Yes, my dear, I can be happy.
No, my dear, your words don't scare me.
Yes, my dear, there's a real *****.
No, my dear, it's not metallic like yours.

If the heart belongs to me,
it will love who I want
because I choose who
I will fall in love with.

If the heart is not yours,
don't try to change mine
because I choose the way
how I will love others.

The feelings are infinite
just like the search for them
but I am not infinite
neither patient.

I am mortal, made of flesh;
flesh which rots.
I am prone to the forgetfulness.,
therefore, my search dies with me.

To Daniel Nunes*

Before turning on my heart,
I used to walk in the dark.

I learned to love
but not truly.
They taught me to tolerate
but not totally.
I started to shut up
but not eternally.

He's got mysterious eyes
and I can't unravel them.
He's got fleshy lips
and I can't kiss them.

Somebody told me
not to hide my lighthouse.
And away from the universe,
I learned to be true.
Somebody taught me
to bear the loves
but not the griefs.

After turning on my heart,
I started to look for feelings.

He's got mysterious eyes
which stare at me directly.
He's got fleshy lips
which bite dangerously.

Here comes an unexpected feeling;
somewhat predictable before us.

He's got a smile
whose simplicity charms me.
He's got a heart
whose size I don't care.

Here comes an unbecoming feeling;
unbecoming to the mind, but not to the flesh.

I once heard a scream
from inside me.
So I opened my heart to the world,
in order to silence it,
but the world wasn't enough.

It sounds like celestial
but it's just natural.

I once missed places
where I have never been.
So I closed my eyes,
in order to forget them,
but forgetting wasn't enough.

It sounds like an anthem
but that’s not what I imagine.

I once got bored
with all the city’s noises.
So I ran into the woods,
in order to find satisfaction,
but isolation wasn’t enough.

It sounds like the sea
but it travels slowly.

I once heard the birds
and I decided to follow them.
So I chose to love unconcernedly,
in order to retrieve my humanity,
but not even love was enough.

It sounds like peace
*but that’s not what it brings.

I often find
       myself in
                situations
      where I feel
                   as if I'm running
out of time.
          
           but I've realized that I'm
only seventeen...
      
              And time is all
      I
       really
           have.

She was the type who would comfort her attacker.
All memories of love were postcards for her wall,
as she slipped undetected through life, collecting
bus tickets, old receipts and post-it notes,
all with an atypical tolerance for red wine.

She spent her days lying in waste, lying in wait
for the moment that life would catch up with
her beautiful mind. She gave love to him
in magnetised letters and pillow talk,
but she was forever replied to in silence.

She would reinvent herself in hangover light,
before ordering take-out, and spending
the week inside. She cursed her translucent skin
in the sunlight, and yet she glowed in the summer,
as the breeze unsettled the hem of her skirt.

To anyone*

The warning

Beauty is dangerously fascinating
as well as the person who it dwells.
Therefore, I'm not responsible
for your precocious passions
either your impossibilities.

1st stranger / The worker

A charming smile
able to break down the walls
around my small heart.

So he goes on his own way
as far as he feels more alone.

He's a charm
which, however,
lives in the future.

Oh he's a machine, leastwise
he works at speed of one.

2nd stranger / The sculptress

The dissolved melancholy
in her round face
is extremely rare,
because it's similar to mine.

So many shapes!
So many angles!
So many views!
So many plans!

Oh she suffers of simplicity
inside a world
so complex.

3rd stranger / The dreamer

Eyes of matutinal sky
which once stared at me deeply,
making me daydream on a folly.

A boy who has been abandoned in the desert
(in the desert of awareness).
A boy who has been found at sea
(at sea of unawareness).

I envy his young eyes.
Mindful eyes to everything and everyone.
Eyes with an incredible innocence.

Sometimes I'm like him:
obsessed with folly,
but full of sanity.

4th stranger / The dadaistic

The most beautiful gold wires
sway in front of me
as well as they identify
the person to whom they belong.

However, I don't know why
I've seen her with so much affection.

She's nothing to me.
She doesn't make sense like this.

Perhaps her beauty
is somenthing unique
(and this is worthy of affection
leastwise, of contemplation).

5th stranger / The artist*

When he speaks,
his lips are voluptuous.
and when he shuts up,
they are just lips.

I consider my appreciation
somewhat sentimental
although it is fatal.

I make poetry in pure expression,
requiring to intervene or not.
I'm anxious as well as anguished
and therefore I fall in love
externally and internally
with his impressionist beauty.

Beauty which once I imagined owning
with the same feeling
which I dedicate him this space
from a pretentious poem.