You are made of ridicule.
You in the dark
So raw, immature
The search for a new life
Of the unreached cure
And you ask yourself: what am I made of, haughty?
And through the flesh, the bone of the muscle
Will there be matter, character, or just ridicule?
I wish you could wash the blood, remove the impurities
To be able to see for the first time with clarity what the human being is made of.
Maybe inside you are just a stranger.
The glass presents the saliva
From an insatiable and energizing mouth
I wanted the cure of addiction
That completes his leisure and fills my torment
I revere myself for a healing
For you are made of nothing Only vigor swearing that you spit in my face
That catches me and then trims me, that collects me and shrinks me
You always wake up the same
Full of the drink that never satisfies your ego
Injects airs of supremacy
And diminishes me, locking myself in my own smallness
But your drink is never scarce.