The terrace violinist

People.

I never liked them.

Always so complex.

Discussing ideas.

Fighting between them.

Music.

I've always been in love.

From tail to tail.

Regardless of my state.

A complete blunder.

Express myself.

I would, but how

If, every time I think about it, do I park?

I took my guitar and went up to the terrace.

The instrument under the arm.

The music starting low.

Winning.

Space.

Down there everything continues.

Here, the world stops.

The score goes off.

My emotion spreads.

I just appreciate that you touch someone.

Amid so many "nobody".

But that doesn't suit me.

Tomorrow, again, they will look at me with a certain disdain.

"The crazy terrace violinist".

"Who sings for pigeons and a few."

But tomorrow does not suit me.

For now a smile suits me.

Tears and sadness do not fit me.

Rules and normalities too.

Being branded crazy is not the problem.

Van Gogh was one.

And me, I'm just one more.

Passionate about music and poetry.

Desperate to demonstrate to the world.

But without a symphony.

But someday I'll find it.

And I will show everyone.

Who are the real madmen.

Hidden and dizzy.

Lost in tales.