The chairs of the roof

The radio of my car
is broken
and I sit in silence
in the hood
of the memories
that are left,
like the Twenty One Pilots song
that try to escape
from the sound
that kills the surroundings
and annihilate the senses
of today
and probably of tomorrow,
for life.
Sometimes I write
without knowing what to say,
I have the obligation
of making you feel
what I don’t know if it exists,
not even to me
or in me;
I would like to be enough
for the poetry
as she’s been enough to me
until the keys
told me to stop,
I can’t write on paper.
Maybe I need
the synths from the 80’s
or the insolence of the 90’s
and I should get rid
of the alternative of the 00’s;
I’m not a modern poet,
I’m just a mix of all
the fragments
I once highlighted
in the books
of the library.
I just want
to read again
in the chairs of the roof,
under a dark sky
with no stars;
before a normal moon,
without think in its phases,
under a neutral sun
in so atypical cities
that they turn to be boring.
I have a spider
in my nape
and I don’t know how to call it,
it will turn me into a superhero
or into the enemy of any story?
And if it turns me
into the antihero
of my story,
where I’m gonna go
after if I’m still having
the radio broken
and sitting in silence
only makes the noise
that I try to escape

Poem inspired in “Car Radio”, a song by Twenty One Pilots.

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