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Arold Apr 4
Ele é confusão
Inesperado como a chuva no Verão
Turbulento e confuso

Ouve-me de noite
Adormece de dia
Discorda dos meus princípios
É terramoto na minha personalidade

Ele é diferente
Por ser igual a tudo aquilo que procuro
Agita-me até água transbordar
Toca-me violentamente
E ainda me sinto virgem

Diálogos viram ausência
Abraços viram respirações suspensas
Memórias viram mensagens espaçadas

Ele é banho de água fria
Café queimado
Areia branca que queima
É desnecessário
Mas inevitável
Duzy Jul 2019
The sun has long disappeared behind the stage
I'm inspired and sweaty and feeling my age

The amplifiers still ringing in my ears

The smell of the Tagus draws in and I take my tired frame up winding streets
The cafés are open. Piano music. Shoes on cobbles providing the beat

Sat silently listening to the late urban shuffle, people appear from narrow openings between tired, tiled buildings
Are the up late, are they up early?

It's been a long day. A day of fleeting smiles.
I think of you, and there's one more.

This one lasts.
Kayu Venture Mar 2019
Invincible for the empire roman;
That fury and vengeance was his language;
How Viriathus as vanquish around 200 years;
And lusitânia wasn't clears;

Port du graal was it's the place;
How was hidden the Holy Graal;
The secrets and wars was case;
And raise the Portugal;

The Kingdom for war and conquer ;
Was spoken by a glory Europe;
The spanish, french,english and Dutch ;
Bowed over the mighty Avis Master;

The glory and death of The Empire ;
Was not clear , the kindgom was gone;
The King D.Manuel II wasn't the bel;
But was bare wire;

Know Lusitania is lost;
So high is the cost?;
We never know the reason;
But Iberians gonna be the new season;
Emily Jane Feb 2018
One last look for Lisbon
Let it seep into my heart
One last wistful wish that
I was back again at the start
I was a girl then
Wondering how to do my hair
I am a woman now
Heavy heart frayed with wear
One last look for Lisbon
Windows glow from the sunrise
The air feels full of magic
I am much more alive
I want to take a picture
So I pull out my phone
But no, I don’t need a photograph
Just this feeling in my bones
A tract can be coined a cake
and love of her biosphere but me
in Doeville shall rupture her mandrake
those herds of desert shores
with a torch will believe in me azores
when shy of antrorse
gypsies rebel there
as Jugendstil has accomplished Sezession
well eat lark in Catalonia
As assylum seeker Puigdemont
In Seville

My lock is like a wheel
that treasures the land
with strands of sand now an inroad to soul
in times of grain this platitude of health ahead of tides

the salt on shore implores unfinished deeds
as art deplores any nurturing of needs
with stars out this race beyond the chariot again

and proves that this orient has rightly won a gathering if seed roaring in a stream of catchment nigh
where these overtones are songs
and round about the fields along the Guadalquivir.
tiago Duarte Mar 2017
470
Sou uma máquina emocional
Cuja busca pelo racional
Levou me a um buraco fundo e espesso
Onde arranco e arremesso
Pedaços de mim e de quem eu já fui
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
Could have wrote a whole book about you,
but instead all you get is this one poem,
and as lovely as you are you have all the signs of crazy,
so no this is not exactly a love poem,

it’s a lesson in the form of prose,
about abuse and about healing,
about hurting and learning,
and how we emotionally evolve,

post trauma no drama all problems solved,
no commas till Nirvana I am The Man Who Sold The World,

a young **** unplugged I’ve been through it all,
so I when she said she’d smack my mug I just  shrugged it off,

when I say She I mean You and that’s the truth I mean come on,

we were at the most beautiful view in Lisbon,
sitting together in the grass,
and I know I shouldn’t have mentioned Russia and Crimea,
but I’d swear I thought you asked,

alas,

could have wrote a whole book about you,
but instead all you get is this one poem,
and as lovely as you are you have all the signs of crazy,
so no this is not exactly a love poem,

it’s more of a heated horror story,
a heartwarming tale of cold shoulders,
written by the waning light of the summer moon,
the pen is the sword that hews the stone until the tablet is hewn,

I’m a poet I know this so I wrote this to you I just hope it’s not too soon,

could have wrote a whole book about you,
but instead all you get is this one poem,
and as lovely as you are you have all the signs of crazy,
so no this is not exactly a love poem,

this is a poem,
about learning not to care,
about being able to look someone right in the eyes,
and pretending like you don’t even care,

worse than pretending,
really not caring,
please I wanted you to bring some inspiration,
but all you brought was doubt and fear,

so I set you down,
as quickly as I had picked you up,
I let you go,
as quickly as I had held you close,

so,

so what,
you taught me not to care,
when I was feeling the most vulnerable,
is exactly when you chose to strike,

why?

I mean,
what happened to yesterday’s yesterday,
when we met under that wise old tree,
at that festival in Portugal,
where we feel so infinitely free,

where I invited you to spend time with me,
so we could together experience this miraculous creation called life simultaneously,

you’d accepted my invitation at the Oriental Station in Lisbon on that restaurant balcony,

I had asked where you were going,
and you’d said Madrid then back to Cypress,
I asked you why you were going back,
and you said you didn’t know,

so I invited you to a magical place called Sintra,
where we could have space to explore,
magical gardens with magnificent plants from the four corners of the world,
secret white sand beaches with just us the black rocks and the white sand,
castles in the sky and initiation wells winding into the earth,
drink from from the eternal springs which spring from the fountain of youth,

this is all true,
everything I’ve written here,

but you sabotaged this passionate plot before it even got started,
it started too fast I wanted a time out instead we ate at the Time Out Market,

I feel sick to my stomach,
I brought you to an angelic place to watch the sun set,
and what could have been a beautiful healing experience turned into nothing,
I feel sick to my stomach,

why have we done this,

why have we become this,

what can we take from this,

what’s the lesson from all this,

if you know please tell me,
because I haven’t got a clue,
and I’m as alone now as I was before I met you,
and I’m sitting here in my sorrows writing this sonnet staring at the waning moon,

and I could have wrote a whole book about you,
but instead all you get is this one poem,
and as lovely as you are you have all the signs of crazy,
so no this is not exactly a love poem,

it’s a lesson in the form of prose,
about abuse and about healing,
about hurting and learning,
and how we emotionally evolve…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
A Bittersweet Love Letter
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