Calling you was the best (and random) way to start
a conversation. First talk. First chill. First poem (?)
It was nice to meet you,
and it is nice to be with you wherever we are.
Wherever we want to be.

I am resting my body against this empty chair.
I'm not here at all, sitting in this balm, thinking of this love of mine.
And I'm sure we know we love each other, but I'd like
to say it in person, holding you, kissing your forehead
and finally whispering: "I love you".

Because my wounds are gone since the day I met you.
Gone. A scar is gone every day.
And words cannot describe  the happiness I see in your eyes
every time we say hello, every time we sing
or tell each other our deepest secrets.
I love more every time I think of you.

As you are my Valentine, I'd like to say
the things you want are the things I desire.
And the sunlight that wakes us up in a cold morning of a cold Fall;
the other wounds that will never heal with time and love
and the giant raindrops, which bring coldness and despair
will never drag us down. For our love is beautiful and strong,

I love you,
I do.

Someone told me this world was never meant for beautiful people, and I don't get used to the way things are...

I felt beautiful for the first time in my life.

The Angel of Death with his wings were seen
when the skies were dark, but the rest was green.
And he breathed in the face of a beautiful lady,
whose eyes got lost in his deadly and shady
heart - so empty and cold - she wished to die.

So, the Angel of Death took her with him
when the skies were dark and the rest was green.
And his clasped hands grasped her head out of sight...
when the lady's body, like the stars of the night
awoke from a darkling sleep:

The Angel of Death was gone as her memory,
so deep and quiet as a glass with no emery.
And when the lady realized it was just a dream
about the skies that were dark and the rest that was green,
she killed herself with his son's sword...

and melted the mercy and glance of our Lord.

It's a cold night tonight.
The wind is blowing,
The rain is falling...

I can't hear them,
I'm paralysed:
Stuck on your eyes

(2011)

I've become accostumed to the way
my own clasped hands stay by my chest
when I lay on my bed
to count the stars above.

Though, lately, my mind started filling the holes
they leave when they fall,
they still shine so bright as the eyes of my love
when she looked at mine.

And now, I keep thinking if she still looks at me
while I'm starring at the sky...
searching for those little globes...
wondering if they still feel the same.

when I'm doing
everything I can
to leave you...
for I know love is made
of sorrow
losing
and deceptions,

your smile lights my soul.

I don't need
much
to be sad,
but,
when you are happy,
it's like I explode
in happiness and
feel the
weight
of distress going away;
the distance from suicide enhance
and solitude cease - because now
I have something
that fills my heart:

your smile, your feelings.

for love is letting yourself apart
and getting in the beloved one;
is forgetting we live a transitory and painful existence...
loving is giving her wings and boarding in the same flight...
it is being away, but aways close;
it is being wrong even when you are right.
love is what I feel - apart from all the suffering..

when I'm doing
everything I can
to leave you...
for I know love is made
of sorrow
losing
and deceptions,

your smile lights my world.

then,
on the detail,
on the innermost part of your
curves and avenues,
I feel complete.

I feel I love you.
I feel I love you as if I were part of you.
I love so much I almost forget
that your heart may not love me.
maybe it wants to protect me from love.
maybe it wants to protect me from all relationships.

I don't care.
I love apart from your opinion of yourself.
I love apart from absences and melancholy.

I love you to make you happy
and, thus, immortalize

your smile.

with brave lips,
I repeat what must not be saved:

I love all your flaws and qualities
with sincerity and care,
with the certainty of your uncertainty, sorrow and happiness
and with my love, which is my most complete sentiment.

(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.