History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.

My new bedroom
Is the closure of a history,
A roller coaster of joy,
Boredom, unity, experiences and routine.

My new bedroom has a beautiful morning light
To wake me up early
To remember of a work to be done,
Of a walk out of home.

My new bedroom
Is my new status
Half way to freedom,
Half way to be stuck to my past,
Half way of happiness,
Half way of longing.

My new bedroom
Is a statement of my privacy
Although I often feel naked anywhere.

My new bedroom
Contains my vision,
My order,
My mess.

My new bedroom
Is the sign of movement,
Of stepping forward,
Even though it is inside the same house
With the same inhabitants,
With the same routine.

It is just a bedroom.
It is all that is different.
It is a conquest.
It is nothing more than a small change.

I am the matter and the indivisible substance
Of exactly everything I am not:
A antithesis, a negative, a mold.
I am my exact surroundings
That did not fit in itself.

I am the being I did not chose,
And I chose to be everything that can not constitute in me.
I am all that I see,
And the only thing I cannot see is me.
Even my image in the mirror
Is my inverse, maybe even in the colors,
Who knows...

I am a history course
Incapable to drain in others.
The realization of the impossible
Within the boundaries of logic and entropy.

I am, and I am everything reflected in me,
Inside a non-existent world
That starts to exist in reaction to me:
Forces, gravity, gestures, breathing.

I am the cause of things
As much as I am an undesirable effect.

I call friends
Those who
I have been drunk with,
But not only that -
That'd be too easy.

To be my friend
One has to have seen me
Dressed in womens' clothes,
Or have watched Juno for the first time,
Or have watched Lion King over and over,
Or have seen bright new colors together,
Or crossed an ocean with me,
Or shared during 5 years dreams of a lifetime,
Or dragged me out of a downward spiral,
Or have been invited to my parents' house,
Or new it had no locks (most of the time),
Or have played 16-bit games with me,
Or have me sleeping out of home,
Or traded a party for a school work,
Or fought with a friend to leave to the party,
Or took me for a brother, and still does it,
Or sheltered me when I was desperate,
Or took me in for a job,
Or partnered in an enterprise with me,
Or shared all toys with me,
Or hold me when I was all cracks,
Or adopted street cats with me,
Or have known me for more than 25 years
(and endured me at least 50 days a year),
Or introduced me to movies and music,
Or expanded my horizons with philosophy,
Or criticized my guitar playing,
Or have been a sister to me,
Or have jumped from a moving car,
Or shared a 16-people house with me,
Or have shown me underground culture,
Or have played in a bar with me while 5 years old,
Or have played football (Brazilian-like) at least 30 times,
Or have changed a name for a Pokémon,
Or have lived with me in a hunted house,

Every bit I am
Somehow, I owe it to you.

Above god, the storyteller.
Standing before a white sheet of paper,
on the edge of the creation
of characters and worlds.

He masters destinies and faiths,
reconfigure, deforms his own built up reality,
tells what to think and what to make,
even against his own will.

Escapes logic, escapes a singular mind,
fragmented into others' reason,
collecting pieces of shattered own psyche,
exposing best and worst versions of himself.

The storyteller now stands
incapable of creating
having exhausted his own experiences
and all of its variations.
Writing (living) to him is no longer worthy
for creations now rely on a vivid reality.

He sees himself on the margin of creation
living the absurd of a fast imagination
in a slow concrete world.

As he starts typing again
the images of his hands start to fade
****** up to his own imaginary world
losing his matter, contained only in his ideas
where wander is prompt, boundless and free.

He was found three days later,
missing breath and heartbeats.
Free.

No matter the ways we choose,
the ones we did not choose will be more numerous.
There will always be more personalities
than the ones we decide to wear.

I live as a boat that departs without announcing a destination,
choosing along the way which port to anchor on,
always regretful for the ports I did not choose.

I take with me a small piece of everything I have known
(and how could I not?)
so my memories cannot betray me,
so the places I have been can leave a footprint on me.

I follow this path blindly,
heavier at each step
(or with weaker muscles, I could not tell),
with burdens getting loaded and loaded,
with fears from other roads,
missing passions from other ports,
with nostalgia of passing landscapes.

I keep on walking to keep on living,
I keep on choosing some paths, abandoning many others,
Sad with every time I detach something,
Sadder even for the choices I did not make
(but did even if I did not want to),
I keep on sensing smells I never experienced,
touching flowers I have never seen.

I do not renounce what I leave behind
(Like Drummond: "from everything a little remained"),
but the directions I did not pick,
the river courses that never came to be,
the dry branches never to flourish,
the futures made impossible by my choices.

As I wash my hands on rough waters
I leave some of what I was,
some of what I think I am.
I let me go just a little
to keep on going.

All this ballast, this will to take everything with me
can do me no good at all
if my weight restrains the places I could be.

Things we only learn
So when they happen again,
Too late,
We regret
We didn't notice them earlier.

In the future resides the uncertainty of things not happened,
Of nothingness emanating from not coming,
Of factorial and exponential combinations,
Of haltered decisions,
Of the purity of lack of constitution.
Uncertainty is absolute, mother of delimitation,
Only it can, gently, cede into facts.

To be right is to be no thing,
Is to buy food and be given only the smell of it,
Is to deposit yourself over an abyss
Guarding yourself through a thin web
Of a sure death of faith,
Of a short present,
This present that, so certain and possible
That tricks.
That will, eventually, be once again uncertain
Through forgetfulness and intentions,
Fading fading until lost
In the infinitude of odds,
Rebuilding, then, the absolute pureness of hollow doubts.

Present is the time corrupted.

Sometimes
We just need
To hack our own rules
Whenever we feel
They do not fit
Us, the moment,
The vibrations,
The intention
And the breeze.

Today I disobey myself:
To write
When all my cells tell me
To surrender to the deepness of a sleep.

If we fear the forest man
For we fear the forest in us
And we give so we can
Take it back,
Why change it?

We might fear for we take it back
And we give for we fear inner forests?

Adaptation is all we need.

Into the night
There's a different mood,
A different escape,
Something in our eyes
Hold all the magic.

Light blocks,
Keeps us apart
For the world is to big when bright,
And to small, with everything so close
When darkness and cold arrive.
It's in the night
We become interesting,
We let productivity aside
To be more content, authentic.

That's when we no longer
Rely on images
Our imagination
- Ironically -
Is free.

We are nothing
And every attempt to be
We lose bits of being
Into our void.

Like a river rising itself
Losing water,
Losing power,
Remaining only scratches on a plain.

We seek grandiosity
But we are already to big to cross
The cracks of peace, of rightness,
We are too rigid when we ought to be fluid,
We are humans but we run from it
Whenever we forget
Every little moment
Should be taken care
Like an injured bird:
At the end, it must fly
In order to see a shrinking world.

There is a certain illusion
that arrivals and departures are different,
that ways are just obstacles that, in the end,
lead us to an endpoint.

They just lead us into new ways.

My ways feel the weight of my feet, my wheels,
of cars and buses and trucks and tanks;
they feel the weight of heavy conscience, of tears and of guilts.
And, in return, they lead us to who knows where.

We spend our entire lives building ways in forms of
bridges, roads, tunnels, trails and rails.
Leveling, tearing, drilling, exploding some ****** land
in order to get somewhere.

I walk through roads in neighborhoods
through books and program codes,
through notes in songs,
through colors in the sky,
through dreams and imaginations,
because life is the ultimate way:
from birth to death.

It would be unwise to believe that the way is not important

Fighting battles alone
in a war that has been lost for ages.
Battles of inner struggles,
of incoherent thoughts,
of distant fading desires,
of contradictions that tortures our soul.

And you wake up
having lost a part of you,
stripped away cowardly
(and you can't even name by whom)

Loose in an uniform immensity,
in that different kind of void
with no lights, no moon, no stars
(but everything still visible),
lacking the soft and warm walls of reality (sanity?)
while time slowly escapes
the ropes of our perception,
wandering alone, with no air to breathe
Yet, unable to die.

Only then we are ready to realize
that every rule is useless.
Despair has taken over.

Only two paths can we take:
start from scratch
or fade.

Sometimes there is nothing left.
We rise and we conquer with greedy battles,
we attach fertile soils and rich people,
subdue them for our purposes,
and, at times, nothing lefts.

Nothing lefts from an yore green land,
nothing lefts of invincible armies,
nothing lefts of obsolete weapons
that became incapable of protecting us,
nothing lefts to win or to lose.

We learn, we grow, we teach,
and yet, sometimes, little remains
of love,
of trust,
of loyalty,
of confidence.

We lose ourselves in the void
that surrounds our thoughts,
that hollow **** we built around us
so we don't mistake ourselves with the world,
but we are the bridges and the roads,
we are the messengers,
we are the kings and queens,
we are the workers and fighters,
we are the knights.

We ride into a void
as immense as we want it to be.

Difference can only be observed
With a deep and close look,
But connections can only be seen
Far above the clouds.

We are singular, we are plural;
Heisenberg could not be less certain.

The more I do
The more I am afraid of stopping
Even though there is nothing to lose.
It is just a commitment
That no one will charge.
It is my self reference.

But I know my limitations.
I know I can change my mind.
Commitments reflect a time
That will lead to a different time,
Different characters,
Different backgrounds,
Different plots,
A different maestro to a different orchestra.

I fear lacking continuity,
To bend my own rules.
The more I know myself
The more I keep continuing.
I fear the inflection.

The incompleteness is the reason for life.
To be complete is to be inert,
And to be inert is to not exist.

The need is the origin of every movement,
The dissatisfaction is the hurricane,
Food with no soul
To eat up steadiness.

It is no wonder
That to the condemned
Movements are restricted
In a premature
And with no redemption death

I sometimes shine
And I don't know
Where that comes from.
It's something from inside,
Something I am still not aware.

Somehow I connect,
Somehow I surprise,
Somehow I am there.

But I often disappear,
And that, too,
I don't know why.
It's just an undescribable need for space.

In loneliness I try to find
This light
But the more I seek,
The further I get.
The more I think of it,
The less I have.

Maybe I should get used to it,
Surf these waves,
Hide from the storm
(Inevitable),
Float during a calm tide.

I know I have it
I don't know how to use it,
But it's ok.

It's only a matter
Of living in ignorance
And embrace happiness.

In the cold of a winter
He came in home
Just in time for dinner.

The key opened the door,
No one was surprised with his presence,
He sat on the end of the table,
Ate the dinner,
Not a look, not a comment,
They may even have not noticed him,
They may have not heard him,
Or the tinkling of  cutlery.

He withdraw after finished,
Went to the apartment door,
And it was his apartment,
But with all those people,
Unknown,
Strangers,
As if they owned the place.

Inside again,
At the bathroom,
The mirror confessed:
He was not there.
His time has passed.
He was not dead (that he knew for sure)
But he just was not there.

Hard to say where
He could be,
When he could be.
His decaying senses
Were of no help.
Everything he could feel
Of that time-space in the apartment,
But his whole body
Was somewhere else.

He slept on his bed,
But woke with the sun in his face.
No apartment,
No bed,
No dinner,
No ceiling.

Just a wanderer
Touching the last of his belongings:
His memories
Of what used to be his dream.

The cure and the disease
Stand on opposite sides,
But like Napoleon and Wellington,
Are just standpoints.

We ****
Our parasites,
We **** our brains
(Sometimes they are the disease)
We study, we analyze,
We figure and conquer,
But the only true way
To cure ourselves
Is by chance:
Just by surprise.

I am tired of truth,
Of certainty,
Of data,
Of arguments,
Of news,
Of memes,
Of catchphrases,
Of ads,
Of cursing,
Of judgment,
Of coherence,
Of passion,
Of sharing,
Of exposing,
Of convincing,
Of fearing,
Of discussing,
Of trying,
Of holding the world on my shoulders,
Of hating,
Of eloquence,
Of pretending,
Of believing,
Of disbelieving,
Of being alert,
Of being numb,
Of hearing,
Of seeing,
Of being in the same places over and over again.

The time is right
To move on, and move on only.

I had this urge
To go on a trip.
I never thought
About it all that much.

I just went
In search of sights,
Landscapes to see,
Bird songs to hear,
But everything else
Was just hidden.

I had a bag
With all my stuff
In case of emergencies,
To control a chaos
I could not handle.

I was stuck
Unable to reach any of these.
Too heavy weight to carry,
Too afraid to be naked.

The whole world was gray,
The sounds, suffocated.
The words, numbed.
The things, useless.

I realized the bag I carried
To be ready for anything
Was, indeed, nothing.
Just a weight.

I could walk,
But it was hard.
I could jump,
But it was hard.
I could sight-see,
But it was hard,
I could do anything,
It would be just a bag.

The prepared I am,
The adventurer I am.
The adventurer I am,
The wilder I am.
The wilder I am,
The more I explore.

The prepared I am,
The heavier I am.
The heavier I am,
The less I roam.

In the end,
I wander less and less,
I am more and more
Attached to stuff
I really seem it hard to figure
Why are they really here.

Our bags are never
Big enough,
Strong enough,
Helpful enough,
But they never meant to be.
They're just bags.

I am the one
Who wished them
To be the solution of everything.
The problem was in me all along
But I never got the chance to see it.

Whatever I carry
Is just my ******* problem.

The paralysis,
the agony of unresponsive muscles,
the coward voice that barely moves the air,
the hesitation that confuses
what we are and what we are not.

This fear that makes me avoid
discomfort, pain, the unknown,
this fear guardian-torturer,
does not fit me no more.

The fear of the unreal,
the fear of the impossible,
the fear of breaking myself,
the fear of the fear,
the fear of the uncontrollable wills,
this petty fear that serves only itself,
that hits palaces, and houses and slums,
the fear of a dingy past,
or of an obscure future,
of the prophetic images of possible apocalypses,
professed by notorious atheist scientists,
or the fear of the science propagated by unbelieving priests,
or the fear of the starvation I never had (that made me obese),
or the fear of the accident I never experienced (that locks me home),
or the fear of the policeman and the thief (that armors my car),
or the fear of rejection I never suffered (that fuels my social life with happy pictures),
and the sum of all these fears, the ultimate fear,
the fear of never come to be what I dreamed to be.

Today, none of my muscles will obey them.

My Portuguese sadness,
My Italian gesticulation,
My German treatment,
My Northern simplicity,
My Brazilian compassion
Can only explain half of me.

I don't know Yoruba
And I don't know Tupi,
I am a Brazilian suspended
In European webs,
But all of it have a bit of me.
I cannot decide between
Abequar and Icarus,
For I am a constant mixture of opposites.

I can only define myself
Within gradients and midterms,
Undefinable, then.
To have an identity
Is to have none.

Five years is my longest season.
I don't know what it is
I keep running from.

Have I hated roots so badly
I can't afford to try it?
Have I been exposed to such opportunities
I prefer to move?
Am I just curious
Or I just get bored?

I do learn a lot
But I only do little with it:
I survive and I delight.
I feel like I drop seeds everywhere
But I fail to nurture them.

What's new for me to try?
An interested phone call,
A Spartan life,
A season as a monk,
A money seeking job
Or a volunteer work?

Every answers lie
On the other side of the fear.

Death show its ugliest face
to those who suffer across generations,
continents  and ships in the oceans;
to those who chose freely who to like,
to lay, to sleep, to live by;
to those who stood against
the ugliest face of death.

Some face it daily,
others will never know about it.
Some lie between
the ugliest face of death
and the ugliest mask of life;
some ride in gravy trains,
enjoy grapes and wines,
pulling long distance triggers
pointing at miserables.

Today, the ugly phantom of death
haunts poor, black, gay, women,
but it slowly leaks
through the cracks of well written
and yet shallow ideologies,
creating a new kind of brain police,
of modern uniformed zombies
that run castles and emperors
held by the backs of millions of Atlas
with weakening knees,
and exposed fleshes by whips
of indifference, of forgetfulness,
of inconsideration, of marginalization,
of slave ships that run on wheels,
of master captains never emancipated.

Those who never saw
the smiley face of a nurturing State,
who never saw Justice balance out
pain, misery, agony or fear,
who never saw the compassion,
the kindness or at least a look in the eye
of a compassionate and kind People,
those are the ones who see
The Ugliest Face of Death.

The returning phantom of a dictatorship
is revealed by a heinous political crime,
and Death, awaken from his sleep beauty,
rejoice for the victory of violence.

A poet once wrote
"Knowledge is a deadly sin
when no one sets the rules",
but the truer message followed the utter:
"the faith of all mankind
is in the hands of fools".

I see perfection
In every bit of creation
In the mess I leave behind
After cooking a meal,
After planning a trip.

I demand perfection.
I see it, but I can't touch it:
It is an idea
Never to be complete.
To see is to rage,
To touch is to choose reality.

Mediocrity is necessary:
It is all that there is.
It takes eternal time
To reach any kind of completeness.
To exist is to be missing
Sense, parts, matter,
Soul, feelings, rhythm,
Nutrients, flavor, smell,
Roughness, silkiness, deepness.

Ten out of ten
Is a ridiculous possibility.
Six out of ten
Is a step into,
A plausible, reachable,
Achievable
Perfection.

There is nothing to define
What's old is old,
It's in the past,
It is no more,
It is a memory,
A phantom,
The mess after a party.

Its beautiful lies
In its absence.

Its character
Is a reflex,
A reflux,
Everything it can no longer
Be.

The new
Is everything
That remains.

If there is a void in me
It's because there is a "me".
It's because there is something being
That once wasn't.
Because every hole
Is just something
Made of something else.

Emptiness is necessary
To be fulfilled,
It's the space of being,
The waiting possibly,
The tiredness that makes us available,
To remove my ego and bring me you,
To approach me to what I see,
For when I see, I'm plain.

The nothingness is the permission,
The origin,
It's too be naked and protected
Of everything that can be "me"
And completeness never allowed.

Almost thirty years I've passed
The same old Memoir Street,
With houses to be built,
Lamps to be installed
(with lights fading, and ghostly shadows),
And its 37 crossings, unknown.

Dead ended possible streets that I know not
Its unlocked doors,
hidden and tricky passages,
Non-measuring eyes,
Windows with children watching horror movies at midnight
(softer than real life).

Wastelands in surroundings,
Grids and bricks always limiting,
Dead ends of dead ends of dead ends,
Like thoughts trapped in logic,
Like heartbeats tied in the frequencies of a forgotten song.

My body, trapped in my mind,
Trapped in my culture,
Trapped in my biology,
Trapped in my reactions,
Is, still, mine.
Everything and nothing I own.

Any other way is just a hypothesis.

It appears to me
Not in its real form,
Although not in an unusual shape:
It appears to me
In a convenient way
So I don't fall in contradictions
Of reality rules
I created myself.

In the excess I lose myself
I undress from what moves me
To run in search
Of what makes me run in search
Of what makes me run in search.

Those things I fill
I want to hide,
To put ****** aside,
The shame of not having,
Of not being,
Of not doing,
Making me a slave
Of my desire
To have a desire
To have a desire.

In this plastic sea,
In my plastic look,
In my mold,
In my substance,
Everything deforms
To adapt to novelties
Small as an ant seen from an airplane,
Ephemeral, fugitive,
Undervalued.

To live by news
Is, at the same time,
Deconstruct and complete oneself,
Take off from the body,
Arrive from time,
Float in a jelly
Half present, half future,
To discover
That every history
Is fulfill a time.

To choose the hollows
Is the precise art
Of creating meaning.

The precise scale is crooked,
The straight scale is dishonest,
The one that weighs iron
Does not weighs feather,
Or air,
Or fire.

Voices mug
Formless and weightless,
Voices destroy
What hands and songs of many other voices
Have built.

An escaping voice is the choice
Of a tone, a content,
A violence,
A judgement.

To suppress a voice,
On the other hand,
Isn't lightness at all.

We build the world
Surrounding yes' and nos,
Forgetting maybes
And silence.

A shut voice
Bears the same rage
Of a shouting one.

I wanted to fly
but the air is light
and my grief, leaden.

A weird dance moved me,
swinging rhythmically
joy and struggles,
laughs and bites,
fear, passion,
insecurity, belonging.

Now, the sun is just the sun.
Colors are just an escapism of gray tones.

Wherever I am, I am,
and it does not matter.
After ages wandering
I cannot find
my old address anymore.

A lost house,
a lost feeling,
a lost thought,
a lost key,
a lost map,
a lost language,
a lost song,
vanished throughout the air,
only to find
myself surrounded
by a complete emptiness.

How I got here?
I don't remember.
Where should I go?
I don't know.
I know I am here and that's enough.

My world is mine,
Nobody else's.
Only I see what I see,
But I also know
That my view
Is one among many.

I am not less,
I am not more,
I am the exact measure
Of what I should be,
Grateful
For everyone that,
By my side,
Compose an unique me.

All of a sudden,
Words strike
Bringing form to forms,
Images to images,
A torpid reality
Of shades, of maybes,
Of what we think.

All of a sudden
These words surprise
Into something new,
Unsaid, untouched,
Unscouted, unbelieved.

All of sudden
Words turn to maps,
To directions in the fog,
To whistles in the woods,
Magnetic fields,
Useless until discovered.

New words,
New worlds,
New sense of living,
Something new
Put into pages
To remark time,
Characters, faces,
Traces, History.

Hail to what has been
And could have been told.
Everything else
Is vanished in the maze
Of weather, memory,
Sand, dust, dirt, clay, mud, earth.

Hail to what is now,
The descendants of Ozymandias,
The remains of Tutankhamen,
The blow of Aristotle,
Nothing could be now
Without anything that has been.

We
Just happen.

The lamplights
That keep cities safe at night
Are the same
To invert
The skies viewed from above.

Each city a constellation,
A sign,
Seen from afar, inert,
Seen close up, alive,
But there is no gradual transition:
One has to choose how to see it.

When we learned to fly
We saw the world shrink, far away,
Deform,
And these lights,
Small, lost points
Like islands surrounded by darkness
To remind us
We are made of vacuum
More than of matter.

These islands,
Where everything happens
Are our reflex:
Packs on the surface,
We only go deep
Where there is richness,
We shine to those who see us from above
At the same proportion we are invisible.

We are cities,
We are light,
We are vacuum.
A the same time.
Indiscernible,
Inseparable.

The shadow covered
Half your face,
Lighting up your eyes,
Forgiving your smile.

I could see in the way you look
The fire burning inside you,
Burning for life,
But not for me.

I saw my rusty ideas,
Ideas that did not inhabit my body,
That promised an impossible steadiness,
An unvulnerable reality
In an ever changing world.

It was not me,
But it was in me.
The footprints
I foolishly took for granted.

A litter of water
Turns into few drops of tears.
The difference is what we learn.

We either live in
A soft, warm, bubble
Or within hard, cold, walls.
The boundaries
Are our choice.

Even when they don't seem to.
It's the intention that changes everything.

I keep myself suspended in thin air
Through my weak arms,
Pulling the rope in a pulley tied to my hips,
Trembling muscles, fearing eyes, missing voice,
I see the ground getting farther
As my hands force me up.
I'll hit the soil, but when?

I suspend myself in a road
Between two cities I recognize,
But stuck in a middle town,
Unknown, bizarre, half dead,
Waiting a never coming repair,
A volatile gasoline to move me,
The guidance to be back on track,
But I get used to the town,
People suddenly are acquainted,
Unstrange, polite, mannerly.
I'm suspended between those cities
By a thin web of limits,
My lack of imagination,
My despise for shortcuts,
My eyes closed to any opportunity
(Received as an horrendous spell).

I'm in betweens,
The half way,
The dissonance of the division of a semitone,
The missing particle of quarks,
The dark half of a lightbeam.
I'm suspended, panoramic.

I'm not myself anymore,
I'm not myself yet.

I woke up Wednesday
Knowing it was Tuesday,
In a desire for more Saturday,
Fitting your Monday's eyes,
With the Thursday's anxiety
For the never coming Friday
Expecting no less than a Sunday.

I am sorry to say it
But it is necessary to be honest:
I am sick of my politeness.
I don't mean to offend,
I don't mean to be harsh.
But I'm not sorry for everything.
I can't say no more "I'm fine"
To every "how are you?".
Maybe I'm not fine,
Maybe nobody's fine.

I want to be told
When things are wrong,
I want to be criticized
When I do a ****** writing.
I want to learn how to deal with it.

I don't care if it hurts,
Give me truth,
Give me sincerity,
Give me crude information.

I need no more
Politeness as my own shield.
The world is raw.

What's with my body
It seems to speak thousands of languages
I can't understand.

It would be easier
If every of my systems
Would talk in clear, plain, Portuguese.

We cross the streets without fear,
But for how long will it be that way?
We look at love everyday, but we don't see it.
That's a choice, maybe unconscious,
But its ours.

There is love in the humility of a beggar:
The lasting love for his life, despite all the misery witnessed.

There is love in the cursing in traffic:
The remnant of our attachment to steel, iron, rubber and leather.

There is love in looking the other way:
We value our privacy so much, no additional drop of love could fit.

There is love in keeping the garden green and clean:
The greatness of neighbors' compliments could not be more gratifying.

There is love, misguided, but, still, love.
A perverted love for a nation,
For freedom of speech, of choice, of love itself,
Perverted in all aspects, tooling for hatred.
Hate is necessary, but not constructive.
Love is necessary, but not diverging.
Space is necessary, but not kind.
Approach is necessary, but never completing.

There is a missing part everywhere.
We just cannot fill it with the wrong pieces.
It'll be a nuclear plant turned into nuclear bomb.

The mind keeps pushing body
Higher, farther, stronger,
Until it is resisted by the impacts
Of a harsh sun,
A draught,
Insensitive words,
That will mold, break and crack.

What's to be done
Is just a choice:
Camouflage the fragile collage
Or to stick it all with a golden glue.

To hide or to expose.
Our selection construct us.

We live short lives
bounded by walls in houses,
by grounds under our feet,
by money in our dreams,
by glasses in our sights,
by fear in our endeavors,
by shame in our performances,
by blame in our relationships,
by attachment to objects.

We are not able to conceive infinity,
it remains just a concept, unimagined in our minds.
Infinity is the only absolute greatness;
all other greatnesses rely on where we stand.

Yet, we aim at grandnesses,
we aim to impact, to know and to be known,
to influence, to be liked, to be loved.
We aim our little stories
to be written over and over again
as if every repetition would keep us alive
but we forget:
our imagination is shaped by limits.

We will die,
our stories will perish,
our stone laws will turn into dust,
our countries will fold.
The sun will swallow earth,
and turn into a blackhole.
Everything shall collapse at some point.

Even our pain.

Red lights around,
Low movement,
The hot air
Just above the ground,
Freezing cold above it,
And the foggy view,
Precising my coordinates:
São Paulo,
The instant karma
Or no karma at all.

The eternal rumble
Humming like Mutants sounds
Confuses my nostalgia
(What is it that I'm hearing?),
And the more I stay,
More roots turn to branches,
More passing faces seem familiar,
And your songs make deep sad sense,
Losing the sadness, losing senses again,
Never ever the same.

A city,
Just a city,
That wouldn't meet
Self esteem if it was not
For the brizzle.

You resemble anywhere
As long as one sees
Signs and the streets' names,
For no one resemble you,
But, yet, all is contained.
The right and the wrong,
The worth, the width,
The asphalt and the airplanes,
The loneliness, the crowds,
The invisibles
And the acquainted that never crossed by,
All circumscribed within the limits
Of your endless boundaries.

I am full of ideas
But too tired to build them.
Ideas to save the world,
Ideas to get rich,
Ideas to have time in abundance,
Ideas to be remembered forever.

I am stuck
In day to day tasks,
In faking a learning,
In accomplishing requirements for a good life,
In the fear of not be self sufficient.

Will those ideas slowly die
Or will they pump me out of the quicksand?
They can only be
What I allow them to.

Questions hit me hard.
      Will I be successful?
            My roads lead where?
                  Why did I choose to be me?

Questions do hit me hard,
they hit me in forms I can't even feel,
in 5th or 6th dimensions.

Questions are an insult,
Doubts are heresy,
Doubts are immortal,
truths are fragile,
Truths are lack of intelligence,
but still I seek them relentlessly.

I'm broke to search things I do not believe:
to look for oceans inside a desert,
to look for laws and axioms in chaos,
to look for stories never to be told,
to seek and seek answers
that brings reasonable meaning to the world,
to **** absurds,
and to birth coherence.

I took things absolutely,
I believed unquestionably in nature's laws,
I believed in authorities,
I legitimated aesthetics,
I thought I learned,
I talked and spread words not mine,
I walked in firm soils
(but never knew their plasticity underneath me),
I assured,
I was,
I am

I.