#365poemsofsingularsandplurals
I sometimes shine
And I don't know
Where that comes from.
It's something from inside,
Something I am still not aware.
Somehow I connect,
Somehow I surprise,
Somehow I am there.
But I often disappear,
And that, too,
I don't know why.
It's just an undescribable need for space.
In loneliness I try to find
This light
But the more I seek,
The further I get.
The more I think of it,
The less I have.
Maybe I should get used to it,
Surf these waves,
Hide from the storm
(Inevitable),
Float during a calm tide.
I know I have it
I don't know how to use it,
But it's ok.
It's only a matter
Of living in ignorance
And embrace happiness.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 8:43 PM UTC
The precise scale is crooked,
The straight scale is dishonest,
The one that weighs iron
Does not weighs feather,
Or air,
Or fire.
Voices mug
Formless and weightless,
Voices destroy
What hands and songs of many other voices
Have built.
An escaping voice is the choice
Of a tone, a content,
A violence,
A judgement.
To suppress a voice,
On the other hand,
Isn't lightness at all.
We build the world
Surrounding yes' and nos,
Forgetting maybes
And silence.
A shut voice
Bears the same rage
Of a shouting one.
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 8:31 PM UTC
The incompleteness is the reason for life.
To be complete is to be inert,
And to be inert is to not exist.
The need is the origin of every movement,
The dissatisfaction is the hurricane,
Food with no soul
To eat up steadiness.
It is no wonder
That to the condemned
Movements are restricted
In a premature
And with no redemption death
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 6:38 PM UTC
The lamplights
That keep cities safe at night
Are the same
To invert
The skies viewed from above.
Each city a constellation,
A sign,
Seen from afar, inert,
Seen close up, alive,
But there is no gradual transition:
One has to choose how to see it.
When we learned to fly
We saw the world shrink, far away,
Deform,
And these lights,
Small, lost points
Like islands surrounded by darkness
To remind us
We are made of vacuum
More than of matter.
These islands,
Where everything happens
Are our reflex:
Packs on the surface,
We only go deep
Where there is richness,
We shine to those who see us from above
At the same proportion we are invisible.
We are cities,
We are light,
We are vacuum.
A the same time.
Indiscernible,
Inseparable.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC
In the excess I lose myself
I undress from what moves me
To run in search
Of what makes me run in search
Of what makes me run in search.
Those things I fill
I want to hide,
To put ****** aside,
The shame of not having,
Of not being,
Of not doing,
Making me a slave
Of my desire
To have a desire
To have a desire.
In this plastic sea,
In my plastic look,
In my mold,
In my substance,
Everything deforms
To adapt to novelties
Small as an ant seen from an airplane,
Ephemeral, fugitive,
Undervalued.
To live by news
Is, at the same time,
Deconstruct and complete oneself,
Take off from the body,
Arrive from time,
Float in a jelly
Half present, half future,
To discover
That every history
Is fulfill a time.
To choose the hollows
Is the precise art
Of creating meaning.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 5:36 PM UTC
What's with my body
It seems to speak thousands of languages
I can't understand.
It would be easier
If every of my systems
Would talk in clear, plain, Portuguese.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 6:35 AM UTC
Sometimes it's a weird arrangement,
And I think it's all going to be fine,
And I think it's not going to be fine.
But I know it'll be what will be
For we created every chances,
Within every choice.
I know there's a special connection
But what does that stands for
In such different spaces we occupy,
Such different futures ahead,
Such different goals?
We're left with a warmth goodbye
And exhilarating memories.
We have more in our pasts
Than in what's to come.
Probably.
And that's ok.
We'll still have a connection.
We'll still have contact. Probably.
We'll have written part of each other stories
And that's enough.
Our freedoms have outspoken
Plans and flesh and comfort.
But the first aim
Is to seek happiness.
At times, that meant together.
Now it means something else
I'm still trying to figure out.
To be better, always.
That's what I wish for both of us.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
If there is a void in me
It's because there is a "me".
It's because there is something being
That once wasn't.
Because every hole
Is just something
Made of something else.
Emptiness is necessary
To be fulfilled,
It's the space of being,
The waiting possibly,
The tiredness that makes us available,
To remove my ego and bring me you,
To approach me to what I see,
For when I see, I'm plain.
The nothingness is the permission,
The origin,
It's too be naked and protected
Of everything that can be "me"
And completeness never allowed.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 6:21 AM UTC
Five years is my longest season.
I don't know what it is
I keep running from.
Have I hated roots so badly
I can't afford to try it?
Have I been exposed to such opportunities
I prefer to move?
Am I just curious
Or I just get bored?
I do learn a lot
But I only do little with it:
I survive and I delight.
I feel like I drop seeds everywhere
But I fail to nurture them.
What's new for me to try?
An interested phone call,
A Spartan life,
A season as a monk,
A money seeking job
Or a volunteer work?
Every answers lie
On the other side of the fear.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 8:25 AM UTC
The mind keeps pushing body
Higher, farther, stronger,
Until it is resisted by the impacts
Of a harsh sun,
A draught,
Insensitive words,
That will mold, break and crack.
What's to be done
Is just a choice:
Camouflage the fragile collage
Or to stick it all with a golden glue.
To hide or to expose.
Our selection construct us.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 8:11 AM UTC
I am full of ideas
But too tired to build them.
Ideas to save the world,
Ideas to get rich,
Ideas to have time in abundance,
Ideas to be remembered forever.
I am stuck
In day to day tasks,
In faking a learning,
In accomplishing requirements for a good life,
In the fear of not be self sufficient.
Will those ideas slowly die
Or will they pump me out of the quicksand?
They can only be
What I allow them to.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 2:06 PM UTC
There once was a lake
Where it is now a cracked soil.
I pumped everything I could
Now nothing is left.
I hope for the rain
For I am too weak to seek water.
I hope to keep living
Despite the living conditions.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 2:02 PM UTC
The harshest moment
Was when I found myself alone.
It wasn't scary because of solitude,
Or because I wanted anyone else beside me:
I recognized that feeling latent in every other moment,
With good and bad companies,
In pleasant or sad times.
The only company is loneliness
Which is just another name
For our own name.
Now I am not scared of it anymore:
I only saw the ugliness in its face
Because it is how it was always painted
When, in fact, it was just a mirror.
We were taught
To be afraid of ourselves:
That's the only possible reason
Loneliness is so fearing.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:53 PM UTC
I am sorry to say it
But it is necessary to be honest:
I am sick of my politeness.
I don't mean to offend,
I don't mean to be harsh.
But I'm not sorry for everything.
I can't say no more "I'm fine"
To every "how are you?".
Maybe I'm not fine,
Maybe nobody's fine.
I want to be told
When things are wrong,
I want to be criticized
When I do a ****** writing.
I want to learn how to deal with it.
I don't care if it hurts,
Give me truth,
Give me sincerity,
Give me crude information.
I need no more
Politeness as my own shield.
The world is raw.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:39 PM UTC
To be an artist
Is to drain oneself out,
To overflow life and moments and thoughts
To blow away its content
Like a balloon
Refusing to explode.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:34 PM UTC
I am the hand that writes,
The hand that whips,
I am the commit,
The judge and the executioner.
The hand that chooses
To make or let go,
To punish or to caress,
To wave or to touch.
The hand that farm
That composes,
That plays,
That pray,
That curse.
The primary form of communication
The ultimate form of transforming.
I am the hand
Just that
And I am the whole world.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:23 PM UTC
There is a unique type of love
In these contemporary times
Ambiguously living together
Complex types of rages and hatred.
A selective type of love
Like gravity,
Loses intensity at square of the distance.
A different type of love
That recognizes certain gestures:
Claiming, phone calls, phony calls.
And that, at times, refuses others:
An honest "I couldn't", a constructive argue.
Yet, it only exposes
The complexity of love.
Who's to say
What it is and what it isn't
Without any chance of being wrong?
Maybe it is the particular of the feelings:
It is true in the same measure
I believe it is true.
Love coexist with different types of love,
Different types of joy, arrangements, passions.
Kind of fearing and relieving:
A scaring "what are the limits"?
But also a hopeful "what are the limits"?
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 1:13 PM UTC
Pour a bit of ethic in you.
Pour ethic in you.
Pour ethic.
Poetic.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 12:57 PM UTC
I shut my songs,
Never heard them,
Never played them,
But I insist telling me
They don't exist,
Just as the electricity
Remained hidden for thousands of years:
They are there, somewhere,
In eminence to pop,
To breathe,
To see the daylight.
I neglect them
But I can feel the beat,
I don't know who I'm waiting for,
Which colors they'll be born,
Echoing which tunes,
Heavy or light,
Until I'm able to
See, feel, touch and heal.
The songs are messy,
Brewed as they could,
Unborn, but alive,
Strange, but weirdly harmonic.
Consonant.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
The engine runs
Powerful, smooth, reliable,
But misdirected:
Pushing everything towards the cliff.
There's only enough space
For a courageous maneuver
Out of the bridge
Out of the road
Into the uncertainties
Of the sideways.
Every delay
Is hope turning into risk
A maneuver getting harder to perform,
A latent accident emerging
Due to the fear of decision.
Deadlines urge us into action,
No excuses, no overthinking.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 8:43 PM UTC
I hear the bells
And I see the lights
To request me out of me,
To update me
Lives I lived in other life,
To answer questions I did not make.
I am a filter
Or everything else is a filter,
It is a choice,
Conscious or not.
One either chooses what to see
Or is chosen,
One either has intent,
Or will be intended.
To select is the ultimate art to be learned.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 8:24 PM UTC
Invade my breath
And occupy my spaces,
It's the world once built,
It's the world to remain.
Every violence is powered
By a strange amusement
That stands a hierarchy:
Soul over mind,
Mind over body,
Body over dirt.
We rise
Powerless but confident
Against the spell of the crowd,
Against the roles and the rules.
We rise to offer options.
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 8:08 PM UTC
It is not expected of men
Any sense of logic
Or any reason.
Maybe we're emotional,
Maybe political,
Maybe ludic,
Maybe Luddite,
Maybe lunatic.
We're attracted to frames,
To guardrails,
Afraid of the ocean,
Afraid of thirst
And of drowning,
Admirers and avoiders of boldness,
Cowardly seeking courage
But hiding when faced
It's raging face.
Maybe it's just me
But, hey, I'm one of you
(At least I put effort into it).
Each of those I see
Is my own extent,
Part of what I am,
And I am part of them
That are part of me.
You look at me as a misplaced past,
The deformed evolution of the perfect
(Or it is only a mirror?)
But I am now a better me,
With a load of sensitivity,
A trigger to a bullet without powder:
The click may tremble your bones
But my sharp edge remains still inside.
What you hear from me
Is what refuses it's own death.
No matter what I'll keep breathing,
For a thousand years
Or beneath the ocean,
I'll still pulse
Out of sight,
Without any shadow,
Bounded by no walls.
I can feel now
The pressure of my fingers in this pen.
It's the same pressure
To vibrate the air,
To load anyone's shoulders,
To explode lips with heavy words,
To keep continents still.
I bear no truth
For my own body is exactly what I can carry.
That's enough for me.
I just train my eyes
To see colors that aren't mine.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
Why the language
Not my own,
Not from my land,
Not in my garden,
A cold, simple language?
It is my boundaries
And also my tools,
A mixture of leverage and numbing.
It's a strange stranger language,
Unnatural to me as a third eye
Yet, still, it improved my sight,
Enhanced me,
Enlarged me,
Ridicularized me,
For the sake of my pride,
At the cost of my sleeping hours,
A joke waiting to happen,
A trap I've built
And which I'll fall.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 9:54 PM UTC
My poems are about me,
About the world I created,
About the world that ceases because of me,
About the poverty of my belongings
And the richness of expectations.
That's why I write:
To put the blanks between the bricks,
To keep the sky at sight
Despite every ceiling,
To make of the bitter taste of despair
A pleasant journey.
Poetry is the slow death
Through immortality,
To unattach from life,
Making me less alive,
But eternal.
I love from dying bit by bit
For it is the closest to me I'll ever be,
The maximum to get from life;
The world is a world of ends,
Our wills reminds us of that,
As the sun or the constant now.
Poetry is to exercise the intensity through calm,
The transformation through the steady,
The moment through time,
To vanish every weight through the supreme weight.
Poetry is the victory
Of ink over men,
Of the possible over the real.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 8:57 PM UTC