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".