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.

Red blood, gray mass,
White cells, blue veins.
That's what we can see,
That's what's exposed.
That's the inside outside,
The wound after the accident,
The proof we're alive,
The probe of our species.

We're made mostly of things
We cannot see we cannot see,
So distant that galaxies seem nearby,
So inconceivable that reason triumphs,
So invisible that they govern our lives.
Fabrics within fabrics within fabrics,
Up to a point description fades meaning.

The inside is definition,
Is the medium of existence,
Light and lightness,
Thought and thoughtfulness,
The hardness required to be soft,
The content of a punch,
The reverse filter
(laisse passer le poison).

What's inside is our income and savings
From the world.

When he skipped that bit of time
He saw himself millionths of millionths of seconds
Heading up to the same road,
But he was a bit ahead,
Trapped into two instants,
Conscious and powerless,
Awaiting for a future he could always foresee,
But nevertheless inevitable.

He could not act,
But his feelings could change,
He learned to keep distance from the sights,
That bit did not change the course,
But changed his structure,
His pulse, his synapses, his chemistry,
Until that multidimensional version of himself
Started turning into eternity.
It was the same bit skipped,
But sounded like a lightning waiting for a thunder.

When he saw his own death, it was already too late:
He has always lived life out of his own pace.
He was too early to be present in any moment.

To be precise
Is to lack broadness.
The world is limited
For I am limited.
The world extends me
To include myself.

I'm defined by my outside,
The negative position of being,
I am my joy of living,
The decision to remain,
A choice,
A place,
Wordless definition,
A completion of the space.

I am. The sum of all possibilities
Could only lead to this.
I am a result,
A process,
But I am a creature creating.
Because all of this
I can only be insufficient:
Otherwise I would lack existence.

What can I do
Against myself?
I want different things
And how to choose
Between a regret now
And a regret in the future?

There is a big "no"
Dividing, mutilating
The feelings of a fatherland,
Turning a home into
A sum of rooms.

There is a "no"
To the fundamentals of civility
Whenever it is said
Criminals must die,
Queers must be content,
Whenever racism is defended,
Although hidden into lamb's costumes,
Of the paladins of Order and Justice.

A country cannot be built
Under so many tearing premises,
We, more than ever,
Need to rescue
What it means
To be Brazilians,
To be Us, again,
Not the imbecile crusaders
Against a self nightmare
Of the enemies dreams.

Underlying all ruins,
All chaos and all lack of trust,
There, untouched,
Stands an indian-african-european child
That, without any comprehensible words,
Will present the chromatic yarns of our fabric
In which any shred
Dissolves everything.

For union, never unity.

I can't understand jazz
But I keep listening,
Intrigued by it's messy,
Searching inexistent patterns.

I can't reproduce it,
Even if I were to play perfectly.
I feel my molecules swinging
To match the vibrating air,
But the precision of the notes
Is not enough:
The tones in transition
Keep the song going.

My innocence
Keeps me closer
To things I know about.
Jazz is more in me
Than any style.

A chromatic beauty
Composed into a complexity
That can only be heard
By simple ears.

The only way to express
The lightness of a tormented soul.

Keep on turning, little gears,
keep the machine running.
Don't bother this feelings of yours,
don't pay attention to this pain.

Forget your thoughts,
I'll fix them all.
Be a leader
but not for yourself.
We'll tell you what to wear,
who to talk to,
we'll congratulate you
for an useless work
just to keep this little gear turning.

I don't want to see
your home or your family in your face.
If you smile, may it be
due to your achieved goal.

Everything I tell you
is for your own good.
I myself comply with all these rules.
I'm your boss and I have a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has no idea what's happening here
(but he has the money, so that's okay).

Give me your time
(at full attention, please)
and I'll give you a purpose,
and I'll promise heaven on earth
fancy luxury cars and empty apartments
(just maybe, though)

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.

The only judgment ever to be made
Should be that our own lives
Matter most
Than anybody else's.

Your ruler cannot measure me.

We touch, and suddenly,
my mouth is the whole me,
and I give everything I know I am
(what remains of me
is everything I don't know).

I found you along the way,
and I found myself, then, happy,
for the chance that gifted me,
for the sky that smiled with all that blue,
happy for the chain reaction
of a cosmic accident,
a divine lapse,
that put us together, there, in the same place,
with all that contained energy,
the spark of a thirsty bomb,
uncontrollable, devastating,
a seducing destruction
of millions megatons,
semitones, shadows and lights,
skin tones,
skin, that I felt
cover my own flesh,
to enfold all my body,
completely blind, dumb and breathless
by a kiss,
as if the grass itself,
that bore our weight,
was our feet
burying and entangling themselves,
feeding just of ground, air, water,
glutting myself of everything I'm not,
like if the world, at that moment,
started to shrink and became small,
a little bouncing (untamed) ball
that we suddenly could reason
all its mysteries and secrets.

Then the air occupies the space between our lips
and everything returns to normal.

Somethings wound on the surface,
Somethings go deep.
It does not depend
Only on the sharpness of the knife
But also of the strength of the body.

Sometimes we know
Words mutilate
And, deliberately,
We mutilate
For the sadism
To see the red blood running.

But we mostly want to heal
Yet many damage is made
Without the need of intention
As if we can't handle
The power of a knife
We can't drop
But refuse to master.

We keep cutting.

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.

Down the road,
In between leafy trees,
There is a lone lamplight:
Sometimes steady, reliable,
Sometimes flickering randomly,
A mist of lighthouse
And faery fire.

Through its clearance extent,
The unseen horizon of its light,
Passes a man
After a woman.
Dark, light, dark.
Dark, light, dark.
And the sounds,
Untouched by the photons,
With accelerating rhythm,
Gives a sober dreary tone
To the undisclosed scene.

Not even the privileged highness
Of the witnessing lamplight
Could reach the sight of what happened.
Part of every eye
Are just not capable of see it;
Another part
Simply refuses
For the freeze of action
Would render all conscience useless.

The hidden darkness
Within every clarity
Contains more danger
Than all of them shades.

It is bold to fly,
To distance from feet on the ground,
Of the roots we try to create,
Of the soil we recognize,
Of the short (beautiful) horizon.

We need a lot to fly,
We need instruments,
We need pilots,
We need machines.

But we know it is beautiful,
We want to see new perspectives,
We want to go to other lands,
Other languages,
We'll see many other rivers
In an expanded horizon.

But finally we need to land.
To fly is easy; to land, not.
We count on a whole team to do so.
It's the way it happens that changes everything:
A gentle kiss on the ground
Or a disastrous impact on the ocean.
The same thousandths of seconds
But with very different futures.

And we are so used
To being landed
That we don't know how to touch the ground ourselves,
There's always a pilot,
A crew,
We forget to know how to recognize the terrain,
To wear a parachute,
To chose when to jump.

It's always risky,
But not to take it
Is to be, everytime,
Where everyone else is.

Aterrisage is terrifying.

Why the language
Not my own,
Not from my land,
Not in my garden,
A cold, simple language?

It is my boundaries
And also my tools,
A mixture of leverage and numbing.

It's a strange stranger language,
Unnatural to me as a third eye
Yet, still, it improved my sight,
Enhanced me,
Enlarged me,
Ridicularized me,
For the sake of my pride,
At the cost of my sleeping hours,
A joke waiting to happen,
A trap I've built
And which I'll fall.

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.

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.

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.

Distances prevail,
The spaces between us remain.
I take one more step,
One step closer to a free fall.

Solid grounds we miss
Greener fields we seek
On the other side of the abyss;
Bridges are yet to be invented.

There are more mysteries
Than chemistries,
More sand than mortar;
The life ahead is always bigger
Even if all life should perish today.

All it takes is a leap.

Sometimes we just go
We leave because it is the only thing,
The only reason,
The only way
To run from running,
To retire,
To rest
For staying consumes much,
For the songs and its lyrics
Are just deceiving
Symbols never to be cracked
Or just outdated.

But leaving suspends
The actions of a change
Everything remains,
But at a distance,
In strange places
Of a mazing memory.

To leave is to accept
Things as things,
Unchanged by abandonment.

But, sometimes,
It is the only reason
When all other reasons
Completely dragged power out of
Our will to stay.

Everything is a lesson
That I am sure of.

I find it hard to understand
What is the course we're taking.

Life, love, friendship, work,
It's all a whole lot of baggage
To carry on from class to class
Only to find out
The only thing that matter
Can only be discovered
After the end of the course.

We'll learn what to do here
When we'll long pass being here.
The joke, my friend, is in all of us.

I didn't find the way out,
I didn't find answers,
I went through the longest path.

I've discovered new ways
When everyone said I'm brave
But couldn't support,
I've understood rules
When they stood in the way,
I've checked what was not
To be checked, just to see
How far I was gone.

All I learnt, all I'll learn,
It's useless unless
People.

I can't say what I really want.
Well, I can, but I don't want
To say what I want
Although I want to.

I can't say I love you.
I want (to say),
I do (love you),
Somehow it's a mistake...
I'm just missing the senses,
Misreading the meanings,
Forgetting words of nostalgia,
A fugitive mind, in-betweens

What I really want
Is to undo the structures,
Go back to when there weren't
Words or concepts,
Just time to time
Pure living.
Presence.
Present.

But it's just past.
I'll always miss it.

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.

If I were to write to you
I'd write that I love
That we were what we were.

I'd write that we went far,
Maybe too far,
And now home is a distant idea.

I'd write I love you,
But that'd be silly
And rather difficult to deal with.

I'd write that I see
Through the fog in front of us,
And that would be a lie.

I'd write that I understand
What we've become,
In a vague, strange way, I do.
(Just don't ask me how we became)

I'd write tough truths
That tells  more about myself
Than what the words really mean.

I'd write how wrong I was,
And I was, terribly,
And nothing would change,
Unless time proves me wrong.
(I'd have to be wrong to not be wrong).

I'd write ****, powerful words
In an elegant combination
But they'll just be the air in the wind.

If I were to write...
What would it change?

The freedom from inorganic paralysis,
The birth of information,
The cliché of the ephemeral,
The never ending search for complexity.

Is it just a temporary prison in our weak bodies,
in our insecurities, and our worries,
Or is it an unique cosmic opportunity
that we should exhaust every fraction of a second
into something productive, enjoyable and selfish?
How much would we sacrifice
To never need to deal with death?

Does it have a worth in itself
(therefore question it would be stupid)
or does it have worth for the things we can do with it?
Has the organic life any contribution except for life itself
(in a broad perspective)?

What makes life so great that makes it, though, small?
We try so hard to define it
and, yet, it is the most incomprehensible concept.
Tirelessly fighting against universal laws
of equilibrium and disorder and chaos and constancy
(will purpose subdue chances?)

Maybe, the greatest value of life is uncertainty.
Uncertainty of what is expecting us,
of what will we gain or lose,
of what will we experience,
of what is there to happen and to surprise.
But, most of all,
the uncertainty of what is not life.
Death is a part of life, and not its opposite.
The opposite of life is the certainty of the inanimate world.

Steam it,
Burn it,
Smoke it,
Push it,
Roll it,
Pressure it,
Vapor, vapor, vapor.

Go along the trails
Discover and claim
Hills, lakes, river, falls,
For the sake of movement.
Go, machine, go,
Force yourself through ****** valleys,
Be civil,
Be the pace of progress,
The heartbeat of evolution,
The clock within a factory,
The factory within thoughts,
Push, push,
Burn, burn,
Waste all you got,
Faster you burst, guided,
Guarded, armored, blinded,
Blind, deaf, deafening,
Enraging, plodding, sluggish,
Slip the steal against steel.
Against, again,
And what's to gain?
To go faster,
To be outpaced,
To be left behind,
To remain powerless at the station
Living through a painful goodbye,
To feel the installation of hollow,
To feel only the smell of a perfume now miles away,
To be pinched by steel to steel friction sparkles,
And that be enough to have a sense of self consciousness.

Things are coming, or going.
Any direction you choose:
Either closer or farther - that's what's happening.

There is something bittersweet in loneliness.
Something of beauty,
Something of despair.
Something of inner connection
And something of being stuck in the void.

The need to be lonely
Follows the need for freedom:
To be a prisoner of our body only,
To be limited by nature and nothing else.
To be unattached.

But there is always someone else inside:
Someone who is not me,
But can't be anybody else.
Combinations of faces, voices and ideas
Conflicting with the silence
We are behind all disguise.

To be lonely
Is to feel sad and fulfilled,
To find completeness in the missing parts,
But also to feel happy and desolated.

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.

Love is hard, ungrateful.
Give love when given hate is a gift.
Love puts us down
Whenever we see things differently.
Hate is also hard, but coldness ain't.

School teaches us to methods and discipline,
Jobs expect nothing less than full resilience
(In a deprived robotic meaning),
And we grow and grow
Closer to anything but sensing humans.

Love is weak, fool,
Specially that kind of love
Flowing between cars in traffic,
Houses in neighborhoods,
News on the TV.
That stupid love
When you say sorry after being attacked,
When you return angry with a smile.

Love is painful, today.
Tomorrow, might just be
A light mode of living.

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.

Every word
Invokes dozen books
Hundreds of stories
And all my 940 million seconds of life
Building up to a super story
In seek of a masterpiece
To say "I did it".

There will be no masterpiece.
All words found their way
Into a dance of images
To be where they fitted the most
With sometimes unclear roles
And an improvised script
Even after exhaustive rehearsal.

I am not the sum of what I was,
I am the product of moments and feelings,
I am the rest of what divided myself,
I am the depreciation of values and d morals that does not fit me,
I am the interests of what I sow and grow,
I am the odd combinatory that detour normal standards,
But, in a smaller sample, I'm the mode.

I set myself as fractals and, therefore,
I discover in my elementary parts,
In cells, molecules and atoms,
My exact reproductions.

I am not an explicit fonction,
I'm not linear, but chaotic,
Exponential.
I'm always farther of what to be tomorrow
Than of what I was yesterday.

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.

Hungry, but too tired to cook.
Sleepy, but too early to sleep.
Tired, but too anxious to relax.
Dreamy, but too awake to fly.
Desperate, but too incapable to act.
Conformed, but too eager to leave.

That is the only gate
To the way out.

I am a profound reflection that I do not exist
I only exist when I think I don't exist
I am less things
than the things I imagine I am

I am the lack of confidence
That comes from I don't know where
Or maybe from the confidence
others have for me

I am in a world that does not accept
what is not from the world

I am a peaceful way of life
emerged in a restless context;
a lack of things to do
drowned in chaos

I am what I were not
but I am what I would never be

I am the one who lost something in the way
and never stop to get it back

I am the one who found something
and not knowing where to keep it
lost it in the same place where I always lose things

I am the one who searches
only what cannot be explained
and loses interest after the explanation
and becomes obsessed to explain

I am the one who mistakes what I want
with what I want to want

I am the one who kicks everyone out of the party tired of hosting it
and locks himself out
without knowing how to come inside again
and stares at all guests on the street ashamed

I am the one who does not believe
in anything I cannot be
but never accepts anything I propose myself to be

I am the one who knows
that I'm no more than an idea of myself
and yet, the one who does not let go of this idea

I am all the contradictions I truly believe
(and by believing them, I disbelieve them)

I am so selfish that I care only about others
and forget myself inside my frailty

I am what I should be
although nothing should I be

I find meaning
In the dark shadows of death,
In the thoughts of missing parts,
Of what has been excluded,
On things our childish existence can't notice.

Whereas you, in your anchor to life,
Find meaning in the deepens of yourself,
Your body and the immanent love,
The contact with whatever can be felt,
In the euphoria of self discovery.

As a consequence,
Our house is too big for us,
The future, too repetitive,
I cannot contain life within me,
And all you do is hold on to it.

There's beauty in all of them,
It's, beside all metaphysics,
A matter of the space we occupy,
At the same time,
At the same coordinates.
Too much we compete for the same place
We end up in complete different desires.

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.

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

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

Everything else is luxury.

Whenever I look at myself
Through the glass and platinum
I'm looking for answers:
Am I different than yesterday?
Am I older?
Do I look properly to whatever I'll do?

But I am the limit of the mirror.
My skin blocks the inside,
My judgment holds answers underground,
My eyes refuse to see things I don't want.

I am my own limitations,
I, alone, built my limits.
I look into a mirror
But it can only contain
Tiny fragments of past,
Never a glance of what will be.

What I see is not me.
My eyes and my teeth
Can only be seen indirectly.
There is no truth in any emulation:
My own vision is a trick,
My hearing, an apparatus,
My touch, nothing more than
My electrons rejecting your electrons.

The mirror is just a shell.
It will never contain,
Never be fulfilled,
Tells no stories,
Say no things.
The mirror is what you ask it.
An image so distant
Our souls refuse to enter.

Eyes that see no image,
Skin that touches nothing,
A life unable to die.
A concept so absurd we fall in love.

We reflect ourselves
In everything we create
Hoping then to be mirrors.
Turns out, they're just
Aging photographs,
Revealing the time past,
Where we've grown,
Where we're stuck,
A passage from the past,
Untouchable,
But reachable,
Invisible,
But never invincible,
Just the remains
That we, inevitably,
Will lose.

The mismatches
Make us.
The dissonant jazz chords
Are more powerful
Than majors.

The has to be
Something of misunderstood,
Of somewhat unexplained,
Or a reluctant mystery
That whenever something is
Discovered, a new unpredicted face
Of it is revealed.

Raise to the empty,
Nothing would fit anywhere
If wasn't for it.

We are sealed by our bodies,
But we can only stretch
To reach what's outside.

I often misplace myself,
The wrong place and the wrong time,
The repeated search of a lightning
That, in an effort to not strike
The same spot twice,
Hits the exact same coordinates.

To place yourself is to create a label.
It is written in my packing:
Person, curious, kind, perfectionist, independent.
But the course of happenings is organic.
Rules are only a posteriori things.
I can't be a person because
There is no such thing as a person.
Curiosity is a movement,
Kindness, liquid.
Perfectionism, illusion.
Independence, a vague concept,
Lacking definition and sense,
Useless to be argued.

To be correctly placed
Is to be sole,
A desirable, painful choice.

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.

I've missed.
A mistake does not
Define me.

It's
Just
A
Mistake.

Sorry.

I tried to hammer
"Together"
Into "love".

It blew,
And all that's left
Was "me" and "you".

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!