UNDERDOG: a context of an incapable man

I’d like to think i’m a kinda weirdo... even though it may sounds crazy or something, because some people don’t appreacite the outsiders -- even though they like mr. Marilyn Manson, Bukowski, Fante, van Gogh and also they like being a socialist in a such salvage capitalism world. This world’s cruel... so are they. Being part of myself is something new and, in loco, I’ve been in places I can’t remember, drinking cheap wines and sitting on a broken chair... so, lemme ask a question: am I a part of myself or a ilusion towards something to be? That’s, like a shakesperian ways of seeing things, "the question"... or that’s part of my brain that I can’t remove?

I've been trying to reach you, but with no succed. Do you love? Do you need me? The letters I sent you is like having a conversation with anyone?
You can burn? You can throw me away to gargabe nearby the shopping mall...?

I, perhaps, am a weirdo. A weirdo with no love and with any intense relationships. I bury myself even more on a daily basis... so wouldn’t you come with and let this despair ruin my life and be part of my brain that I can’t remove...?

This is for you; not for me.
Intense at a deep level: do you love or is it a just part of my brain?

I'm prolly gonna be a solitary man. A man with no remorse
to fall and decay

saulo de tarso m. ribeiro