My Anxiety

All these things I can think,
going through my memory.
All these things I can think,
driving me to insanity.

All these moments I can feel,
needling through my skin.
All this hate I expel,
knowing you can tell.

I'm not living through my life.
I'm just crying over motives.
I'm not feeling my own mind.
Just a very emotive leaf
flying towards...
nothing.

Really nothing,
not even an entire verse.
Not even a rhyme.

Suffocated, nauseated, demotivated.
Depressive, repressive, unimpressed.
Loveless, motionless, lifeless.

Why don't you just suck it up?
Wake it up, shake it up,
break your own vices,
break you own world.
Why don't you just stop crying?
Why does everything you do
makes you wanna puke?

Why does every feeling needs to be an action?
Why does every action cause so intense feelings?
Why your own mind doesn't stop thinking about it?
Stressing about it, working about it.
Writing about it.
In disconnected ways.

Why your world inside makes you not enjoy the one outside?

Collection of Unfinished Thoughts on Someone

I miss the way I looked at you, and the excitement I had when going to see you.
Miss being silly together, with that old you, when we didn't care about anything or anyone,
wanting just having the most time with each other.

It was such a beautiful romance, really...
Such a shame we wasted, I mean, at least in my mind.
So many moments we would have, good, together, if we weren't so changed.
But that's the thing. We were changed.

Life made us make choices, choices that distanced ourselves from being any sort of story.
I was past to you. You were pain to me.
And today, years after everything, my heart has no feelings towards you.
In fact I haven't thought of you in a while.
But my mind is too silent at this point.
I haven't really thought of anything.
I haven't really thought of anyone.
Didn't fall in love either.
And I'm scared of this.

I'm scared of being permanently blocked of feelings.
Worst, blocked of connections.
I know no one new;
pass through whole conversations without absorbing or paying attention.
So, thinking about the way I looked at you when I was absorbing and feeling something
made me feel something.
Not to you, or for you.
For me, I felt excited by that idea again.
Of having someone to look at the way I did so many years ago.
But, as nothing is as easy as it can be, I don't know how to.
Ruminating constantly of what others think of me.
Which is stupid, I know, but understanding something doesn't make you believe it.

With that in mind, thing is, what if I was the bad guy in all of this?
What if I'm the only one to blame for being alone and having no soul to talk to?
What if I was the one that made you not love me anymore?
What if I find someone else, and I do all the mistakes over again?
Mistakes that I didn't know at the time.
Please no! I'm too tired.
Too tired to try again.
And too scared to confront myself over doing so.

This whole time the text was not for you.
Was my, stuffed with unfinished thoughts, mind.
Going into places it usually blocks.

Talking to you because I miss the old you, though.
That was a lovely person to be with.

High and Low

The man wakes up.

He expects the bright morning to tell him something, a date, a reason to get up, a smile lost in the deep parts of his mind. He cannot find anything.

He gets high to avoid his low, he gets low and prevent his highs. Nothing seems balanced in his world, even though it's just a picture of the map. That's his map, describing every single location with a tone of grey in them, not completely dark, but not enough to see anything or anyone. It is, in its current state, an useless map. He knows that. He deeply resents himself for it.

But that is just a map, and worse, just a picture of it printed out on those older matrix printers, making huge noises while printing. The map is not the man, nor it is the territory. He should just use a different map.

He takes a sip on his coffee. All of those metaphors making him feel lost on that grey-ish incomplete map of his. This isn't helpful. He sips his coffee again. Caffeine might help.

- How can you change when you spent your whole life using your wrong, incomplete and torn off map? - He asks himself.

The man doesn't know.

Goes back to his place, finding himself in between the rain and the really confusing dark clouds. "That's progress!", the man tells himself, but hardly believing it.

He eats, the food doesn't taste like anything. He watches, the distraction helps at first, but he gets bored before the night ends. His demons make their daily appearance. He lies in bed.

- Hopefully the morning tells me something tomorrow.

Broken Time

I remember telling myself
that if my life ever got empty, that I'd look for something
That I'd know what to do
That it would be me and you,
that everything would be ok.
(what a fool)

But now
I'm stuck in my own mind, looking for the lock of the door
to forbid my own self-destruction from happening.
My own desires fading, my will to be evading.
And here I am, too scared to move anywhere.
Too tired to go offshore.
Deeply drowning in sorrow,
forgetting, slowly, who am I.
Who am I?
What I like?
What I want to be?
What I want to do?
It all just feels like unanswered questions this time.
And I don't even have the energy
to rhyme...

Calabouço interno

Ele acorda.
ocupa em diagonal sua cama de casal.
se sente vazio, mas não afogado
se sente calmo, mas não em paz.

Ele pensa.
Onde foi toda alma que se tinha
toda fala, virou mudo
surdo, cego, sem fé.

Mas o mundo não se fecha mais.
Nem é escuro.
Apenas é.

Ele não sabe quem é.
Ou como será,
ou como dirá.
O homem prende a si mesmo.

Se mantém preso
a uma outra realidade
uma outra instancia de seu proprio ser

E agora ele quer viver,
mas não sabe como.
Não sabe se pode soltar-se
depois de tantos anos presos
em sua propria memória.

Não é o passado
ou o depois.
É o agora
que o prende,
que o sufoca.

E o ciclo não demora.
A alma que se solta hoje
amanhã a prender-se volta.
E o homem não sabe
se chora,
se passa mal,
ou se sente raiva.

Sentir-se mal por si mesmo
é libertacão,
é corrente presa nas mãos,
é ficar perdido
entre o que é real
e o que a mente devaneia.

Ele pensa:
"Talvez se eu desatar nó por nó
um dia essa alma caminha por si só.
Vazia, porém livre,
livre pra ser o caminho que quiser".

Doce Adeus

Se eu quero o que não tenho mais,
ou se foi apenas minha ideia do que eu queria ter,
ambos sentimentos não me fazem bem,
eu me sinto vazio, não tenho porquê.
Me sinto um copo cheio de dúvidas,
cheio de mente, cheio de alma,
mas vazio de substância,
vazio de vontade.
Minha vida não se resume a você,
nem a mim. Não mais.
Talvez se eu deixasse levar e ver no que dá.
Talvez se eu parasse tanto de pensar,
de procurar você e o sentimento que eu tinha contigo
em outras almas que não tem nada a ver com a história toda,
mas eu sinto que perdi parte de mim
e procuro essa parte em todo lugar,
em todo beco sem saída, eu paro e tento contemplar
minha parte de alma perdida.
Eu sinto tanto e não vejo nada.
Eu deixo você, hoje, em meu passado.
Deixo esse passado enterrado, sem flores, sem dor.
Talvez uma pequena pitada de rancor, de ódio,
mas nada que o tempo não apaga mais.
Não é sobre você, não mais.
É sobre mim e minha paz.
Sobre mim e meu espirito ferido querendo voar.
Sobre minha poesia querendo ser escrita novamente.
Sobre o que eu sou a partir de hoje.
E não sobre o que já foi, ou o que pode ser.
Eu me deixo levar por querer,
tento soprar ventos procurando prazer,
e aí sim vamos ver.
E aí sim...
eu não sei bem o quê.

Entre flutuar e se afogar

Sinto que eu devia parar de sentir;
parar de pensar, parar minha mente um instante
e viver,
viver esse instante.
Ser amante de alguém,
não esperar nada
além de acordar,
manhã por manhã.

Sinto que eu devia parar de escrever,
mesmo que eu já não saiba mais escolher as palavras,
que meu talento esteja perdido em minhas mágoas.
Meu amor
sem palavras,
sem amor,
sem nada.

Sinto que cada dia que acordo remoendo,
perco um pouco mais pras dores que sinto.
Físicas e mentais,
concretas e perceptuais.
Não sou eu aqui,
nem eu ali.
Não sei
onde estou.

Sinto que não posso mais perder tempo,
muito menos saúde de espírito,
nem mais um amigo.
Ou me perder no caminho,
tentar encontrar um destino?
Apenas seguir,
sem chorar,
nem sorrir.

Sinto, meu talento está perdido em algum lugar,
que minha essência vai acabar por brilhar.
Serei mais que um vulto,
uma sombra
do que eu era,
do que eu sou;
diminuta,
quase muda.