I want my words to be naked.
And sure of themselves.
To stand tall.
Fully naked.
No hair at all.
Against any other ear. Whoever ear it is, proud sentences.
I want my words to be naked.
To never
play dead.
And for my minuscule budget of letters,
to fly without feathers.
To throw,
your couch through the window. No exclamation marks.
I want words that open doors
with the same passion,
as they burn
bridges.
No time for loathing.
No time for beholding.
No time for nothing else but the root of the feeling.
I want my words to be naked.
But I dress them sometimes.
Sometimes I give them
cheap Italian wine.
I want my words to do,
what people do,
when no one’s watching them do,
what they love to do.
I want my words to be naked.
Boiled in hot water music.
So when you breath them in,
no matter good or bad,
they will always give
the ultimate compliment.
Luigi Rodriguez.
2016.