Full,
I am in most ways:
Loved, lived, livid.

Empty,
Spaces grow
When I pass:
Weeks, days, lengths,
Lands, roads, feelings.

I'm a point in nowhere
Incalculable in speed, in size
And dimensions,
Half here, half there,
Not mine nor others',
Just a vague matter
In a strange strange
Full-empty world.

Happiness lasted
While we could feel
Skin and skin.

The dance of the days,
Compressed in our struggles,
Expanded in our thoughts,
Coloring the absences
With the most complex mix of ingredients:
Passion, pain, wanderer thoughts, missing, carrying, crying, jumping, yelling, silencing, grief and joy.

The last of the happy days,
Of those days where
Everything were re-doable,
The limits would keep us safe,
And I was proud.

From this moment
Nothing expects me
Except the certainty
That the happy days
Are rushing towards
The past, losing its smells and taste,
Like a voice, getting weak and distant,
Until nothing of it remains.

I was wrong to believe
That my pain would make me
A better person.

When will I be back?
I've been away for a while,
Further and further
Every time I delay a return.

I'm losing my sense
Of distance,
I start to forget an old accent,
New monuments replace
Those old ones
That once reminded me
About discipline, order, status:
Like modern art replacing baroque.

How much my steps define me?
My twin is only different from me
Because we've been in different places?
My comeback still bring me back
To whom of the many I've been?

History is not only what has been,
It is the shape of today,
The idea of tomorrow,
An undeniable driving force
Pointing at some place ahead
We're often unable to see.

To be back
Is to be closer to the future.

At points
What pumps us
Imprisons.

The difference
Is abundance.

Spread,
Infect,
Pulverize,
Migrate,
Pollinate,
Propagate,
Reverbe­rate,
Echo,
Transmit,
Amplify,
Expand,
Convince,
Multiply,
Prolif­erate,
Create,
Pass on,
Reproduce,
Tell,
Shout.

It's worth it.

Inhale air,
Exhale your pain.
Don't search for mirrors,
Your reflex is irrelevant.

Be your own flower,
Be your own thorn,
Cry your own heart,
Learn yourself up.

There's a stop,
There's a fast lane.
Both exist for a reason.

We've got nothing about ourselves
But a room full of stories
Full of memories,
All we have is us.

If, at moments,
You feel like drifting,
Is just life taking control
Once again.

If we are all we have,
We are lonely,
But there's also
Only one way
To be strong:
Through ourselves.

For those who won't live through it,
I ache and I grind for everything
I haven't done.

There's those whose temper
Could not be contained
By their own history,
Stripped from their truthiness,
The only result is to attack,
To shorten others' integrity.

I cry a cry of remorse
To the humanity
We fail to carry
When one of us refuses
To share its load.

This cry without tears
(Frailty contained,
Rage tamed
And sharpened thoughts)
Is not to be heard:
Only silent weapons are useful.

A surprise attack is imminent.
The sound is an enemy,
But silence will spread,
Contagious and strong,
A wave of love and warmth
To overcome shots and shouts.

When they least expect
We'll all be covered
With the blanket of compassion.

I recognize in your look
The burning of an extinguished fire,
A new warmth to resemble a cooled one.

I return to towns
I long ago left
And the lack of creativity
Of the street names,
Of the organization form,
All the details
Teleport me from city to city,
Benjamin Constant Street, Anapolis, to
Benjamin Constant Street, Ribeirão Preto, to
Benjamin Constant Street, São Paulo.

I could only climb one mountain
For the fear of resemblance.
Every uphill and every downhill
In the search of the first time,
The first feeling,
The never returning unexpected.

I fear resemblance,
I fear the repetition,
I fear the moment where I'll see life
From the rearviewmirror
For the path ahead
Is very well known.

We humans are so good
To see patterns
That even new adventures
Seem like dull routine.

The only cure is
To watch the sunrise
Three days in a row.

There are many things
That burn
And are not fuels.

Curiosity burns
When we are in doubt,
Minds burn
With ideas that are to big for them,
Even coldness burn:
We freeze, and it burns,
When we miss
The velvet touch
In our souls.

Most of all,
Forgetfulness burns
For, more than exist,
We want to be memories.

In the march
There is always those on the front
The avant-gardé whose faces are seen,
Whose eyes reveal cruelty and tenderness,
Arms in hands,
Rapid thoughts of past and future,
A will to be anywhere else
And nevertheless proud.

To lay down the arms
Is not easy,
It is not only a question of position:
It is a message,
It is a gesture of grandness,
But a difficult one,
An act of love
Beneath all the violence,
Often unnoticed.

Armistice is the ultimate
Brave movement.

No words.
Sword on.

At some point
I'll let you down.
I don't like it,
But I'll do.

I expect too much of me
But I'm only a repeated self,
Running the board in circles,
Skipping houses from time to time,
But inevitably reaching endless wells.

It's not a lack of love,
It's a lack of self love.

From difference I learned the normality,
From heterogeneity I discovered space for all,
From diversity I reached farther than I could.

Yet, we continue to seek unity instead of union.

All I can offer is my boredom;
Everything else is already taken.
All my truths and myths,
What would be left
If I gave them away?

Piece by piece
My incompletude defines me.
My senses are left untouched,
My wounds, unhealed,
My thoughts, preserved
In an obscure way.

I give myself away,
And the more I give
The more I see,
The more I am.

When I'm lost
Nothing matters,
Just then can I discover myself.
Nothing more
Than a pool of desires,
Drowning,
Lifting,
Joking desires.

... And the train never arrived.
There are tails and the station
And trains somewhere...
But not here.

Nobody came
And nobody went,
It's just me,
A lone loner,
Trying to blow clouds
With a straw.

There's just me here,
The town is dead
With everything inside.
It's no wonder no train comes.
There's just nothing here.

Anyone knows where to go?

What we wanted
Didn't fit us anymore.
Fits us
That each should seek
I
Where there are no us.

How I feel
About today, yesterday
And the day before:
I feel like
A building falling down
For being to heavy;
Like a car
Over a garden;
Like the rain and cold
Over the homeless;
Like a brick
In the ocean;
Like a fish
Trapped in a submarine.

I don't wish to die
For that would be
Sand in a desert.

I wish to have never existed

I feel nothing capable
Of providing me a poem.
A weather report could be
As abstract as I am now.

In any instance of lack of creativity
I shall remember
My invisible world, although hidden,
Is there at any times,
Ready to conform
Ideas into anything sensible.

It's a load,
It's all unforgotten unfinished dreams,
It's all the love that could be and want,
A lot of missing but doing the same stuff.

It's too much to bear,
It's all disappointments,
It's all the accomplishments that matters to anyone but you,
It's all the things you see and can't explain to anybody else,
It's all the experiences in your life you wanted to share but the moment's passed.

It's the struggle with time, actions and decisions,
It's all the worry about money,
It's everyone and just you,
It's the weight of knowing that it was you all along pushing yourself farther from everyone,
It's the deceiving lightness of being distant in a new city every 4 or5 years to blame geography and culture for being alone,
It's all of that and nothing apparently.
It's a lot of feelings, some this bad, others not so much (waiting for the right time to pop up).

And on top of that,
It still has blood to pump.

I have brought disaffection to the world,
I loved, I suffered, I brought suffering,
I'm human, nothing more, nothing less.

I forgive everyone who have hurt me,
For the price I pay for not doing so is too high:
I do it for myself, for my lightness, for my peace.

I forgive but not without saying
(It is my very right to say it!)
I've hurt. Often, badly, and it's OK.
It's just life. But, please, consider that.

I forgive myself as well,
But not as a free absolution:
The price is payed through suffering and pain.
I absolve myself for I know that every suffering,
In order to not being in vain, must end.

I'll try, hardly, to turn every single ounce of pain
Into a ton of love. That will be
My
Superpower.

What are the insanities
I use to keep me sane?
Maybe a consuming job,
Or a will to keep flying,
Or saying yes,
Or a self disbelief
To be resistant
To my flaws.

I have to give away
A love, a cat, a car, an apartment,
A traveling bag, a loved shoe,
The phone signal, a guitar, a world map,
intense moments,
So I remain sane and free
To choose a prison to live in.

I shall be naked,
Eaten, chewed and spit,
Until I'm left only
The bones of being
So filters would all be broken
And things would appear
As they are:
No front, no verse;
Whole.

Let life resonate.
Pulse, pulse, pulse
Vulnerably.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

The world turns so
New things can happen
To reinforce
World exists.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Beat, beat, beat.

You're alive.

Beauty lies in things
We cannot comprehend,
In the missing links,
The lack of logic,
Within craziness,
And yet, it's within all of it
Curiosity is awaken,
Like a warning that,
Even though in an obscure language,
Can tell where should we look.

The lines are too straight,
Circles are too round,
But the world is not,
Abstraction is mutilation,
But reality prevails,
And it is crazy, unordered,
Unpredictable.
We either be prepared or we don't.

The same roof keeping me warm and protected
Keeps me from seeing the stars.

Remind me
Of my lack of sleep
Of my favorite singers,
Of the irrelevance of politics,
Of tenderness,
Of despair,
Of unexpected beneath predictability,
Of purring,
Of tiny paws,
Sharpen nails over my shoulders,
Of big swinging bellies,
Of strange sounds.

They remind me
Laziness is a virtue,
A kind of resistance
To the big city pacemaker.

The cats
Look at me
With blinking yellow eyes
To remind me
To be naked of thoughts,
To forget a bath,
To bring back
The humility of allegedly
Superior intelligence.

The cats cry
For we forget
How to be comfortable
With our own loneliness
When all we had to do
Was to walk around the house
Like it was the first time.

Every discover
Is a new way
To start
Things we do
Every day.

I hear the sounds
Telling me change are coming.
I see a different breeze,
It slowly drifts me
Into an unexplored place,
Calm, fluid, balanced.

I never saw it earlier,
Never been there
Although the coordinates
Were always known:
Any map can lead you there,
Any compass points there,
Every single being can feel it.

Every change is announced,
Even sudden ones.
Our time is sometimes insufficient,
But warnings always exist.

To be present and steady
Is to absorb detours,
To apprehend discontinuities,
To live in ambiguity
Is to live at all.

We gotta break,
Gotta fall apart,
And amend piece by piece,
Gotta be vulnerable,
Gotta be exposed,
Gotta crack and glue,
And in new ways be arranged.
Gotta lose in order to gain,
Be last to be truly first,
Gotta die to be born.
The new is old,
Is been old for centuries.

We're as strong as our hearts,
We beat as hard as it beats.

I'm more than been lost in a dream
That I no longer dream,
And my heart tells me so.

I'm fragile
For my ears are shut,
Numbed or whatever,
But I resist.
I'll move on, I'll swim
And I'll fly if I need to.
If I want to.

Want,
What a strange word.
I never know whose voice it is
When it is pronounced.

The more silent we are
The farther we can hear the wind.
I'm not really sure
What is the use of it,
But, in its own tongue,
It has much to be said,
Many places visited,
Many plagues delivered,
Many flowers pollinated.

Our absence of understanding
Does not mean absence of meaning.
It's just the language.

Soft voice and lyrics
Gently moving the air
Accompanied by a well played guitar
To be my company for the night.

When somnolence reach me
I will be far gone
Surfing scales, tones, harmonies,
Knowing not where to arrive:
Drifting in words
To be touched by the waves,
Asking questions
Whose answers will always be indirect.

The guitar invites me
To 50 bpm,
To calmer thoughts,
And, all of sudden
All I can hear
Is its reverberation
Within my empty body,
Filled only by the vibrations
To guide me to the real me:
A thoughtless being
Immersed in a mix of feelings,
Sensations, senses and faith.

There is many we do
To prive ourselves
From move freely
Within structures.

We commit to truisms
We say thoughts
Born in others' minds,
We take the easy ways
Only to be away
Of the responsibility
Of being free.

It's not that we don't want to be free.
We just don't dare to.

In this story
Nothing is about life and death:
Everything is about life and life,
The life that has been seen,
That has been wanted,
That was never imagined,
And that was never possible.

Death is a solved problem:
We die.
Even suicide is to think about life.

To live is to decide.
Always.

I'll eventually die for it
Whenever life ceases to be interesting,
Or experiences starts to feel dull,
The mysteries of beyond shall drag me into it.

I hope that takes a long time,
I'm happy that now
All it takes away
Are my resting and sleeping hours
In trade of knowledge gluttony.

I'm stuck in the shy vacuum
Between art and science,
The sensitive knowledge,
The logical chaos,
Rational feelings,
And, like any middles,
Indefinite,
By definition.

Sleep, sleep
May you find
In dreams and mourns
Your awaken answers.

Sleep,
The rest is yours,
In other parts
The day is through,
People are running,
The sun out there,
But sleep in the calm
Of constellations.

Sleep,
Slow down
Hold your heartbeats,
The frequency of thoughts,
Don't miss your sleep,
Don't think of it,
Don't let it talk,
Breathe,
Breathe,
Gently breathe.

If you catch the train,
You'll go far and you'll go deep.
Sleep.

Wake up in the cold,
A hot shower will warm you.
Black coffee on a cup
Something to eat before leaving.

Such a normal day,
Such a normal living,
Such regular experiences,
But it's a new day and I know it.

The big lesson today
Is not to learn how to recover from a disaster,
Or how to live after a catastrophe,
Or how to keep on the happy moments.

Take a look on the left,
What's on your side?
Is there a special light beam
And an unusual position of some furniture?
Have you noticed the real color
Of your living room,
Of your hair,
Of your floor?

In such regular days
Living is granted,
Mediocrity is given (not in a bad way) -
It's just life on top of normality.
What's left for such days
Are the little pleasures,
The small tones of changes
From one day to another
Showing us through little,
almost imperceivable, gifts,
Of the grandiosity
Hidden within tenuous pieces of averages.

To live is to be proven
Again and again
About our consistency,
Our mechanisms.
But to be unscathed
Is to remain over time.

Every inch of growth
Comes from millions millimeters of inadequateness
Over parts of our body
Unaware to our nerves.

The same growth and changes
Are dying symptoms
But nevertheless symptoms of life.
Changes are cause and effect of living,.

There is no memory
In being unscathed,
There is no construction
In morosity,
There is no adaptation
In nihilism.

Never be where you are
Is to extrapolate life,
Is to neglect the absurdity of it,
Is to embrace riot to the nonsense,
Is to give meaning and spit it,
Move, ****, move,
And you'll die living too much,
But it's the only thing worth
Dying for.

He received this strange letter
By himself, in years yet to come.

"Everything's okay;
You've done well,
Earned plenty,
Been good,
Healthy,
Loved a whole life,
In colors and sounds and tastes.
Nothing missing,
Only now and then."

He put it on the table,
Glad that he would live
An extraordinary life,
Just before a self inflicted shot
Run over his head.

Breath,
Pulse,
Think,
Eat,
Drink,
Choice.

Everything else is luxury.

I wanted, truly, to believe
That this fire in the words and the eyes
Won't get our hands *****
Of clay, cement,
Of walls to face to,
That this same fire
Won't consume all the air we breathe,
Won't reduce to dust
All the ornament and all the content
That bonds us,
And all the remains
Are looks to the floor,
The first degree burns,
The second degree burns,
And those, more serious, but not painful,
Third degree burns.

I cannot believe
That this is a phony, fictitious,
Neither a harmless fire.
The awake of any sleeping volcano
Is more serious than those known, measured.

It is not the blow of the words
That make fire;
It is made in the stomach,
With all the acids ingested,
With poisoned food,
In the masochism of cultivating
Unnecessary pain,
In the sadism of wanting to see this pain
In any other eyes,
In the self denial as also a poison producer.

We are alone, naked, hands *****,
In cubicles, over a soft soil of the ashes,
Protected from everything,
Except ourselves.

Sixteen hours,
Three states,
Countless bridges and rivers,
A changing landscape,
Wheels rolling
To leave me
Somewhere,
Where the ticket tells me to,
Where I once were at home,
Where I see familiar faces.

I sometimes need static
To be able to bear dynamics.

Maybe the future
Is our maximum possibility
To build the bridges
Between what has been
And what insists to be.

It is where there is permission,
The chance in raw state,
The only place where ambiguities
Reside peacefully.

In the future I dissolve
The cuts from today
And if, from what has not yet been,
I think of what is now,
I make things differently from what I would
And life is no longer the same.

If the becoming
Is so substrate,
All that not yet exists,
But somehow arranges in-between my ideas,
Create parallel futures
Of such unreal things,
They mirror the world such as it is.

To realize what does not exist
Brings life to emptiness.
There is no "not be" -
It s extremelly unstable -
For thinking it is creating it.

The becoming is microexplosions
of the instability of the "not be"
That soon morphs into the most probable
And everything is just exactly as it could be.

Change precedes the existence.

I keep moving
Not to understand
Why I'm going.

I keep moving
To be moving
To change landscapes.

To smell is not a choice,
But to select what is good
And what is not:
That is an option!

I know deeply my solitude,
Its unique smell,
Its thick cloud,
Its condensation,
The solitude within my solitude.

I know I am not there when it comes,
I know that, small or big,
I become tiny,
I know the weights get lost,
The orders become vain,
The moments accumulate
In a constant unperceived passing through.

I know every search for oneself
And for belonging
Cannot be otherwise lonely.
One needs to be lonely in order not to be.

You set my riot.
Time is not relative. It's just our choices.
Time is there,
It doesn't even notice us.

I don't like what we became.
I don't like to have done what I have done,
I don't like watch things from distance,
I don't like that your eyes cry my tears,
I don't like that my pain hurts you.

But there's no more to the world
Than the world.
Is this where we came,
I either deal
or keep rebelling. I'll fight.
Probably.

I've just let someone in,
And, now,
I just don't know what to do
With all the spaces left.

My words are my language,
My only, my own, mine and nobody else's.
We happen to have things in common,
Same name for colors, for beds and rooms,
I have my own past, present, future,
Perfect or not, continuous or not,
My time contains all verbal tenses.

We touch each others' lives,
We are nothing but leaks,
We need tons of ourselves
To give just grams to others,
But, again, small leaks,
And it's OK.

Uniqueness does not make me
One of a kind,
It just makes me
An other.

Hail to being one, being all,
and being none.

We know from the world
Only what is interceded by our senses.
We are transparent to a whole metaphysics,
Collecting fragments of a reality
Extrapolating missing links.

It is terrible to know so little about the world,
But, thinking of it, it is much worse
To know that much of what we know
Actually isn't;
They're just loose, untied nodes.

Futures should be always distant,
Unthinkable, untouchable,
Something to be seen
As a turbid figure,
Refracted, reflected, deflected.

The approaching future
Is always a troubled one,
For excitement is not future,
It happens in the present.

To think of the future
Is always a form of fear,
Is denying the passage of time,
Is the control of uncontrollable.

The only place it could never be
Is in the present.

Men is evil by nature,
It is civilization which ruins him.

The voice
Always talking,
That fears,
that shuts all other voices,
That voice that kills
Anger and contempt
(But still a wrathful
Even in it's sober tone),
That voice,
That numbing voice,
That fades all screaming,
That knows you're never enough,
That filters your desires,
Our worst desires,
Our desire to **** everyone,
To **** our parents,
To bring suffering to those who at moments we hate,
To just explode and cry and beat,
That voice that shuts this all up
(It's just a ******* reptile screaming):
Go to hell.