Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cada vez mais me cansa existir
Bate-se-me em ânsia o coração
Todo o café não me livra do cansaço
Que trazem as noites sem dormir
Por sonhos temorosos atormentada.

Sinto nos olhos o pesar da vida
Que penso demais para poder viver.
Sinto da alma um distanciar imenso
Cada vez mais incerta do que é ser.

Pudesse eu saber os murmúrios do destino
O que me guarda o fado, o porquê
Da demora do sossego fugido.

Pudesse eu não tanto pensar
Ouvir cantar as musas (onde estão?)
Fazer deste corpo um lar.
 Nov 2021 Cristina
ghost queen
all and everything burns around us
a wall of flames consuming the world
a personal hell projected into reality
a final reckoning for our collective sins
none are absolved not even the innocent
an angel’s dream the beginning of the end
overwhelmed wrung out by the quotidian
too tired to fight too tired to care
we lay down and wait our turn to die
I got no time for hate
it’s a heavy weight

I actually could,
but it’s no good

and even if I don’t like you
I still wish you great
everyone has their fate

I’m too busy living my life
too happy to be alive

so you can leave,
there is the door
’cause I’m too busy loving the ones
my heart beats for.

- gio, 10.04.2020
 Jul 2021 Cristina
Sk Abdul Aziz
Dare to be
Dare to live
Dare to love
Dare to dream
Dare to fly
Dare to challenge yourself
Dare to believe that you are extraordinary
the sea wrinkles, extends
beneath her moon glow, awaiting
its lustrous return
keening with melancholy ache
of wave soaking midnight sands
unreflective as night's obsidian
hand - snakes along his features
casting a shadowed aura
across his liquid expanse
lulled into silent slumber

while the moon fore-sakes
her nightfall promise
stretched alongside
his ivory form, awakening
breathlessly, tremulously, he
discovers her as moonshine
on outstretched palms, bathing
in her resplendence

         was it all summer night's splendor,
         (quicksilver to his mind like the moon        
         beckoning his misbegotten sea)
         or had she - at last - returned
                to solace his lovesick dream?
Was she a metaphor or a goddess--no one knows, not even he.
Next page