the moon searched for her eyes
as if they were two lost stars,
and she could not help but feel like
she belonged to the night skies.
perhaps the space was her home
perhaps she fell from the cosmos
descending rapidly through the atmosphere
like one of those shooting stars
she once wished upon

A new love is not the cure to a broken heart. It is morphine.
It numbs the pain while it breaks your heart to even smaller pieces.
And that's a never ending cycle. That never stops. Never.

You'll only heal alone.

the darkness holds me as a dear friend;
the only one I know will never leave me.

Eu tenho o problema (ou talvez a sorte imensa) de simplesmente desgostar. De uma hora para outra, deixo de sentir o que sentia, olho para o rosto de uma pessoa que antes me causava borboletas e meu coração não bate nem mais rápido, nem mais lento, muito menos pula uma batida. O que antes me fazia sentir como se estivesse olhando diretamente para dentro de uma supernova, agora mais parece fitar um muro inacabado. Não me ficam marcas, dores, nem muita saudade; não da pessoa em si, ao menos: a única falta que sinto é de sentir.

she was standing there
in the middle of nowhere
searching for herself

he would never understand why God sent one of his angels
to a man whose soul belongs to the devil.

your lips are like
cupid bows
and its arrows
hit my heart
everytime you smile

I shut them up. The feelings.
I tell them to keep quiet so I can pretend they're not here.
And they do, they are silent.
But it should make me feel good and it doesn't.
I just feel nothing until I feel everything together.

There are days and weeks and months of nothing.
Of ignoring the pain in my heart hoping it'll go away
if I pretend it's not there; of holding back tears when
they threaten to fall, until my head hurts with the
effort; of telling myself it's all alright and I'm actualy
okay; of being numb and empty. As I supress the bad
feelings, I also supress the good ones. I feel absolutely
nothing.

And then, out of a sudden, resulting usually of too much
time alone and overthinking, the feelings can't be controled
any longer. And I cry, and it hurts like hell. The feelings scream
and kick and fight because they don't wan to be silenced again.
And there's this voice inside my head mocking me and telling
me they'll always be there even if I pretend they're not.
I know, it doesn't matter what I do, they'll win anyway.

But I shut them up again.
I may not win, but I keep fighting.
I have to.
One day, I hope, they'll be gone for good.
And then I'll enjoy the silence.

I hate being a writer because it makes me see poetry in everything. I have no peace inside my mind. I turn everything I hear and see and feel into stories and poems and it drives me insane to have all this inside me. I pour feelings, I bleed words. Pain becomes beauty and I see it everywhere. I see it in the sky, in white walls, in my kitchen sink. I close my eyes and I still see it. It haunts me. It hunts me. It screams in the silence, it’s there when I’m alone. It’s in my dreams and nightmares and in my insomnia. It doesn’t leave me. It’s everywhere because it’s inside me. It is me. I am poetry.

I want to write until my fingers hurt
so maybe the pain in my heart will fade.

i call myself a stargazer
and i call your face a night sky

i'd like to say i'll love you forever
but that's a promise i can't keep
for my heart changes like the weather
and i know that someday i'll leave