Before I burn
This diary,
I will gently
Rise my bent knee
And name you
My humble wishes:

Offer me sanctuary.
Be my peace of mind.
Grant me your summer smile
In days of wintery rain.
I will faint and return
By the grace of your autumn air.
I will beat the wind
That rises tides out of your kind hearted soul.

I want to fall asleep
And feel the sun on my face
Sheltered in your arms,
Caressed by your fingers.

I will greet many days
And reach out many smiles
If the only life I have left
Remains blessed
By your presence,
My love.

Overwrite moments w/ 1s and 0s,
in binary mood,
until love is gone for good.

Do you remember when we
were 1 amongst many 0s?

What was once the sound
of a smile in your laughter,
tied together by sine waves,
will become empty 1s, empty 0s
after we press ‘Y’.

And the machine will
wipe the sectors for days,
until the cycles become unreadable,
and that’s when
our love will truly be gone for good.

Like a puzzle you try to solve
with the wrong pieces.

And now smashes the hammer.
Only the hit will tell
how gone for good our love will be.

the ring that ruled
before dawn and day,
o'er summer & an old sun
with its shafts of remebrance;

shall it remain in middle-earth
and the Dark Lord will feed upon all that is green;
shall it become fire from the mountain
and fair lairs will tremble with the wind of age.

but what is to be must be;
all we have left is what we always had:
the power of a single day that is given to us -
one road to fulfill, to live, and to love.

I left home to search for an endless road
and I will go wherever it may take me.

Through visible and invisible,
I'll rain new rivers out of many seas,
and sleep deep dreams under the willow trees.

Through sunless mornings and many nightfalls,
I'll wander true places that host lair to thousands of tales,
and all this I'll do while erasing my trail.

Because once I take these many roads of life,
I can't come back home
to be the same that I was when I left.

A luz febril da infância rompe pelo milharal dourado.
O Rei Sol adormece, para lá do âmbito,
para lá do Fim dos Tempos.

Não será a última vez.

*

The feverish light of infancy
strikes deep
in thru the golden cornfields.

Her sun souled feet
won’t stand still -
they rave the sand
of endless seas.

No life, no death,
just the ride in between.

Once upon a time
the gods made us
and we made them.

To see a fraction
of the world:
so many different people
and all of them
have something to tell
a poem of their own,
and sometimes you just want
to stop it all
and go to them
and grab that poem
and read it

but poetry doesn’t work that way,
and so you wait
for the poem to unfold.

how many sunrises is a lifetime worth?

She walked in the café
and asked for a red apple,
and I was sitting there,
falling in love,
with a green apple on my hand.

We eyed each other, as man and woman do,
and we laughed at each other’s apples
holding an ‘hello’ still to come.

I kiss your raw lips
and say goodbye.
The sun has yet to rise.

Let us walk in peace
with the morning star.
We should make love & die.

We shoud live life every day,
not just for some day.

Love. Love. Love.
Sweet darling, I’m here,
by the fog, by the light.

With you here,
Time lies within Time
and ages slip away into seconds,
and seconds turn into Love,
which will feed on my soul for all time.

when dawn arise,
I will forget who I am
and kiss the earth.

I might smile a thousand suns
and cry a thousand moons.

If it’s all the same to you,
I’d like to be alone
until our time feels right.

You were the dream I never expected to come true,
but now you are here.

I am blessed:
The dawn is rising with you.

As I write ifs and elses
& grab some dreams
out of the shelf,

I am struck by
a miracle with beautiful legs.

I am struck again
by a feather with a soft spring song.

And I lose my mind
to these little things that belong
to that time before summer.

The melody that echoes in my humming
and your beautiful uncompromising pace
send my spinning wheel of emotions
to never ending places.

To love you is to write you down,
word for word, until the pen loses its ink,
and another days goes by in dazes
and it could rain deserts for all I care.

All of the sudden,
my poem gets touched by other,
and that’s how poetry is made,
you see?

She lives in all of us,
somewhere, somehow,
waiting to be unfolded.

And the day will come
that the best poem will come bursting
out of an entire life of compilations.

in a mental december haze
looking out the window for my love.
it's the falling season
of motions in the leaves that gather around
and cover the ground,

and the lost road now belongs
to those whose feet wander around
not searching for nothing,
yet finders of all that is worth.

someone once told me
the sweet bird of youth
would last forever

and I guess she meant it,
in a puzzled kind of way,
you see.

just like a pretty flower needs
to be watered and loved to grow,
the sweet bird of youth needs
constant spring
and warm winds
if it's meant to last... forever.

Outside the subway we
saw an old man
dancing in the rain.

[There he gave
birth to a revolution.

Dare to say
he was only a man,
like me, like you,
born to rule, to conquer,
to defy, to rave,
to seize
the promise of another day.

There was a
sweet conversation
in his mind, where he ruled
kings in his wisdom.

All the gold in the world
couldn’t beat his
dancing soul.]

Outside the station we
did not see a man -
we saw the sun aligned with the stars.

And it makes you wonder
if such gentle and uncompromising act
alone justifies the purpose of existing.

when the lights go down low
my feet will shake to that sweet sunny glow.

when that good ol' jazzy jazz spurs into my thoughts
my one and only concern will be not to stop.

when I’m taking that kind of high
I swear I don’t, I don’t need to know why

but I know this:
when that feeling of bliss arrive
I'll know for sure why I'm alive.

"Alchemy is the rainbow that bridges all that is earthly and ephemer to all that is heavenly and eternal. It's the bonding of matter and spirit. The desire for a perfect life that can only be achieved through knowledge.

Alchemy is the union of life and death to fullfill a more fundamental purpose: that of the creation. To create life from nothing."

To **** the dream
is to **** the self -
the suicide of days.

Imagine a life
where your only dream
is to dream,

where you live unaware
of something else, better.

What if the only thing that makes you wake up in a cold wintery morning is a fantasy?

What if a single dream is sustaining the weight of your entire universe?

The spontaneous momentums
of my wild laughter
try to keep up
w/ all these insane rides of my life.

I know me well and I lack discipline.
But that won’t mean a thing tomorrow,
because I’ll live more, and I’ll know better.

When you and I talked for hours on end
we sheltered on each other’s hopes & dreams,
and promised never to fear crossroads in our journey.

We let go of that strange need for constant presence,
because where there is friendship, there is a place
with warmth enough to sleep by the fire.

When you came to me in tears, lost in your own world,
I talked you out of it and showed you mine,
and you smiled: “How can you be so happy?”

And I said:
“I choose the color of my days.”

The universe was a given
from the get-go,
and we are flowers that can choose
to grow, each day.

It has been said before
many times
by different words,

but happiness happens.

As I pondered thru rivers & streets
& breathed dusk of lemon scents, I
chose an ancient star to gaze & waste my
contemplations on;

In my writings, I bled my soul
to give life to the distant star;
I wasted all the words in the world.

Then she was gone. I sat alone with a poem.
I was never enough,
but I was alright.

I’d exchange all the things I’ve ever loved
for a chance in the sun.

«You always write the weirdest things»,
she says with a java jive smile.
The sun burns red among the living.

I lay down with my thoughts,
what a marvelous sight:
you and the river.

I guess you are unique
in a world of colors,
so paint at your will.

And if my colors should fail
and jeopardize the painting,
I'll know what to do.

I'll **** every morning,
waste every sun.

I'd rather stay on the shore
and watch you happen
than to live with half a smile.

when day is done
the sons of metalurgy
will return home -
dusk upon their shoulder
and a sharp eye
looking for trouble.

but time flows ever onward
and many more twilights
will show.

the search will feel ancient
and the chest of memories
will weight a lifetime.

she and the moon glare in the distance:
how many dreams it will take
to walk the one and only road?

Wouldn’t you rather
turn the winter
into summer

and make the rain stop,
and make the sun last?

The sun will last
as long as you keep
smiling towards its light.

another dusky morning.
the summer fog
stole the sunrise a chance.

black coffee spilled over the soul.
another burn telling me
I must rise & get my kicks before midnight.

the sunrise will grant me everything.
but what is everything, what could I lose,
where can I go if I all have already stirs my heart?

I just listen to the song and watch the sunrise;
the summer fog mingles with the heat of the light.
the less I worry, the more it mingles.

I've turned water into wine by not turning it at all,
I've poured my fantasies & dreams, and created a new reality.
And Time is enjoying every second of me.

gonna hold my soul
to the devil untold;
just a cup of coffee
and you'll never know.

they wait and they wait.
If only they learned how to bend the winds,
their ships would go anywhere.

To me,
words are this:
the perimeter of reason.

And if you solve the puzzle
and order them correctly,
you can calculate the area
of the entire universe,

and no more will you be lost
in its complex mysteries.

When the day comes
I'll put out my pipe
and watch the sun go by, all the same.

Yes, the thing with dreams is
you never know when or where.
The good news is, neither do they.

The day comes to never return again.
The sun that shines will be the same tomorrow -
but all else & the world belongs to you.

poems are
translations of your soul to the real world -
the echoes of something you once felt.

strong feelings and memories
often produce the most beautiful pieces of poetry.

no wonder we write so many love letters.

she is by the window.
she seldom is anywhere.

she has a poem inside her,
waiting to be written.

her eyes a thousand nights
that seek to rise -
to gather all the stars.

“A alquimia é o arco-íris que une tudo o que é terreno e efémero aos planos celestes e eternos. É uma mistura de matéria e espírito, de querer e de saber. É a união da vida e da morte no seu mais perfeito sentido de existência: o da criação.”

out in the meadows.
Cars will stop as I cross
the street of dreams.

Collages of stars
that sustain
the Western Dream.

So I'm living off of tuna cans.
The metallic garbage smells of
salty water & broken shards.

I'm too old to be young,
too fragile to stay out in the night
when all I want is a good joke to laugh at
instead of a bad morning story.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

And I like it.
The rain outside, I open the door
& let them shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.

os muros da cidade estão
pintados de poesia,

pintados de palavras rudes
que revelam os sonhos
de cada alma.

Esses são os sonhos da cidade
e todos eles se tornam
num só.

I remember the most beautiful moment of my life.
I couldn't have been 4.

Everybody was gathered in the park,
a gathering to watch the sunset
and there was music playing.

This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever:
The singer had just died,
and I think we were celebrating his poetry
or his clinginess to life.

But at the same time, nobody was talking about it.
There was just silence and the sunset -
a meaningless collection of sensations
to all but a childish mind.

I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there,
but none of them recall any of it happening.

They would have me believe
the best moment of my life
was a dream.

There was one sunset, of all the rest, I will never forget. All the green countryside miles, all the flashy cars in furious thunderstorms, all the music that matched the red oranged skies of the dusk (because they were as pure as that) - all of that remains untouched by the jaws of time. The sunset of our first night together.

I've sinced learned what it means to love, to let go, and to never look back. I've loved and let go of it, but I can never, ever forget that one sunset of my life.

Many more will follow, many more will surely become objects of nostalgia. That's the way of life, I suppose. And all those dreams we shared, I don't regret any of them. It's good to look back and remember a time when life was easy to live and so full of sunshine; where smiles and eyes were easy to reach.

But I'm better now than I was then. A better man, with better dreams, and hungry for new sunsets. And while it feels good to remember those days of youth, I know nostalgia belongs in the realms of shallow fantasies. I can only reminisce the good times we had, but I know there was grief and gloom and thunder at times... only Time seems to make everything seem so perfect. Or distance does that. Maybe we do when we look back at the greatest moments of our lives, just because we can not relive them in the same way.

But there's no telling when or where the next sunset is going to happen. There's joy in the past, but there's also an unsettling thrill in the future. There are moments waiting outside of my boundaries, and I still don't know that I know.

We always fear the future. We fear the good things. We fear Death because we are too afraid of not having anything at all to fear. But we need fear. We need it to feel other emotions. We need loss to value life. And we need the night to wish for the day. And we need the present to hope for the future and make the best of it out of our yesterdays.

I've got the right to fly.

it was ten years gone.
I was just a kid in love.
The idea of love was a playground.
Love was an idea, for a kid.
I knew ****.

Still.

Must have been pretty strong
to last to this day.

I sipped many beers on my way back home.
Kind of makes you feel sometimes
the road could just go on, in motion, without a safe net,
without the safety of a way back home.

As if yesterday never came
and tomorrow never went
to that radioactive place
where love is lost
where love is found.

There is no other way. Either you forget the lies you've been fed all your life or waste yourself away, to chase a fabricated truth.

Man is only free when he breaks up with those lies, when he denys everything and becomes ruler of his own reality -  but that demands sacrifice, and is harder than anything imaginable. In fact, it could well be the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in your life: to demolish an entire temple and be left with nothingness.

It means you must be able to see yourself for what you truly are and accept that your reality is what you make of it.

It also means you must be prepared to blame yourself for your failures, just as you would eagerly blame yourself for your successes.

Those who believe that man can rule another man, that lust and feasts are the answer to solitude and boredom, that love can be bought and worn like a badge for the world to see.

Those who name a king a king, who give church the greenlight to do their bidding. Those who fiercely believe that man has what it takes to wield the gods and bestow their will.

Those will say many things to contradict your reality and your dreams, because their reality and dreams are the greater good. Those that see you and me like a means to an end. But we can spot them. Their system is flawed, and that would be ok: because man is flawed. But they won't accept their own reality. They will remain untouched, in ther little shiny rooms with mirrors. Twisted until the end.

Well, it's your death in the end. That's all you should know, all you should care about. It should be enough to tell you what kind of life you need to live. Because all else is a farse.

What the other writers of past centuries have wrote is true. And the truth prevails anything. No matter how many generations pass and take the wheel, the sullen play goes on, with or without you.

Your dreams will be crushed, and your failures noticed.

But you only lose if you give a ****.

dawn on the backyard.
No guarantees
that it will be a hot
summer's day.

I am here. Not a sparrow
with a song,
not a pigeon with a
poem attached
to an unwilling paw.

Just walking the walk,
reading out loud
to children,
trying to mark
their childhood,
to dwell there,
forever
as a strange familiar
face,
friendly memory.

I said I'm no one.
Just someone with a song.
I miss the old feeling
of being kissed by the world.

I had more,
I just don't carry these words
anymore.

I am here. Surrounded by
a universe that holds
itself
in a mysterious pose
inside
a magic box.

but I know
what I must do.

I won't chase its tail,
and walk my own trail,
and that's when
it will reveal itself to me.

And maybe we could forgive
the days
we wasted away from each other,
longing to be
surrounded by each other's arms.

Oh and perhaps we could
start again
all over
like a newborn cloud
in the empty blue
of a sky

Yes. I'd like that.
I'd make it possible any day,
if it was up to me.

Renewal.

Darling, the road was
full
with other places to go to,
and as you know
sometimes we lose the track of time
and the track itself
becomes another road.

I'm sick of conquering the world
with art
and my eloquent speech that never
left the paper,
where it was carefully crafted
and refined.

I need nothing. I am what I am
and I conquer a part of reality
with that that I am.

If you love me now
drop a letter.
This is the real me. Feel it.
A weird beauty of being alive
by your side.

If you love me as I am now,
you are a fool,

because the real me
is out there, somewhere,
waiting to be reinvented
by endless roads.

I only ask you
to be a part of those endless roads,
and forget the first and the last kiss,
and love me in between.

With night lies a watchful sight.
Breathing lungs waiting in detox -
does it hurt to be out of the center,
on the edge of dawn, another door,
oh life could be so much more.

(black dragon under ceiling.)

She waits because she has the time;
My kid, again, returning home,
lazy school days, nothing could hold me on;

(and it dawned on me that my time, I wasted it on a dream.)

Friday ate ice cream watching the sunset,
I took her for a walk around the citadel;
Ran for miles during my youth, wasting all away,
but Time on this life is our great illusion.

New kids at the playground,
where I used to play one day.
Now, school days are over
even though I miss them so.

I took my soul elsewhere, beyond,
and I don't care where I'm going.

No, I don't care, where I'm going,
because I know I'm not going
I'm not going anywhere.

music is
rain
mingled with the sun.

I remember a day
when purpose could be found
with ease,

now, I strive:
what once was winter love
has touched the summers of my life
and forever molded the seasons.

poetry became too personal.
At some point,
the pain was too real when
put into words,
and that is why
I turned to music.

When making music,
your feelings are also mingled
with the notes,
and you don't feel any pain.
It's incredibly beautiful,
just like a poem,
but it doesn't hurt you.

But I can't stop to wonder
that all these things are a filler
to hold on on this ever maddening road,
until the time is right for us to meet again.

because that's where my life really shines, right?
I won't remember the filler days.
I live for the moments that we create together,
and maybe the art that I produce out of it.

But that's it,
sadly... or happily.

I know I'd trade it all -
the most beautiful poem or melody,
it doesn't mean a thing to me
when put next to what you mean to me.

your hardest days
are the ones you really feel alive.

to be deprived of challenge
in exchange for a comfortable life
can seem a reasonable thought,

but it doesn't make for a much interesting story,
and life without stories to tell is no life at all.

so let the rain fall in your face, once in a while,
and go to nowhere, see where it's at,
and maybe on your way back
you'll find that the rain doesn't bother you anymore,
and that maybe that's because of the new you.

the jazz in the car
moves the wheels.

the highway for
the end of summer.
the purple sunset rains
cascades of stars.

The dices,
They don't roll anymore.

the beauty of any road is that
it leads to everywhere,
if you dig its trail.

the search for another search
stirs my heart & soul,

but I keep on going
for the laughs.

trapped
one night before my birth
it's 1995
the circus is in town
and so
is the lioness
and the
clowns, the
very
frightening clowns.

the room is
filled with black magic
and the walls
are painted with dawn's poetry,
the dark age.

the fall of the day
the angel again,
dream after dream,
never reaches the ground.

will he ever rise
to rule again
in the kingdom?

will I ever return
to reality?

too many gods to look for
too many whispers and calls to attend
and only one heart to seek within
and only one road to follow thru.

I looked for something in the archives.
An old poetic note written in ancient days;
and old feeling attached to a certain song,
like a sunny day that danced around a melody
my soul never forgot.

Wasn’t a love poem.
I’d never waste a single thought in
that old same unreasonable doubt.

One day we kiss,
the other we set sail,
we regret, we return,
we won’t stand still.

Wasn’t a love note for sure.
I wouldn’t dare love you
or write down my feelings for you.
I don’t belong in a bedtime shelf.

But I look for you, every now and then.
The streets feel so empty
when you can’t find your place in the sun.

Void and endless mental shapeshifting changes
swift my mind and soul, but I wouldn’t waste a single thought:
always had too much time to ****,
but I would never let my soul dry out in the playground.

I look for nothing, can’t find what I can’t wish,
and if I dream, I really should not.

home is where
the soul is warmer.

home is where
the sun is the sunniest.

home is where
the world ends and begins.

Art is the most voracious muse of all.

The best often bleed to death.
Young and wild, they pay the price
to echo forever.

happiness is already happening to you
and will never happen before
or after;

happines is an option,
not a pursue.

bitterness will **** you
faster than a cigar.

a sad childhood
or a bought one,
hard school days
or sweet sixteen lies

the cigar burns all those
days away;

they never think
you can go as far as to think
that perhaps your life
is yours to live.

Collages of stars
that sustain
some Western Dream.

Living off of tuna cans,
there's my dream, stumbling on the floor:
the carpet reads 'HAPPINESS HAPPENS'.

I write better when I don't write
with a sense of purpose.

You'd think there'd be more to it.
But no. It's just words, man. They can only
take you so far without your feet.

And it may be to me
the same that is to you.

The rain outside, I open the door
& let my loved ones shelter inside.

And just like that,
with all the mercury in my blood,
I leave the door opened.