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.

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.

Desmotivo e ação

E o de

sa

nimo

Palavra simples, de significado preguiçoso.

E a preguiça me olha de novo

com esse olhar de quem não quer.

E eu não quero.

Já desbravei mares, já escalei montanhas;

hoje sou apenas uma entranha,

um suspiro do que passou.

Que passou e levou,

passou e levou.

Levou,

mas não vou.

Fico no aconchego de meu lar

esperando a decência chegar

pra levantar de minha cama.

Fico pra cá e pra cá,

sem me movimentar

esperando algo que me salve.

Salve.

Me procure e me salve.

Me veja e grite,

dê-me vergonha na cara.

Dê-me a palavra certa,

a frase correta pra dizer.

Dê-me o sorriso sincero

na esfera trincada de meu ser.

Hei de ser esse ser,

libertar toda a minha força

e mudar o meu destino.

Amanhã de manhã.

Depois de amanhã à tarde.

Antes tarde,

do que nunca...

Nothing at all

Between my feelings, and the distance between us

There is this certain, the bright side of you and me still exist

And did not fade even slightly

My smile while seeing you on a electronic block of communication

It is real, it is a smile of someone hoping to feel warm again.

Hoping to see you.

While writing is becoming difficult

While staying alone all the time makes me feel the emptiness on my life

You, my small little girl, makes me want to learn.

Learn how to survive feeling good about myself.

Learn how to live without you, and then be stronger with your heart on my side.

Then, when I feel sleepy, and want you in my bed with me.

I can feel your heart, and live alone would not sound so hard anymore.

I will tell the truth.

You are 90% of the reason of my life right now.

And the lonelier that I get, the bigger your part on my life become.

I want us to become one.

I want me to stay happy

To get closer to the perfection that I could be.

But while I wrote this, all I could think was:

"How hard writing could be for an ex writer?".

And felt sad for losing the ability to speak with my fingers.

To put words on my mind.

I know how I feel, I know what I want, I know what you want.

I just do not know how to get on the point

That I do not need anything at all

To make a smile, to love the man I am.

I just hope that you still love that

The confusing life that you will get with me.

I just hope that I can find myself

Before you get sick of me trying.

Sambe, meu amor

E é dela
esse coração que fala,
esse coração que grita.
Passa dia, a alegria
só me deixa dizer
que é dela
todos esses sonhos,
composições incompletas,
melodias das mais belas
e o cheiro dessas flores.
Mas é dela
também as incertezas,
a solidão que vem da natureza
e o rosto triste de noite, a chorar.
Eu sou dela.
Mostro me encolhendo em um canto,
pensando tanto, enquanto canto
a musica que me faz gritar.
Escudo dela,
protejo contra todos os tremores,
jogo-me a frente de tiros certeiros,
uso meus punhos se eu precisar.
Somente ela,
incorpora mãe, namorada e pequena,
encosta seu rosto em meu peito
e dorme a me esquentar.
Preciso dela,
não sou somente um cara torto,
não tenho mais aquele sorriso morto,
aprendi na poesia a sambar
e a cantar,
Lá iá la iá.

Guest

I expect you to be my guest
on this time calling Everest,
this trial of my interest,
the kill for those who call for the death.
But my arms are folded on your arms,
My head don't turn me out of your eyes
and I don't hope for losing you.
Your time it's just finishing soon
and I am not the creepy son
who will expect you to die.
I want you to be my guest
on my life that is running so fast.
You didn't see that much from me,
but the last time you went to see
I was lying with no look to show.
You just told me "grow up".
"You don't wanna lose your shine,
don't wanna stay like me falling into pieces
as some undisclosed issue,
not wanting to find any clue
and giving some shit advice for your son
that you barely know from the glow."
You dying now, my non-father at all.
I don't have any last wish for you,
don't need anything that is new.
I just expect you to live
and see what I turned for,
not thanks to you,
but for that advice on my dark room
that someone gave on the bar
and you just spelled to me
like a parrot.

And I repeat now as you die:
Be the guest on my life,
be the guest on disguise,
even with your sold soul,
even without your body.
I need my father now
to see that I am not turning into him.

The last breath came on the hospital room.
I am not crying, I am not crying.
Nothing come from my eyes.
But I take the last shot of tequila for your hopeless heart.
Goodbye, guest.

Mouth Shout

What do you expect from your living?
Really, tell me, because everybody needs something to stand by...
And you're falling apart, you don't know what to do with yourself.
That's ok, that's magnificent if you have nothing.
But when you have everything, that doesn't make any sense.
When you search for something that you don't know what it is.
It's not about the poetry of your words anymore.
It's about you, and your will to be happy.

He is not mad with anyone, it's just searching for the world he had before.
He is not dying, he is not crying, he is not smiling too.
He have nothing. Surely have.
But when your thoughts take all your mind, you overthink.
You overdrink, you oversuffer, you overthink again.
But he is not happy, not sad, not anything.
It's just waking up every morning
Trying to forget these feelings.

They are all about smile.
They are the future of humankind, future of the world
Go together, run together, stay together.
But certainly don't do anything worthwhile.
They spend all day showing themselves how amazing they are.
But they aren't that amazing.
It's all about the show. It's all about fake smiles on beautiful landscapes.
It's all about showing it's them together, but they are not one same unit.
They have mind.

I am something between the lines.
Something that thinks too much and live too little.
Someone that expect more from everyone.
Including myself. Including you.
And when I am supposed to be happy.
I spend all my time thinking on things of life.
But life is not that amazing. Life sucks.
Everyone just show them off to the world.
Without trying to learn anything from the experiences.
Without telling anybody their experiences.

A living hell world, with living tell stories.
Lets make crazy those who show out every feeling.
Lets make normal those who scream alone on their room.
The together unit its falling apart.
And we got nowhere else to run.
From ourselves.

Don't make the static no-feeling poetry rule our society.
We have stories to tell and people to see.
It's not just you. It's not just me.

Dark Spot

When you think you're all lonely suddenly the reality of your thoughts take the left side of your brain and start to play with your motion control. It start to dance, start to say words that you couldn't say... but at this time you're insane... You're talking with yourself, again.

But who's insane when it's about harmless days? Who is right when it's about three weeks since you saw anyone you really love?

You think you're right, you think you're the one. The one that fell out the ground and cracked your bones, but didn't felt anything. You need some compensating time with a piano, just to see, not play. You love to watch the draws of the sounds going out of the window and flying. You might have the will to fly, it's your only possible move right now.

So you flew. You really flew that one time... And you don't even know why, but you're here now.

You see every dark floor on this building, every dark spot without a single light to guide you on your path, if there is one. Your path with the beans guiding you. That will be wonderful.

You heard about some bomb trowed to your very spot... You flew again, but now to wake up from a dream. An awkward and strange dream that you didn't want to loose. You note this on your notebook.

You can now have your coffee, dark, but you choose to mix it up with a little milk. You open the window because you find out you're loosing the sky today.

You see the kids playing in the neighbor backyard and just realize that you can live this life now. The people you love are waiting for you.

You smile. 

- Damn! I am missing you all, but let make some pancakes and go out to see the sun today.

Your dreams were so much enlightened since then.