Applesauceless Week

Lately the nights have an added sparkle,

like you could, with your smile,

just brighten a whole townhouse.

Clean energy for everyone around you.

Lately I've been dreaming more,

smiling more, laughing more,

existing more, being more.

Believing more that the future carries good things.

I think I can put you to a fault;

blame you, scold you, hold you in court.

You; the one that makes me feel again

right when I thought it was all in vain.

If this is a confession of love right here,

I need to show how much the poet in me

misses what has been his inspiration so far.

Yes, I miss you, and it has been only one week.

I just want to enjoy every moment

of my weakness in falling 

over, and over again,

strongly, what a shame,

for you.

Internal kid's toy

Words cannot describe how this is happening in my head.

How the silence of the voice doesn't tell how crowded the mind is.

If the mind can even be called a single entity,

as it just fights within itself breaking each part, each certainty;

Each try giving up later,

each moment I have to pick the broken glasses of my head,

and remount myself again.

Like connected Legos that don't create any form.

Here I go again, here goes the call to move.

Even though the wind is just as confused;

even though the thoughts can't be even sure of themselves.

"Am I invented", "Am I a delusion"?

So much self-hatred is mixed up with sugar.

"I will get better if I die a little bit more on the inside"

"I will get worse if I try because giving up is inevitable"

Good and bad, 

or at least the conception of what they mean, 

get just mixed up with dreamy realities 

that never happened, and never will.

Or will they?

They won't. They will. They won't.

A lemon spritzed with the brain in between.

Everyday he dies a bit more from within.

And I feel lost, 

my rationale cannot do the math:

How can I improve such debacle?

When I can't trust him, even with him being myself.

I can't trust me, even with me being himself.

This green piece doesn't fit with the orange one.

We bought the wrong set at birth.

And I get hurt.

Sometimes think I will never be worth.

So the guess is that things will just move.

I will just move, he will move too.

But what is the point of moving guideless?

Where is the joy when you can't agree with yourself?

I just honestly wish...

I was someone else.

Kisses as knives

 A man wakes up, and the day is grey;

the sky is grey, his eyes are grey, his hair is grey,

his humor fits his color.

-

He puts a grey sweater.

Sigh! Time is my enemy.

Productivity, reactivity, will of fire.

Any kind of desire.

But no, it's a grey day.

One of the senseless days.

-

We pick up a memory, 

a past where more colors used to be seen.

Yet kisses arrive like thrown knives,

reminding us of other lives

we rather be living in this moment,

we rather be painting in other colors.

Yet, these moments are gone

it feels like until eternity.

It feels like now is all downhill.

It hurts.

-

The man is scared.

Will these memories ever be good again?

Will colors ever appear the same way?

He doesn't know.

He doesn't know.

But he wants it to be true someday.

He needs it to be true someday.

I wonder

What if I wished really strongly

that this small piece of wonder

could transform into something more?

What if I was afraid

that I’m rushing ideas,

that my dreams are just fears

and I will be alone again?

What if I felt this is unfair,

that she should be aware,

but not enforced into accepting it?

What if she has her own dreams

barely involving me,

and here am I, creating this whole scene

as if I’m the director.

What if I’m just scared

of being unaware, of being unprepared.

What if this is just me sabotaging myself again?

I wonder if this dream can even exist,

or is just an illusion again

to tell me all is better

when it ain’t.

Passion is out of my dictionary,

but here am I wondering,

as if it can just be created,

as if I can just feel it.

As if she would feel it too.

What if it all works well,

with me one day grinning

from side to side,

reading this to another smile,

while I stroke her hair?

What if she is unaware,

but not unwilling to be there

for this deluded dream of mine?

Should I phase this out as just an illusion,

or should I dream knowing it can happen?

Should I stop of hopefully write,

or hope the written words will take life

... and fly?

My Teatrical Disaster

 My head goes places.

It rounds on itself,

tries to control the controlling of it.

"I need to control myself less, leave it be and stop worrying"

"I need to control more to actually participate in my own life when I'm better"

Well, I'm not better

I'm not worse either.

Tired maybe.

But all my head thinks is disaster.

All my mind goes is to drowning.

The day you love someone and try it.

Everything will come only to implode on you.

Everyone will come only to judge you.

No one is looking, but if they do

they will check the trash you see in the mirror too.

Or the day that you'll try to get the dream job

oh, one of those big ones, childhood said and set in stones.

You anxiety will come to stop, your performance certainly will drop.

And you know.

This is all in your head.

All of these demons should be already dead.

But they are not.

They are here, they are there.

when I look it's everywhere.

Inner or not. Demon or not.

Sorry, am I crying too much?

Expecting too much?

What should I expect?

What should I think to be ok with myself?

It's like I said before

internal disaster, nothing functions.

the knots are formed in my thoughts

I'm not really clear what is true

and what is not.

But in the meantime,

my mind goes places

I rather forget.

Time's Arrow Only Marches Forward

 It's not art if it just comes out of fear is it?

It's just the demons speaking.

They tell me that's useless,

that I'm powerless,

I lack of any effort

or letter.

yet...

the weights in my hands...

prevent me from writing what I have to say...

..keep me from saying what I want to write.

They don't allow me to think

because when I do,

it's all blur lines in the dark,

it's all past tense,

it's all disaster ahead.

It's myself dead,

it's myself sad.

It's the fear to write

with the courage to admit the fear you have.

But is it really that brave?

If all I do is think without direction?

Breathe without conviction?

Laugh without substance, cry without being convincingly hurt.

It's all hurt,

it's all dirt.

It's yet another text,

another round for the fighter.

It's yet another instance

where feeling lost meets the writer.

Snapshot: Teletransporting feelings

He wakes up, looks ahead while slowly opening his child eyes.

He slept in the couch again. It's 9:30pm.

"Oh, I guess it's still not time", said to himself, while having headaches due to oversleeping on boredom.

The soap opera starts again, it's the third of the night, and he is following all of them.

He immerses in the world of the TV again, sitting in the corner of the sofa, with the curtains closed due to the darkness outside. He is way too close to the TV.

And the travel begins.

- I'm here for you, Jessica. "Oh wait, he's not supposed to say this, it's betrayal".
- So you mean you forgot Melissa completely? "No he did not! I mean, cmon, that barely makes sense!".

He is getting mad, screaming at the TV.

- Yes, I have nothing to do with her anymore. She is gone for good. "What do you mean she is gone for good?".
- What do you mean she is gone for good? "Yes..."
- I killed her. "Oh no, fuck this shit".

He shuts off the TV.

Silence.

He experiences the silence while pressing his hands shut as strong as he can do. He is angry, way too angry for something so silly as a plot from a TV show.

He stops. Silence again. He starts crying. He doesn't know why.

"It's so stupid" - he says while tears were still coming out of his eyes. "Why do I care about this so much? It's just a dumb TV show". His 11th years old mind thinks loudly to himself.

Runs to the bathroom, water to eyes, look in the mirror. "Your sad ugly face". Towel.

Calm. Silence again. Way more silence than ever before.

"Why am I like this?".

No one answers. He looks in the clock, still 10pm. 

"One more hour and they will be here."

Turns on the TV.

Endscene.