If it wasn’t for my optimism,

I would already be dead.

This optimism,

tastes like pessimism,

so it’s pretty wrong.

And it’s also short,

when it breaks, against,

any unsolved problem.

Inside me,

I feel more than good thoughts.

I often think it was better yesterday,

of this life we are travelers

and pioneers.

And we are not certain, of life, the cashiers.

We are indebted,

and creditors.

I want to save myself,

from rodents,

there are no saviors.

Many people don’t know,

does not understand it,

how much does it weigh on me

how sad it makes me.

How often, in spite of what I seem,

I have thoughts inside,

very different from the dreamer,

very different from good people.

They are there for me too,

the bad hours.

In which it is often as if you are dying.

Then yes, I recover,

but often, I don’t expect it from me,

too often I lose,

and I don’t take.

And in fact, I don’t wait.

ITA VERSION HERE: https://loscrittorevolante.com/2021/06/21/poesiaottimsita/


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