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938 · Sep 2018
The screams
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.
928 · Aug 2018
The matter
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.
634 · Oct 2018
The friends
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.
557 · Mar 2018
The detachment
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.
476 · Oct 2018
The history
Things we only learn
So when they happen again,
Too late,
We regret
We didn't notice them earlier.
435 · Sep 2018
The flow
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.
410 · Nov 2018
The disobedience
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.
345 · Sep 2018
The nature
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.
321 · Sep 2018
The night
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.
308 · Feb 2018
The way
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
296 · Oct 2018
The superiority
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.
293 · Mar 2018
The despair
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.
255 · Jun 2018
The wanderer
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.
238 · Aug 2018
The hawk eyes
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.
216 · Mar 2018
The void
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.
213 · Oct 2018
The new
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.
211 · Dec 2018
The continuity
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.
208 · Oct 2018
The tiredness
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.
198 · Apr 2018
The surprise
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.
180 · Apr 2018
The trap
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.
180 · Jan 6
The bag
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.
176 · Dec 2018
The mediocrity
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.
168 · Aug 2018
The appearance
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.
167 · Mar 2018
The loss
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.
160 · Nov 2018
The week
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.
159 · Mar 2018
The storyteller
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.
151 · Mar 2018
The ugliest face of death
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 **** phantom of death
haunts poor, black, ***, 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".
151 · May 2018
The shadow in your face
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.
147 · Dec 2018
The boundary
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.
145 · Aug 2018
The missing part
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.
140 · May 2018
The perpetual motion
What's left for the guilty
Besides a life long self awareness
Of a lesson that costs more
Than what is leaned?

Maybe it's not the balance
Or piece of mind
That matters,
Maybe it's us, just us,
Our strength
To survive
A lonely guilty journey,
A new type of immortality,
The perpetual absurd
Flaming from what it produces:
A lack of force that ultimately produces
The strongest one.
139 · Mar 2018
The Shortness
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.
138 · Feb 10
The season
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.
137 · Nov 2018
The writings
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.
132 · Feb 17
The need
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
132 · Mar 2018
The spiral
I am no more
than the sum of matter,
mildly organized thoughts
and an ambiguous willing
to contrast and to blend.

I spire down only to find
that what I've been running from
is growing in front of me.

Is the run my true fuel,
is the endless search my Stockholm jailer?

The more I cope,
the more I run,
the more I fight.

There is nothing new inside of me,
just an absurd,
an eternal stone lifter
who keeps running from faith
faster and faster.

I have no such long memory
to tell if it is a circle,
a straight line,
or just a random circuit.

All I have to do
is keep running.
130 · Mar 2018
The rage
As I sit here writing
my heart beats like a hammer,
squeezing bitterly blood
to  trembling hands
busy writing words they can't understand,
guided by a brain that barely thinks now,
contained with anger and rage,
with eyes that only see red,
ears that only hear screams,
nose that smell iron and steel,
and a rough feeling in my skin,
everything flows devastating the surroundings
(but flows nevertheless),
I feel it in my toes, in my nails,
in the hair over my head,
my stomach starts digesting itself,
my gut warns me "something ain't right",
my muscles, now I remember they're somewhere,
they tighten up,
ready to fight,
read to fly.
I grow, I defy,
I occupy the space around me,
I resist,
I hurt me, I hurt others,
I scream, I lose my voice,
I write and I silence.

Then everything stops, and, suddenly,
the rapids flow into the lake.
128 · Feb 12
The emptiness
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.
125 · Jul 2018
The return
Every time my city comes to me
I find it hard to seek my buried treasures.
They still exist, but layers and layers
Of novelties, of sediments, of landscaping
Make them miss my eyes.

Every time my city comes to me
I am in a different shape, but recognizable,
Old stories cross by, new futures become possible,
Life goes on, but never again in the same way.

Whenever my city arrives with its lights on,
Inviting eyesight and welcoming reflections,
I know I am grateful for every footprint
carved on some fresh cement on the sidewalks,
For every friend met in the way,
For the bonding loneliness,
For the distracting crowd,
For the provincial beliefs (to be conflicted).

Every time my city comes to me
I know and I don't know
The good things and the bad things,
That happened here, all at once.
122 · May 2018
The City
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.
120 · Sep 2018
The suspension
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.
118 · Oct 2018
The poem
Poem yourself
For nothing expects nothing from you.
You can only be
Rhyme, rhythm and content.
Everything else
Is superflouous.
116 · Jan 22
The verses
How many of me
Are the ones who live inside me?
What fulfills me is myself
Or just
The reflex of the reflex of the reflex
Of what I see?

Of the world I belong
What form contains my form?
What lazy wills
Assemble the pieces that move me?

I am the dust of the moments
That time insists to maintain,
A skin with no touch
Of the happenings
To surround every boredom and passion.

I am the greatness of the void
And the megalomaniac smallness
Of an expanding universe.
My universe.

I am the content of the last drop
That overflows the jar
Into verses that could not fit me.
And, in every verse,
The worlds of what I should be made of
Replicate themselves indefinitely,
Revealing fleeting opportunities
That only a mindful existence captures.

There is what I do not see,
Or reflexes would have life on their own;
I feel what is not,
Or feeling would be concrete.

I am the filter that sort out
The possible from the impossible
And, thus, to dignify me
I made of lonely verses
Infinite universes
For the impossible choice
Of being in me.
115 · Jun 2018
The drizzle
I choose to be in São Paulo
As someone who chooses to be born,
As if choice was inhabited
By the fragments of what wasn't chosen.

I choose this impossible arrangement
Of someone who is but does not want to,
Or who wants to be, but is not.
Of living here plainly
Without tearing,
Of a possibility to live here,
Without the sacrifice of living here,
Of a routine forged for chaos,
To shatter yourself to be a whole
Of 20 million stories.
Of this forever transit
To settle somewhere.

I let water almost boil
For the coffee that is more than coffee:
It's the content of your rhythm, your flavor
Bitter, despite the sugar,
It's your story and your present
(in heavy homeopathic doses).
More is told in coffees than in books.

If tomorrow the world contains you no more,
Everything will go on.
Except the choice of what I wanted:
I want you, even though it's a wanting of not wanting.
114 · May 2018
The madness
The madness that doesn't grow
Does not fully consume me,
That keeps alive the useless sanity.

The madness that exhibits the unreal,
Making everything else real.

The madness of being what I never wanted,
or wanting what I never was.

This madness,
Crazy by lucidity,
Wize for losing itself
In the meanders of all possibilities.

I am crazy for all inexplicable bets,
Crazy to take by uncertain
All that my existence proves.
Crazy to wake up every day
Waiting for the hour to sleep to wake up.

Crazy, yet alive;
Alive, yet healthy;
Whole, complete,
Occupying the spaces
With my empty mind,
In the infinite
Of my tiny madness.
111 · May 2018
The house within the house
Every house
Has another house within.
In the smells, the roughness of the walls,
In the little cracks
That barely are seen.

The voices remain there,
The dreams remain there,
Our gentle touches remain there.

It is also in the furniture.
The same house with different furniture
Is another house, with another house.
The tables lose their colors,
And is still a table,
A chair changes until no chair endures:
It is a tree once again,
In a forest of other chairs
And doors, and wardrobes.

We cannot sit anymore,
We cannot rest,
Neither be there:
It's somebody else's house.

But between the cracks
The air blows
A distinct sound
Of every spoken words
In this house
Of fathers, mothers,
Sons, workers, masons.

Bricks are just bricks.
110 · Nov 2018
The expectation
I knew what it was about,
I agreed and I wanted.
Turns out, things were different.
Now I want to explore further,
I want life to be more,
I want it to be transit,
I want melt things into fluidity,
I want to be unleashed,
I want be part of someone else's envy
(What does that say about me?).

I expected nothing
And yet, now I can't
Be where I was,
Contained.

It's not expectation that frustrates.
It is the void after a great experience.
109 · Nov 2018
The routine
I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.
109 · Aug 2018
The adverbs
To say yes is a form of conquer,
Every "yes" is a position in the universe,
A pin on a very complicated map,
A self giving action,
It's establishing yourself in the world.

It maintains the direction,
It leads always forward,
It reinforces itself.
Say yes twice, and you keep going.

No is the choice hidden,
Is a different path,
A nonconstructive but, nevertheless,
Essential and transforming word.
It's just us in ourselves,
Keeping distance,
Depriving the substance,
It is to assume the totality
By rejecting that pin,
That once marked
An intransigent position.

The point is not about "yes" or "no",
But the mere fact
We do not have
An in-between word.
108 · Feb 2018
The Unknown
I do not know the colors I cannot see,
and the frequencies I do not listen.

I do not know the ideas that does not serve as mirrors,
and the images that are not my own.

The moon remains remote without my footprint.

Everything I know, I own;
What I do not know is not mine, does not fit me

I fear the unknown because I fear what I am not:
I fear my poverty because poor I never was
I fear death because dead I have never been
I feared light before seen it for the first time

But the unknown is bricks and frames of my creation;
I only learn from things that are obscure to me.

I can only truly learn what I fear.
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