|Digitally colorized vintage photograph|
WorthI balance the knife in my hand,
feeling the weight, gripping it tight.
Unworthy of life, unworthy of love:
is it worth continuing the fight?
Everything I think I know
is proven to be a lie.
I cut my finger on the edge;
with one more cut, I can die.
My life is unnatural, a deception,
and a farce worthy of satire.
I feel that my deeds will go unnoticed
in the long run when I retire.
I have left no lasting impression
on anyone who knows who I am.
I will leave as I came in to life:
slaughter given to a lamb.
A mess of red will be all that's left.
The air will escape my lungs.
I may smile the way my grandfather did.
I may be nothing more than a ladder's rung.
Once I'm gone, people won't have to care
or worry or fret about me anymore.
They won't have to think about me as good,
as bad, as a person, as a whore.
Do I die for the betterment of the world?
Do I die for selfish reasons unknown?
Do I take my life to fertilize a doomed planet,
which will become desolate and overgrown?
Whatever my rea
|Born in São Paulo (Brazil). Always interested in painting and drawing, in special the Pre-Raphaelites, the Impressionists and later, Surrealism, Symbolism, Neoclassical and other styles. The experimentation with different mediums later led me to photography, digital edition and photomontage. Mostly self-taught.|
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