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We grew up
And I remember that you used to
Contemplate dead stars that have not lost their shine
And to say that the Three Sisters were the most beautiful in the universe
because they were always together
- like us.

I remember that I used to delight in the smell of your strawberry hydrant
which you passed through your entire body
and I worried that I might miss a few words
and make you don't talk to me for the rest of the week.

I remember that you devoured books,
ran like a lumpy cheetah
and was always inciting me through trivial provocations.

We grew up,
we were hit by the ****** scent of life
and we smell the money
which makes us breathe as much as oxygen.
Killer minds camouflaged by coaching speeches caught us by the wayside
and the voices of the alleys taught us that to be a conqueror in truth was the worst way.

We could have aged, but
We stopped at the time.
Now, we live in this eternal adulthood
where we put a foot on a social footwear,
and we leave the other barefoot in the land of never.
We do not know the laws of the now and the laws of the future.
We forged our own Law.
We have no ideologies or identities,
but we are everything
to each other.
For us,
every day are punishments and gifts.
We are our own executioners and liberators.

But, several times,
in moments of nostalgia and shame
I wanna be that stupid boy again
sitting on the beach by his side
listening to Jack Johnson
while boys shake giving their first kisses
and the girls dream with a soulmate.
I was a child and had the world in
My hands
- I could do whatever i wanted with him.

Today, I am an adult and the world has me
In his hands
I still have to know
What he will do
With me.
poem, poetry, poems, matheus peleteiro
Seriousness, maturity, composure and hopelessness: assumptions of an adult man metamorphosed into a beast. It is usually said that no serious man practices certain acts, but, the truth is that no serious man lives.

The concept of integrity has been misrepresented, and today what makes us whole is the same thing that makes us stupid. Men who overrate for seriousness and integrity become dour, sad, "decent men". Composure deprives us of the flame that feeds the soul called inconstancy.

There are also those who confuse good humor and sarcasm with constraints that merit respect. There are those who preach that you must be ruthless and never show weakness. There are those who say that all you need is a lot of pain and a person on the other side of the phone refusing your emergency call.

But it is these same men who commit suicide because they have reined in. These are the ones who keep the world in an eternal free fall. Seriousness is the cowardice of not laughing at the ironies and the bad bits that life puts us. More than good image, seriousness deprives us of life. And that's why a lot of people die convincing themselves that roughness is a victory.
Fool is the one who believes that seriousness presupposes respect, and kills wittyness. For even though most understand it this way, being conniving with it is stupid.

Matheus Peleteiro
I could never see a book as a literary critic sees
I can never watch a film with the look of a movie buff
I can never hear the beating of a heart with the ear of a cardiologist

Many can.
Many lose so much for so little,
And like many others,
Never get carried away by hedonism.

And that's why there's so coldness in the ordinary men,
That's why so many become cranky, frustrated or

And that distance that the "never" gives me
It's what keep me away from boredom
And from the smallness, that both
Bothers me.
I need literature to escape
Because sometimes the world
Enjoy giving us a beating.
And then, we wonder,
Did we offended God?
Or are just unlucky tides?

I need literature to escape
I do not know from where, maybe
From myself,
But I need it to fight
With these boring and stressful routines of a common survivor,
While people are diving
In old conceptions
Thinking about how everything seems so new.

I need literature to escape,
Just as poetry
Literature exists to make us forget ...
From where even?
The implosion of myself
Saturday nights reading crime and

The whispering moans issued the streets
no way out
Dumb cries arose from behind the walls of
the alleys
Don't justified
My literature
or even
The loneliness that
I feel in my chest.

All this
Just helps me to believe
Nothing matters
Until you
Do you know what i hate in the old?
Their ways of not seeing the new
Their ways to not let the past
Their ways of conserving what they think about the correct

I also hate to think that, sometimes,
The young people get old
Too soon,
And that time builds wise's,
But time thrown out
Constructs dead weights

But they are not all.
Sometimes it is possible to repair
In some people,
A spirit who
Just born

The beauty of life is that
It is renewed
And then,
The new and the old
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