He who has not,
Even for a minute,
Pondered whether its own life
Should continue or not
Still misses the value of being alive.

Diseases, falls, shots,
None of them kills;
We die for unasked questions,
We die for self ignorance,
Little by little,
Until we are replaced by amnesia.

To breathe is a daily choice
Whether we question it or not.
What we take for granted
Decides how to live,
Where to cross a street,
When to quit a job,
To fight or to freeze,
To jump, to act,
To turn to a monk
And set yourself on fire
Or to ramble on
On commutes, highways,
Air bridges and cruises.

We miss the important questions
For the fear that we won't survive
Their answers.
But questions are not about answers:
They are most certainly delusional.
Questions are about
Discovering the value,
Choosing the weights,
Iterate balance,
Reduce propagated errors.

Life is more appreciated
At the verge
Of our perceptions of reality.

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.

The rain reveals
The sewer lines
Tired of being invisible,
The rats, its undesired inhabitants,
The worms drowning on the soil,
Cockroaches in despair.

The rain reveals
What was hidden
But was there all the time.
What wasn't to be seen,
The undergrounds of a life
Exposed to appearances and nothing more.

The rain reveals
The superficiality
Of empty plastics,
The inherent lightness of lack of content,
The inextinguishability of the bottles,
Trails of the inevitable return to the sea.

The rain reveals
Our blurred vision,
Our need of a shelter,
Our frail grit
That fades with thunders,
Our discomfort aversion,
Our windows to disconnect the world.

The rain reveals
The violence of the beauty,
The victory of the unpredictable,
The animal and amoral cruelty
That lays over the homeless
And the human and immoral cruelty
Of us, who feel only pity.

The rain reveals
And nothing more.
Reveal itself and, thus, exposes,
But it isn't what it's here for.
It comes, simply, and ends.
It is and desires nothing,
Has no purpose nor role.

It happens by getting heavy
And crumbles as it can.
It happens for being unbearable.
It happens for it  was sea once
And sea it urges to be.

It could be anything but water
But chose to be what it could choose
To be solid, gas or liquid.

The rain reveals
That the strength
Is in transformations and movements:
All roots shall succumb.

I need it,
More than richness,
More than butter and bread,
More than wine and dope,
And I don't know why I need it.

The addiction
Is justified,
I've been told
To be the future,
To be the hope,
To be the hardworking success,
To be free while stuck with desires
Of grandness and achievements.

The cure is yet to be found
Probably in places I can't reach:
Things I have never lived,
The forced detachment of starving,
The definite destination of a free fall,
The coldness of a star roof.

The diagnosis is clear:
To have everything
Leads to a quest
Effortless to the unreachable.

The distorted mirror
Can look inside,
Can translate inner horrors
Into real actions.

Yet, we look at it,
Unbelieving,
Discrediting,
But it is out there:
We've seen it
And now that we know it,
There's nothing else we can be.

We are what we put outside,
Combined with what we nurture inside.

Maybe I were
Two different people,
Maybe I could not fit
Within me.

I was sure
To be in the right way,
To discover a new way,
So life could go along
Within me.

What is left
Of what we were,
Of the days we traveled,
Of the futures that never came
(But we were sure to make them happen)?
What is left
Of those complete smiles
That were to compensate
Every tear ever dropped, before or after?

I leave us as a different person.
For better or for worse, different.
An expanded person
For which I'm forever grateful,
But, still, grieving. Hurtfully grieving.
Dreadfully grieving.
Cursing my existence grieving.

If this ever ought to heal,
My only wish is:
May it never suppress
Those light moments
We gave each other

I know us.
I remember us.
There were times when us
Were us.
Other times, only persons,
Happening in between surrounding vacuums.

Now it is a story,
Beautiful and intricate,
It is the entropic causality
Of our common estrangement.

Water and air lightly touch,
But they are immense around themselves,
Just as we are, as our stories,
As our own liberties.

Through the air we say,
But touching can only happen
Within the boundaries
Of how far can we reach.

We reached so far,
But so little we got
That only space could touch.

The magic is to be special
Even when every fortress has fallen.

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.

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.

I resist the touch of your skin,
for your heart no longer touches mine.
I resist walking your streets
for my eyes cannot meet yours.
I resist your ideas,
for mine have grown.

The resistance is of my soul
that have seen other souls,
that cannot be mirrored in just one soul,
that cannot be filled by it,
that is fragmented in millions of souls,
millions of pieces, of faces,
of desires, of movements, of thoughts.

Every act is a resistance:
it resists everything except the act.
Like the air,
I expand until walls resist me,
and then I find the cracks and holes,
to meet the open air
where I can expand indefinitely.

I resist you, but I resist more
the idea of you.
Of what you mean to me.
I resist giving myself to you
for it is what my every cell wants,
but I'm afraid I could not
be a whole self again.

What would you do
with this meaningful part of me?

Let the cannons come:
My flowers are awaiting.

All of nothing,
Nothing of all,
The result is the same.

Round and round we go,
Afraid to have our time stolen,
Looking back,
Watching our backs,
Even though there's nothing left to lose.

We got used to the crust,
Living on the surface,
Immersion is hard, but there's nothing without it.
We dig oceans and oceans for some sort of glory
And left aside all deepness in speeches,
All humanity neglected, at a cost of our own.

I have not met true faith
Rather than a future always to happen.
I was not prepared to believe
Better times should escape in-between my fingers.

But the result is the same:
We fight for nothing about everything
Or we fight for everything about nothing.
We only get to choose the way.

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.

I never leave
Without an intent
To come back.

I step strongly
So I can find my footprints,
I look carefully the landscape,
The coordinates, the relief,
Even the sounds.

But sometimes all traces fade,
There's no point of knowing coordinates
If one doesn't know where he is
Rather than oneself.
The only thing I know:
I'm here, wherever I am.

Even lost
Sometimes I'm surprised
With a glance of a memory;
Maybe I've been here
Ten or twenty years ago,
Maybe it resembles somewhere else.
Still comforting, though.
Memories and returns
Calm me,
Ease my anxiety,
Brings a kind of hope
That has no explanation at all,
An exhilarating and dangerous hope
That keeps me forward
With the expectation that,
Somewhere ahead I'll meet
A future long passed.

Diminish the extensions
By being just you,
Your dreams,
Your reality,
Your musics,
Eventually, you'll cease.

Forget about yourself,
Lose the extensions of you,
Forget your endings,
Your arms,
Your fingers,
Your feet,
Your toes,
Your hair.

Then, all you'll be left
Is everything.

It's only through wisdom an sapience
We discover the reverse aspect of life.

The imprisoning freedom,
The life lost through joy,
All the lightness that we struggle to carry,
The darkness that reveal all the surfaces and texture and colors,
The pleasure we trade for pain,
All these symptoms
Of a pulsing life
That dies young and is born old.

We can only foresee our future
Looking through rearviewmirrors
Pasts lying ahead,
Waiting for our mistakes to be repeated,
Hits that perfectly miss the target,
Just to see the pointing arrow
Always running against the flows of time.

We keep searching
Amplifiers to extend us,
We shout loud
To absorbing walls,
Sound proof, isolated,
Only to fail to hear our own voices.

It is a deed to all ears
To seek the frequencies,
The rhythm underneath
The hollow sounds of the surface.

We ought to peel
Watchful for signals
Of resonance,
Respect the echoes
That strengthen ourselves.

Life is revolving,
Every straight line,
Extended enough,
Will meet its own end,
Ending on a beautiful circle
To be part of a particular cadence,
Its own rhythm.

Everything can be measured
In revolutions per minute.

The awkwardness of today
Is not how much we value
The ridicule,
But our capacity
To continue valuing it
Despite its growing abundance.

We've taken the long road,
Curvy road,
Crossing mountains,
Infinite tunnels
Built ages ago.

Somewhere we diverged
Your tail lamps fading
In the rearview mirror
And in my life,
In the long miles
Between any start
And any destination.

We're protected
From rain and snow,
But forever accompanied
By loneliness
Of a quiet road,
Long, long road,
Where night are inevitably
Longer than days
In the drama
Of lost paths,
Bifurcations,
Clovers,
In infinite combinations,
Always leading
In the unexpected
Feelings buried
In the soft sands
Of the surrounding deserts

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.

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.

The longer the roads
The more we have of ourselves.
Landscapes pass through
Without alarm,
Until we're awake.

Mountainside are a sculpted beauty,
The solid of geography,
But also a reminder
Of everything less than great.

Hurray to the sun,
The stars, the predictions,
And, consequently,
The way of life.

We're nothing less of our desires,
We're nothing more than our greed:
There lies our boundaries.

Doesn't matter what you think.

You've just missed
the starting gun,
and you missed again.

It is not the noise that escaped you,
it is not the muscles that failed,
it is not your brain who mislead.

Feel the track, the traction,
feel the wind slowly growing with speed,
listen your own, intense, heartbeats.
Feel your empty lungs, tired.

Fatigue, pain,
all you will feel.
Compete: lose and win.
Believe the race,
believe the run,
and they exist.

Make it quick,
Make it fast,
Your rules, your fault.

Do what you intended for yourself
Or nothing's left but self pity.

Today, and all other days,
Nothing stops,
Only you.

Do it fast,
But do it.
WRITE!

The moon is bigger on the dark side,
But I'm moved by the waves of the bright side.
I hide, but I always know
What is it the I hide,
So what's the point?

Inside my missing spaces
I find my own pieces,
In what empty space I fill me,
If I'm defined by my emptiness?

How do I define me with words
Hollow as a flight in space,
Precise and distant definitions,
Incapable of adjusting to a vague chaos,
Only understandable by the light of a microscope,
Unaccessible to signs,
Dissonant of what I feel,
Of a laughable ungrace?

I run from what defines me,
From my sentimental proofs,
I locate myself in what takes me far from home.

I'm uncapable of recognizing me
For I look in the mirror, and I recognize myself:
I know I never had blue eyes,
I know how my hair was, and how it's not anymore,
I know healed wounds hurt more.

I've lived for 500.000 kilometers
Never counted the travels around my world,
But I keep going,
Map and territory,
Language and message,
Thoughts and actions,
Sailing through matter and frequency
Through the ocean that keeps me apart from the world.

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.

Oh saudade,
How I miss you...
Suddenly, you became
An index of happiness,
My measure of success,
And, yet, although all is missing,
I miss you: you failed me.

Distant meadows
Hide your shallow substance,
But I'm here, nurturing you,
And missing you,
Missing to miss.

I miss you so much
My feelings have got sick,
Faded, faded, disappeared.

Haven't I got mad;
It's just the cold weather
Remembering me
The warmth of your coldness

I don't have an address,
I don't live in a street.

I don't live in a city,
I don't live in a country,
I don't live in a neighborhood,
I don't live in a house:
These are all concepts,
We can't live in a concept
(this is schizophrenia).

I live in a piece of land
Above a piece of land
Above a piece of land.
I live above the earth
And beneath the sky,
I live guarded of danger, cold and sunburst,
Also guarded of stars and moonlight.

There's nothing mine here
Except what I see, hear, touch, smell, taste
And what my mind does with it.

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.

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.

Let the senses expand
Your sense of the world,
Imprison reason,
Understand and accept treason,
Mock your intelligence,
Your abilities.

Rip off your arms,
What's left?
Rip off your legs,
What's left?
Rip off your eyes, ears, mouth,
What's left?
Rip off your judgment,
And what's left?
Rip off your pain.
Nothing is left.

There is a you
Who thinks of you
Who thinks of you
Who thinks of you,
Or there's no one
Who thinks of you?

A dead river flows memories
But no water,
Flows past,
But not present,
Reveal it's wounds,
But completely numb.
Everything, except water, is left.

In madness we're born;
Only madness can quench.

There's something when we isolate
That enlarges us, that completes us
Without the need of others.

There's something inside us
Claiming to be left to the moths,
To lose our forms and our substance
Into the nothingness of air, distance and trail.

There's something shouting
"Not me" whenever possible
Just to pass, to live in passenger seat,
To go and to come without bothering.

There's an urge to be just a self,
Nothing more, maybe to untouch
The universe, time and space wisely,
To be a bubble of own rules.

It's all illusions.
There is no world inside.
There's just us. Everything else's outside.

I once heard a story
That a man, alone,
Built his empire,
Dealt with all his ****,
Fought armies single handed.

He would follow his plans,
Be appreciated for his good work,
Defy all injustices,
Defeat his own corruption.

Of course it is a story,
Not because of all the accomplishments,
Or the act of bravery,
Open chest against the world.

What makes it unbelievable
Is remaining steady throughout it all.
To build oneself
Is to change oneself.

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.

It's not the light,
But the almost absence of it,
It's the improbable reflections,
The unconventional light paths,
It's the dance of imagination and odds.

The formless images
Clearer and more defined
In the measure they're abstract,
A curve and a straight line
Brought me the hammer and sickle
(What does that tell about me?),
And don't know for what reason
The other form brought me a dog.

What I see on the ceiling
Is the light of my open eyes,
My bleeding heart,
My calculist mind,
My fading memories,
All projected in a jelly
Of colors, messy patterns,
Of texture and ideas,
So maybe, through that,
I can see miles
Inside my own tiny body.

I wish I could be
So wise and sharp
My truths were spread.

Would they be more truthful?
Every mindset makes sense
Based on its set of premises.
Would they be any truthful, in fact?

In face of a shapeless modernity
What are we but carriers of self truths
Never to be integrally shared,
Never to echo freely?

We are bearers of our inner worlds
And nothing more,
With a somewhat amplified voice
Equally toned, merging, absorbing every intensity
Until it remains just an indistinguishable grunt.

To be sharp
Is to distune from the crowds,
To make yourself heard
Even if the most difficult part
Is to identify
Which sound is our own.

Expel what's strange,
A self defense action
To purify.

But purity is dangerous as poison,
It lacks adaptability,
Requires precision,
None of which
Can sustain long.

Everything we shoot
Is no longer in control,
No longer ours.
We aim, but reality changes,
Bullets are lost,
Mistargeted.

We shoot to lose responsibility.
We shoot to free ourselves.
Anyway,
Every trigger is just waiting a choice.

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.

Short poems delight me
Despite a particular fall for Ginsberg.
They often say much
Or say nothing.

But they can be
No more than subtle:
Great in content,
Short in strings.
A paradox that defy
Any communication theory.

Unfortunatelly,
I cannot always
Write long enough
To create a short poem.

I've seen you furious as a flower,
I've seen you sweet as a bomb.
I've seen us sitting on a tree,
I've seen us oceans apart.

I've seen so little, myopic,
I've seen leagues away.
I've seen indubitable truths,
And I've seen to doubt them.

I've seen my own way
In ways I'm blind to see now.

The world gets bigger
As I remove meaning oyt of it.

Don't turn right.
The only option
Is to go ahead,
Or ticket awaits you.

Obey the red light,
Your life depends on it,
Kids need their parents
And parents need their kids.
Rules save lifes.

Wrong way.
You can only go
The other way around,
It's all for good traffic,
So we can arrive early,
So hours aren't wasted,
We want you to have
10 more minutes with your family.

Parking forbidden,
Keep moving,
Moving,
Rolling,
Don't stop,
Faster, but watch the
Speed limit.

It's all very clear, you'll get used to.
Everything is there
For a reason.
More signs, better traffic,
Better people,
Happier people,
Guided
By the ultimate sign:
Smile, you're been filmed.

Silence, for we sleep
The grave rest of the almost dead,
The silence coming from acute hearing,
And the freezing of acting,
The silence encouraging
the redemption of the guilty of doing nothing.

The silence required
To maintain trains on rails,
Strings *******,
Rollers rolling.

This silence of a profound trance
In a quiet city,
Revealing in its sobriety,
Repealing in its exclusivity.
The silence of the order,
The silence of the steadiness.

Silence, for we continue the journey
With different names and disguises.
Productivity has other names,
Other faces, other friends,
But, nevertheless, quiet.
All of them.

Silence is our synopsis.
Yet, every word shut
Shouts greater within
The walls of our skin.

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.

Life is actually simple:
Live or die.

Little by little
Our moments sum up
Who we are.

If we have never discovered sinusoids
Any repetition would be unnoticed,
Time would be linear,
History would be unnecessary.

But every now and then
Numbskulls attempt
To awake buried ghosts
As if memory would only serve
To revive the past
Rather than being
An instrument for learning.

**** you mathematicians
For exposing the ups and downs
Beyond any logic of continuity.

**** anyone who can look at it
And still not see the pattern.

The skyscraper
Sees much from above,
Imposes, marks the landscape

He thinks he's big
But he'll never
See another city

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.

I cannot think
For I have to survive,
My intelligence has been stolen
By a short-term struggle.

My sleep is conscious,
Tirelessly aware,
Tiredness dominates though.

Seize what night can bring
For tomorrow is a matter of moments.

This may be where this story ends.

A walk into the office
Is the run from the house
Where fears live,
Bills must be paid,
Food must feed,
Order must reign.

To walk back home
Is to run
From the anxiety
Of never have things done,
Accomplishments found like Dodos,
Value created as alchemists created gold
From nothing.

And our families
Are a bond with our past
Not so much relevant now,
But still a remaining bond
Of which getting rid of
Does more damage
Than sticking to it.

And our ideas of all of these
More harmful than alcohol
Drugs, cars, smoke, cancer,
War, conflicts, intolerance,
Cholera, ebola, hypertension,
Drowning, guns, police,
Sharks, snakes, angry dogs,
Earthquakes, hurricanes, flood,
Stairs, scissors, power plugs.

We are killers and healers
With the same vocabulary,
The same set of rules,
The same creation,
But it does not matter,
Things will happen.

There is a little bit of
Freewill for us to understand
It is only a part of the world.

I sorrow
For the choices
We do
In order to feel
Social.

It hasn't anything to consistency,
Neither with rigidness.
It isn't a state of hardness,
Nor a form of perennial existence.

The ground is solid, but not rigid;
A carpet is solid, despite of softness.
There's solidness in the harsh feelings of parenthood.
Solidness means being contained
Within a specific space.
Solidness means being able to,
Whenever reached critical moments,
Acquiring liquid form.
Solidness means being elastic,
But only up to a point.

Weakness is not not being solid.
Weakness is just pretend
That being solid
Is the only state possible.

Any state can happen,
As long as conditions
Allow them to be.