Graffiti in the Soul

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Soulpuncture

A “Soulpuncture” is a non-threatening literary method that uses poems, and other poetic expressions, to stimulate the soul’s energy.

All poems, stories, comments, and ideas posted on this page aim to stimulate the soul’s energy; hence, they are all “soulpunctures.”

Every word said, sang, heard, written, or read in whatever tone, for right or wrong, punctures the soul, and the soul bleeds or heals.

Every word is a soulpuncture.

It’s your duty, then, to give the correct meaning to every word, to every “soulpuncture,” so your soul can reach what you are looking for.

It’s I, seeking me


That man, that neighbour over there

It’s I seeking me

As if I were in front of a mirror

Only that there is no mirror

Between him and I

Those men, all of them, that crowd

It’s I fragmented

Those women, all of them, that crowd

It’s I, my feminine side seeking a gap in my skin

To escape, to run away, to forget about me

No matter the pain, the crying, the solitude, the waiting, the hoping

That boy, that girl, those children, that group over there in the school play yard

Growing up, dreaming of becoming an adult to become a child

It’s I living hard, weeping to be back

In my mother’s womb and never come out again

But stay there warm, protected/unprotected, fragile

No mirror in my mother’s womb to seek me

Just she and I, and her memories, her hopes for the child

I, sharing my mother’s thoughts, her blood, her life

That old man over there, flooded by years, by time

Those grandparents at the threshold of the stone chatting in the hall of the time gone

Telling worn out old jokes, music, dances past, old books, black and white pictures

Breathing the roses, avoiding pestilence, breathing the snow, moonlights, and rainbows

On their way to oblivion

Unable to look at their grandchildren in the eyes because, like in the mirror

Their eyes will look them back

Those old men, old women are curious about my next step should I give it

The sharp curve on the road ahead where I will disappear from their sight

That man, the lonely one in the mirror, that image is I, no matter what

I cannot escape from being me

Is it my make-up?

These adult men and women, those children, those old men and women

Are they my make-up, my past regalia, my future costume?

The clown in me, the sad clown

Not at all true, sometimes bright, sometimes happy, a happy clown, that’s right

It’s I the great prisoner

Afraid of being me

Afraid of meeting those people, those children, too many

In solitude

In solitude, in my mother’s womb

At least I could cry, and no one, no one, but my mother

Would dry my tears, her tears, their tears