These People don’t need Parties.
These People need every day heroes
People who can speak for them.
People that will see in everyone’s eyes
the eyes of their momma’s crying.
These People don’t need Democracy
These People need freedom.
Freedom to pray and let pray
whoever wants to pray to whatever
they feel like praying.
Freedom to love and let love
whoever wants to love whatever they
feel like loving.
This People don’t need strong rulers.
This People need strong leaders.
Leaders who shall guide them not push them.
Someone that will take the lead not because
he’s superior but because he holds in his hands
the torch that illuminates the way.
Someone that will take the lead because that's taking the risk.
Someone that will go ahead because if he’s wrong,
than he shall be the first to pay the price.
These people don’t need ideologies.
These people need Ideas.
Ideas that shall open their minds, not blind them with doctrine.
Ideas that allow this people to refuse that same ideas.
Ideas that assume itself as an idea not as the Truth.
These people are not demanding an utopia.
These people are claiming their own rights.
The right to live in their own bubble of oxygen and not be
affected by the ambition of a third.
The right to live not ruled by a money spinning system.
The right to die for their own battles.
The right to not fight someone else’s fights
The right to say enough when enough is enough.
These people don’t even want a good life.
These people just want their life’s back

I want to write the story of a ******.
I want to write the story of a writer.
I want to write the story of a dreamer in dispair.
I want to write the story of a lover in Copacabana dreaming with Tokio.
I want to write a story about rain and the smell of wet pavement.
I want to write the story of a street poet who sells poems for food.
I want to write a story about Dublin and it's people.
I want to write a story about bath tubes full of filthiness.
I want to write a story about pub stories.
I want to write a story about how *** is gonna **** us all.
I want to write a story about how you messed up with my head.
I want to write a story that teaches humanity to stop being so naïve.
I want to write a story that teaches me *******.
I want to write a story about how I managed to learn *******.
I want to write a story about how I killed you in my head.

E foda.se a vida que demora a fazer-se homem.
E foda.se a o vinho que só me conta mentiras.
E foda.se a musica que me alivia a dor de não te ter.
E foda.se o espelho que é demasiado honesto.
E foda.se os livros que não consigo ler.
E foda.se os autores que não consigo entender.
E foda.se o que quer que seja que me retira confiança.
E foda.se o destino que não pude escolher.
E foda.se o passado que não pude escrever.
E foda.se o futuro que já só quero esquecer.
E foda.se a liberdade que não me deixa crescer.
E foda.se a inercia que me quer prender.
E foda.se as palavras que me deixão com sede.
E foda.se a sede que só quer vinho.
E foda.se o vinho que me voltou a enganar.
E foda.se o coração que não sabe como amar.
E foda.se o amor e a falta de ar.
E foda.se o sal que impede de chorar.
E foda.se o choro de quem me morde a alma.
E foda.se a quem me pede para ter calma.
E foda.se tudo resto que nada tem a ver contigo.
E foda.se a amizade que faz de mim só teu amigo.
E foda.se a cama que me faz sonhar.
E foda.se o sonho que se acha ordem.
E foda.se a idade que Eu já me devia ter feito homem.

Dá me uma razão para ficar e então Eu ficarei.
O Mundo lá fora não me atrai.
Quero passar a eternidade no teu quarto.
Quero passar a eternidade a falar contigo até tu me odiares a mim e as minhas ideias conservadoras fruto de uma eternidade passada no teu quarto.
Quero que o mundo se foda tanto como o mundo me fodeu a mim.
Quero passar a vida dentro desses filmes que tanto adoras.
E não me importo que não seja real. E nem me importo que não seja a sério.
Passei a minha vida a brincar com crianças.
Quero te a ti acima de tudo.
E perdoou o te o vício do tabaco.
E perdoou o te o vício de odiares tudo que me faz viver.
Eu só te quero bem!
Quero que te cases e nem têm de ser comigo.
Eu só te quero bem!
E perdoou o te o vício de não acreditares em mim.
E perdoou o te o vício de amares sempre o mesmo tipo de homem.
Porque eu só quero é que dances. Porque disseste que adoravas dançar.
Porque eu só quero que andes com quem te faz andar.
E nem me importo que me mintas.
E nem me importo que me ignores.
Não quero que te apresses por mim.
Não quero que me peças desculpa.
Se um dia morrer que seja pelas tuas mãos.
Põe me fora do teu quarto e dá me a comer aos leões.
Diz ao mundo que te traí eu não te desmentirei.
Mesmo tendo passado a eternidade no teu quarto.
Diz que não me queres e faz-me ter filhos contigo.
E diz aos nossos filhos que não sou pai deles.
Diz me que nunca na vida serei teu.
Mas dá me uma razão para ficar.
Que Hoje...
Hoje Eu faço o Jantar.

The legs were weak so he layed on the ground.
He stared at the ceiling for a couple of weeks. The water had destroyed it and left black spots all over it.
The days were no longer days, it was just like looking the road from the inside of a car in movement.
His life had been just another canceled Late Night Show where He had tried really hard to be funny.
"There is nothing like love. There is just a deep need to have a good **** by the end of the day."
He really belived in this kind of stuff and in everything Nietzsche wrote about time and space.
He was the kind of guy who enjoyed his whiskey right out from the bottle, no ice or ******* cups.
Why complicate? We're talking about ***** for god sake.
It has never been about the trip. It was always about the destination.
It has never been about having a good time. It was always about forgetting time and forgiving life.
And We're still talking about *****.
And We're still talking about life.
Just that He doesnt care anymore.
You see It's hard to care about life when you live your life with a gun up on your *** and a bird whispering you to not **** yourself.
It's hard to live when You dont allow yourself to cry.
Somehow It's much easier to die looking at the ceiling.

"You're Lost Little Girl" was playing on the background.
She had been dancing for the last couple of minutes completely naked.
Red lips, Red eyes and a glimmer of a long lost shine in her eyes.
She never faced me while I was sitting on the corner of the room.
Her dance was slow, a magical kind of grace.
- Did You know that he die in Paris?
- Yes - I answered her.
- You know why? - I didnt answer this one.There was no need. There are questions that only need time.
- Because dying in LA would make him a rockstar.
- And so dying in Paris makes him what?
She took a while.
- A poet I guess.
The room was an empty room, with little books that I guess she never read and with too much whisky bottles that I guess she never shared.
You could smell the filthy life that made her dance in such a sad way.
I remember looking to the clock and no hour was shown. She had ripped off the clockwise and used them as chopsticks for her three days old chinese food.
When the song came to the end, she sat on the ground and lighted a cigarette which she had kept on the back of her ear.
She looked at me for a while and I looked at her.
I could see her eyeliners going down her face, then she stood and walked over a mirror that there was next to the door and looked at the reflection for a while ...
Then...
Then I saw myself crying.

It's Raining but the Rain doesn't make me wet, or at least I don't really care if it gets me wet.
It's cold but the cold doesn't give me shivers, I'm too **** out of mercy to shake out of pitty.
Has anyone ever thought if the rain and the wind perhaps needed some matrimonial consulting?
Maybe I should get a Master's in "Reverse Psychology" and later try a Phd in "Sarcasm Applied to Tradicional Knowledge".
You see,I got a bachelor's in Cinema and TV Production when all I wanted was to write a story about a broken man who loved another human being too much, or perhaps in case of not enough budget, a dog.
Yes... I'm that frustrated if you fancy going around your mind wondering and doing wrong judgments on my personality.
**** I really think the rain and the wind need some matrimonial consulting.
Anyway...
How can you ask sorry to a clown for not laughing?
How can you ask sorry to a wife for not loving?
How can you ask sorry to humanity for waking up after 1pm?
How can you ask sorry to your own body for letting it get all soaked wet?
You would be surprised by the amount of people in the world that don't know how to take a decent coffee and still don't ask sorry for it.
It's not like I'm trying to justify my own bads but these people should definitely ask sorry for theirs.
Alright now, You may be wondering why am I here?
Well, I'm here because I dont have anywhere else to go.
I'm here because I told my now ex girlfriend that 'Im tired of doing everything around home when actually I do nothing at all, so she got all upset and told me to leave,then I told her I wouldnt leave since that was my apartment as well, when actually that was really only her apartment, which she has been paying the rent and bills with the good amount of cash she has been getting from her suprisingly good position at Mills&Albert; Lawyers Company.
She's been ******* the boss anyway...
Well I guess, can't prove it... actually I never thought of it before, just now.
Again not trying to justify anything here.
You know...I've been this kind of guy who spends too much time doing nothing and the rest of the time hiding books that I want, but I shall never read cuz Im too lazy, behind the shelves of the library, so no one can take them away from me.
It's all my fault anyway.
I should have become a doctor of some kind or an engineer or a movie star or a rock start(I knew how to play the bass really fine)but instead I chose to be a loser, and let me tell you that's a pretty hard decision to make... and a brave one as well.
It's like you are sacrificing all your talents in behalf of the world, because the world needs losers to pin down "shame levels" which you shouldn't reach.
Alright Maybe Im just trying to justify something here but anyway... now it's done, now it's too late, isn't it?
Talking about late... I don't think there are buses this late.

I felt her with my cold  bare hands.
I got my hands always cold and maybe I should had let her know about that too.
I wondered if that would be the last time?
I wondered if the truth I was desperately looking for in her wasn't just me wasting my own time before I could face my own lies.
If I once loved her, Love will one day know. If I once fooled her,one day she will know.
If someday the truth shall be reveal to me, then I rather it to be on a Sunday sunset, when I'm old  and my time will be counted by the swings of my rocking chair.
Veronica Knows more than she tells and perhaps I write more than I know...

But I did liked her...
I learned how to...
I learned how to like her coldness and after-thoughts.
Her liking without loving.
Her giving without losing
Her books all over the place
Her free-spirit kept in a Coca-Cola can.
I learned that She doesnt like honey, but she loves it when with green tea.

But She didnt leave us for no reason.
She knew she was missing out something.
And she felt it in her veins, in her deep brain connections,
she felt it calling, something was trying to escape, ripping off the skin of the tips of her toes.
And She went after the rabbit, and she trusted the rabbit, although she could see him fading away, although she knew all this vision were just a metaphor for her deep desire to leave all the pain she carried in her heart.
She had no clue of a solution of any kind.
This world that they said being ruled by the intellect, the reason, the sagacity, the wisdom, was after all nothing more than an ugly play taking place on the roof of the finest of all the theater halls.
So she decided to leave it all behind. She decided that was better to be just a witness of this shameless decadent staging they called "Life".
So she left... perhaps to never come back.

"Have you forgotten your ticket... or your luggage?"
Because I wish you did.
I wish we both Had forgotten everything behind, included clothes,
and this bench was a bed, a small bed, so you would have to sleep on my chest.
Tomorrow will be another day. Tomorrow will be another day without check in, without gates, without running, without reading books,
without delays, without waiting queues, without sweat, without planes landing, without the morbid wishes for a plane to crash, without escalatores everywhere, without you.
How I hate airports... How I love airports.
******* Airports... full of their welcome laughs and goodbye tears, their happy endings and melodramatics departures.
The sad concept of living it's all condensed in this place. You are never happy with what you got till you are sad for what you lost.
But I was happy with you. I was happy at the Dublin Airport.

You wanted to separate Your sickness from your genius.
Donate to each of your brain hemispheres the resposibility
to deal with your differente delusions.
You wanted to be a little bit more morbid than genious or vice versa.
Never is such equal amounts.
You wanted fame, whatever it was the side of the coin.
You wanted to defended the colors of Manson.
You wanted to defended the colors of Sagan.
But You are stucked in a spiral where you aspire to breath
the air that only the freedom, of being something without conscience to self judge
or being something the world wont even dare to judge, can give.
But You are not so morbid... or so genius.
You're just like everyone else. In equal amounts.

Forgive me Love. Fogive me because Your forgiveness is the only one I care.
Forgive me because I didn't stay or Forgive me because I didn't say I wouldn't stay.
You may choose the worst of both sins and I may take the worse from your pain.
I will only faint when my heart gets too weak.
But I shall faint when gravity will be too strong for you to keep your tears.
Forgive me Love. Forgive me for I didn't mean to make you mine.

I knew that drinking was wrong. The Dad told it. The Mum told it. The Doctor told it.
******* everyone I knew told it. And still I gave it a try. To try to fix things up for me.
To try to fake love better than everyone arround did.
I walked miles with ***** on my veins. No one saw me and I saw no one.
I ignored their sins as long as they left me alone.
I kept their dreams alive as long as they didn't try to sell me any.
******* *******. They Dont know what their missing. Jailed in their ******* little pointless lifes.
I sit on the steps of the entry of an old apartment. I take my video camera out. Pretend it's a pistol.
And I sho(o)t them all. Later I will put the clips up to some classic Nocturne and I'll hang myself again in ***** and morphine.
Try to forget what Dad told. What Mum Told. What the Doctor told. Once Again.

Just one more time and I guess I'm done.

If you had to chose the end of something,
how would you people write it down?
If you had to die,
what would take your life away?
If You had to be forgotten,
how would you like to never be recalled?
If you had to lose someone...
I've never had a properly end written in a last glance of eyes.
I lost her like the eyes lose their shine.
I lost her like I imagine losing the hope. Unpredictable.
Like losing  that match of the matches, two seconds to the end when I was one hundred of points ahead.
She never told me goodbye. She never told me she would never come back.
And I was too lazy to wake up that morning.  
****... I wish I had wake up that morning.

I'm sitting on a disgusting all ***** chair on the cellar of an old chop-house.
The eternal boys from my time who failed at school and as consequence failed at life, play foosball.
The girl which I saw before entering the toilet with a scissor now comes out with a piece of hair in her hand.
Another girl stands in the corner, her back on the wall, beer in her hand, she doesn't stop looking at me.
Can't say If I know her. She approach me, she grabs a chair and sits right besides me. "You have no Idea what you are doing here"
"I can't say you are wrong" I reply. "1998. We wanted to take over the world". Now I knew. I looked at her and I recognized her eyes.
"You were right...". I said. She waited for the rest of my point. "...The Problem of the dreamers is that they never sleep together."
She knew what I was talking about but she choose to skip it. "Are you trying to get me to your bed after all this time?". I looked again back to her, my hand on my pocket.
"No. Take 20 cents and go have fun with the boys". I stand up and left. Her name was "Love". Never saw her again.