits and balls like pimples!
And so, dies our inner animal. Dies the beast who is free. Is born one of everyone.
The menace of a prison turns us into one of two things: a lamb that follows or a Man which sets itself free in whatever way!
Fetters, ironworks and straitjackets engulfing the emotions.
Pardon me, your excellences, the nudity in my words in an ultra dressed society from which were (nearly) extinguished all the naked values, absent from interests worthy of vomiting.
Hereby, I inform you that...
If the force lacked in my pen,
If the ink didn't spill from my paper sheet
And if my harpoon did not thrust even for a little bit your feelings,
Then, gentle people, I have failed you.