(2011)

       lovelove                lovelove                          
    o ­      v    I really love  o          v                      
v    love   o  loving you v  love   o                      
    e love|            L           | love l
                you know it's true                                  
                   love V love                                          
                  ­          E

I have seen my love
and I've never held her to me.
I've never known her warmth, her beauty
nor the depths of her heart
- except the ilusion of images created by men.
No! I need to share an embrace,
my laughter, my pain, my love...
I want to look deep in her eyes (deep into mine)
and sing her a song many have sung before
- not as tender and truthfully as I.
Most of all, I love a love that loves but her.
A love that sings, lives and hurts... And grows each moment.
Unfortunately, I have only seen my love
in the light of thought. Sweet and beautiful thoughts.
When we finally meet,
she will rest on my chest and feel special.
Because she really is special to me.
And I will kiss her on the forehead and say:
"I don't really care how distant we are...
I don't really care how little have we talked...
I love you out of space and out of time.
I love you, I love you, I love you."

I sing of unimportant affairs, boredom and melancholy.
I sing of detested feelings, suicide and misanthropy.
Though I'm not dead - and may never be
- otherwise people would reprobate and shout at me...
I still sing of egocentrism, disorders and whiskey...

I sing of unbeloved ones, the bereft and ******.
I sing of people that made me mourn, the last cup, the abandoned.
Though I'm not dead - and may never be
- otherwise people would say I'm selfish (because I'm free)...
I still sing of negativism, hate and tempestuous poetry.

I sing of commodism. I sing of understanding
we still dread to be dead, because sadness is not part of life - yet.
I sing of time and loss. I sing of vibration and liquefaction.

Still, I'm not part of Byron's generation, for my satisfaction.
I'm just a man who wants to change the misconception of sentiment.
I sing of darkness and suffering - sometimes too eloquent (in me).

I'm a poet,
                       I'm a human.

                                                   D o n 't  t r u s t  m e.

                My words are clever
                Though clever I'm not.

Let isolation and solitude
sleep in the arms of passion,
while I cry (I cry myself)
in melting walls of silent screams.

Just be patient when you're lost
in quietness and surrounded by idiots
shouting the rectitude of our voices.

Let me go through their minds.

Let me be in their quiet dreams
and ask themselves (if I asked myself)
"what the hell am I doing here?"

Let isolation and solitude
sleep in the arms of love,
while I weep verses of sorrow and blame.

I guess I'm just too young for that.

I need more time to perceive myself.
I need more time to perceive
I need more time.

I know them already. I feel I know.

I don't know...

Let isolation and solitude sleep.

While my dreams come true,
reckless visions of my love
will turn out to be deaf, blind
and ****** up.
Postado por Paulo

I have seen my love.
For a while I could softly run my fingers through her golden hair.
Could stop and look at her face, alone,
The most beautiful I had ever seen,
Yet, her ocean eyes could reflect how lovely she could be.
Her hands, so warm and small, touched mine
Just like our lips, in a slowly and tender kiss – out of space and out of time.
Her warmth, her laugh, her heart and our love,
So deep and quiet that she didn’t know we were already falling.
Her intelligence, flowing in her mind through innocent ways,
Makes (pure) all the things we see,
And I admire her smile, sublime, on sunny days.
Our chemical has many forms and transforms every different couple.
That’s why they fall in love. A love that would last forever,
If those reactions didn’t change.
Late at night, when I have visions of my angel, I come to her and watch her sleep.
I open my mind and make sweet dreams, the sweetest dreams to dream,
Just to be in love every morning.
In love with a lover so true,
A love which makes me happy,
A love so pure and beautiful,
That remains living,
Singing,
Being,
And loving,
Loving my love for you.

Upset for being thwarted
by the silence that echoed in the living room
when they read the fruits of his planned poem
that sleeps and let its verses rest.

From the blue and starry sky to the blackness of closed windows,
I dreamt of seeing a dark world, full of painted stars;
I dreamt of seeing human people and the moon man
walking, bringing hope to my naked face.

I have never been Shakespeare or Rimbaud, I'm not Poe and won't be Neruda.
I'll be myself and nothing much, for being this way,
because every word I speak or write will be deaf
and will hardly vary as time goes by for me.

And the music that sounds, sweats from my depths,
and the chords, the steps they dance,
the happy faces, scattered people, strangers,
don't get lost, never get tired.

I'm the variant poet, the oscillating poet...
I'm like a bird that glides in its imagination,
I'm the accompanied poet, lost in loneliness,
I'm a full train that derails.

On this side, the future - on the other, ancient mansions.
On that, decassyllable ladies, machines and sparse letters
suspended, watching old lanterns and scarse memories
from this youth, myself and I in my lying emotions.