Nothing produces more
Than obligation,
Nothing produces poorer
Than obligation.

I feel my world moving
I feel obligated to keep moving
But that can only come from
My own need to keep moving.

The problem with circles
Is that they never have a begin or an end,
Yet we inadvertently keep looking for them
In a naive effort to delegate
Vain motivations.

Things we only learn
So when they happen again,
Too late,
We regret
We didn't notice them earlier.

I need it,
More than richness,
More than butter and bread,
More than wine and dope,
And I don't know why I need it.

The addiction
Is justified,
I've been told
To be the future,
To be the hope,
To be the hardworking success,
To be free while stuck with desires
Of grandness and achievements.

The cure is yet to be found
Probably in places I can't reach:
Things I have never lived,
The forced detachment of starving,
The definite destination of a free fall,
The coldness of a star roof.

The diagnosis is clear:
To have everything
Leads to a quest
Effortless to the unreachable.

Sometimes we just go
We leave because it is the only thing,
The only reason,
The only way
To run from running,
To retire,
To rest
For staying consumes much,
For the songs and its lyrics
Are just deceiving
Symbols never to be cracked
Or just outdated.

But leaving suspends
The actions of a change
Everything remains,
But at a distance,
In strange places
Of a mazing memory.

To leave is to accept
Things as things,
Unchanged by abandonment.

But, sometimes,
It is the only reason
When all other reasons
Completely dragged power out of
Our will to stay.

There is nothing to define,
What's old is old,
It's in the past,
It is no more,
It is a memory,
A phantom,
The mess after a party.

Its beautiful lies
In its absence.

Its character
Is a reflex,
A reflux,
Everything it can no longer
Be.

The new
Is everything
That remains.

I call friends
Those who
I have been drunk with,
But not only that -
That'd be too easy.

To be my friend
One has to have seen me
Dressed in womens' clothes,
Or have watched Juno for the first time,
Or have watched Lion King over and over,
Or have seen bright new colors together,
Or crossed an ocean with me,
Or shared during 5 years dreams of a lifetime,
Or dragged me out of a downward spiral,
Or have been invited to my parents' house,
Or new it had no locks (most of the time),
Or have played 16-bit games with me,
Or have me sleeping out of home,
Or traded a party for a school work,
Or fought with a friend to leave to the party,
Or took me for a brother, and still does it,
Or sheltered me when I was desperate,
Or took me in for a job,
Or partnered in an enterprise with me,
Or shared all toys with me,
Or hold me when I was all cracks,
Or adopted street cats with me,
Or have known me for more than 25 years
(and endured me at least 50 days a year),
Or introduced me to movies and music,
Or expanded my horizons with philosophy,
Or criticized my guitar playing,
Or have been a sister to me,
Or have jumped from a moving car,
Or shared a 16-people house with me,
Or have shown me underground culture,
Or have played in a bar with me while 5 years old,
Or have played football (Brazilian-like) at least 30 times,
Or have changed a name for a Pokémon,
Or have lived with me in a hunted house,

Every bit I am
Somehow, I owe it to you.

There is nothing to define
What's old is old,
It's in the past,
It is no more,
It is a memory,
A phantom,
The mess after a party.

Its beautiful lies
In its absence.

Its character
Is a reflex,
A reflux,
Everything it can no longer
Be.

The new
Is everything
That remains.

We are nothing
And every attempt to be
We lose bits of being
Into our void.

Like a river rising itself
Losing water,
Losing power,
Remaining only scratches on a plain.

We seek grandiosity
But we are already to big to cross
The cracks of peace, of rightness,
We are too rigid when we ought to be fluid,
We are humans but we run from it
Whenever we forget
Every little moment
Should be taken care
Like an injured bird:
At the end, it must fly
In order to see a shrinking world.

The distorted mirror
Can look inside,
Can translate inner horrors
Into real actions.

Yet, we look at it,
Unbelieving,
Discrediting,
But it is out there:
We've seen it
And now that we know it,
There's nothing else we can be.

We are what we put outside,
Combined with what we nurture inside.

Now I need
Things that heal.

The distilled poison
Hidden beneath the purity mantle,
Disguised with the smell of perfume,
Can't be distinguished from pure air.

The monster of insanity,
Fed by fear,
Grew larger than ourselves.
Bravery is the only way
Whenever danger is out.  

To heal is to resist.
The absurd is to succumb.