I don't expect you to understand me, though I might've someday. You'll never know how it feels anyway. As a matter of fact, it's almost good you don't, for I'd hate to be understandable through your mentality. You, who makes self-destructive feel good. You should've seen behind this shining silence I shouted, I thought you knew better - though, to this day, I'm not sure I know you at all... though you're predictable in hate.
Don't knock on a door that's trying to stay close. If my sign says 'keep away', don't just stand there. Come.
quinta-feira, 8 de abril de 2010
quinta-feira, 1 de abril de 2010
to me you are
Your face works its way through me in a manner I cannot describe by words or gesture.
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.
And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.
And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?
terça-feira, 9 de março de 2010
cigarettes and coffee
The fourth time we fought I thought was definitive. There wasn’t too much more of anything to rebuilt, and we’ be stuck with casual conversation. If we walked the same streets, we’d pray we’d go unnoticed, nod politely or you’d act too busy and excessively entertaining yourself with a winner who never had to fight. I’d be left with a scrapbook and I know you’d keep my letters too, though you’d never tell me. Though you don’t tell me anything lately.
Last time we fought I noticed how much we’ve changed and how much weight I’d gain for carrying such a heavy heart. Between jobs and between boyfriends, I knew I’d go out a couple of times before realizing I have no call on my destiny and I never knew how to meet men.
When we fought I knew I’d be the part who’d hurt the most, cause I’m a bad learner – and when I felt good, I’d feel bad for not feeling bad cause we deserve so much more. You and I never liked goodbyes, so even though we both knew (cause there’s always that feeling), we acted cool so we could play dead later.
I know I’d smile every time I’d eat wafers because I’d remember our inside joke, so I’d cry. I knew that if we ever went to our special place again, we wouldn’t kiss while people weren’t looking anymore. I knew I’d stalk you until I was hurt knowing you had someone new, cause I’m only human.
As time passed, I would also know I’d eventually find somebody nice though it’ll never be quite like you, cause some things are once in a lifetime. I made up with love what I lacked in beauty so you wouldn’t think about how out of my league you always were.
Last time we ever spoke I knew I’d to though depression (all the crying in the dark and listening to Billie Holiday), through anger (at humanity, at me, at you – but never at us) and through all those moments we can’t quite qualify.
The very last time I looked into your eyes I knew everything, but when you turned your back on me after our last hug I knew no longer, and I understood only why there’s no way up – there’s only falling in love.
Last time we fought I noticed how much we’ve changed and how much weight I’d gain for carrying such a heavy heart. Between jobs and between boyfriends, I knew I’d go out a couple of times before realizing I have no call on my destiny and I never knew how to meet men.
When we fought I knew I’d be the part who’d hurt the most, cause I’m a bad learner – and when I felt good, I’d feel bad for not feeling bad cause we deserve so much more. You and I never liked goodbyes, so even though we both knew (cause there’s always that feeling), we acted cool so we could play dead later.
I know I’d smile every time I’d eat wafers because I’d remember our inside joke, so I’d cry. I knew that if we ever went to our special place again, we wouldn’t kiss while people weren’t looking anymore. I knew I’d stalk you until I was hurt knowing you had someone new, cause I’m only human.
As time passed, I would also know I’d eventually find somebody nice though it’ll never be quite like you, cause some things are once in a lifetime. I made up with love what I lacked in beauty so you wouldn’t think about how out of my league you always were.
Last time we ever spoke I knew I’d to though depression (all the crying in the dark and listening to Billie Holiday), through anger (at humanity, at me, at you – but never at us) and through all those moments we can’t quite qualify.
The very last time I looked into your eyes I knew everything, but when you turned your back on me after our last hug I knew no longer, and I understood only why there’s no way up – there’s only falling in love.
domingo, 14 de fevereiro de 2010
?
Why must this come with so many ‘sorries’ and so much sorrow? And what is ‘it’ anyway?
Have I ever loved, or has this all been obsession? And who can tell me that it is not love? Who can tell me what love is? Who can be arrogant enough to even dare?
Is it worth changing yourself for the world, knowing the world won’t change for you? Is living all by yourself an option? (is happiness an option?)
Can you really get used to desperation?
Is the world so fucking sick you can’t be yourself? Why are human beings so obsessed with making sense, growing and being happy – or in search of happiness? Why can’t I be in search of something else?
Why talk, at all, about your life, unless your means are an end in themselves? Why cry on your shoulders if you will get wet and I will keep sad? (or can sorrow de diluted in water – or cloth?)
Why does anyone read this, anyway? How can people be interested with what goes on in my head? (was that self-pity?) And why has every single sentence so far been a question if I’m so sure of my doubts?
Now let’s take a moment to think these questions if they mean anything to you, well do they? (“see how I went all the way through the end, like I care?” / “oh, but I do”)
Is lie better than the truth? So: is a good liar better than a bad honest person? Is there ‘sin’, at all? (why do people fake orgasm, friendship, love?)
Can a past be forgiven? Can a future be forgiven?
Can you forgive yourself for the person you are?
Are you satisfied (I bet you are, now – but how can you if when you look around it’s all shit, hopelessness, despair, death, hypocrisy, stealing, corruption, hunger, savageness, evil, low payment, no future at all, more people being born, global warming, people cooling, getting sicker, spreading viruses, noises invading our houses, dogs waking us up at night, people fucking up our lives, bad people prospering over good people; women, negroes and homosexuals being beat, raped and killed; kids, teens and adults being exposed to ignorance and believing it, contributing for a future of absolute fucking hell)? How can you be glad you’re happy? Aren’t you fucking ashamed? Have you no. fucking. shame of laughing? What reason have you? Have you got someone? Oh yeah, until when? Don’t you know you’ll die all alone?
Or can you just close your eyes to all the world and pretend it’s all going pretty-well? Oh, isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it just FABULOUS?
They said ignorance is bliss, right, but is it really? I bet you think so, don’t you?
Oh, why live in this world? And yet they say it’s you that’s wrong, it’s you who must change, it’s you who must move on – but move on where? Where ARE we going other than downhill to our graves? Why pretend this is happy? Why pretend this is worth it if you’ll lose it all?
Should we be thankful for what we have? Yes, or so I’ve been told – but should we be thankful for what we don’t, should we just forget?
Is it better to not be loved for who you are or to be loved for someone you are not? What’s the difference if YOU are not loved either way? Is there an essence? And is my essence what I think it is?
How can pain be the easiest if it’s the hardest? How can this all be juvenile if a child is happy (because she doesn’t know how the world works)? And I still don’t know how it works, but the more I find out, the worse it gets, do you feel it too? Does this bring us together or further apart?
Should we give up on people who are not ‘useful’? What’s the use of something useful? Should we throw out those we ‘love’ because they’re not good? Is there love, at all? Is there love other than desire for flesh or fear to be alone? Am I shallow? Does that make you deep?
Does this make you sick? Do you think I’m hopeless? Do you think you should still hold your head high instead of hanging yourself now? Aren’t all of us who think alive because we’re afraid there isn’t anything else? What’s the exact point where nothing is better than anything possible, and do we know it when the moment comes?
If you hurt your friends being yourself, then do you really have friends or just people who want you to be someone else? Why can’t you be whatever and still sigh? Is being pathetic worse than being empty? Would you rather be a good kisser or a good writer?
What is the meaning of hope except for illusion? Why is this man most of us place our trust upon (though not me) pissing, shitting and coming all over us every single day? Are the insane wiser? Would you kill for food? Would you kill for thought? Do you live for what’s your basic needs? Would you leave if nothing else fulfills? Are you fooling yourself things will go right?
Does love have a distance? Can hearts easily be fooled? Can words so easily be believed? Can people get easily depressed?
Can you stop this all?
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…
Have I ever loved, or has this all been obsession? And who can tell me that it is not love? Who can tell me what love is? Who can be arrogant enough to even dare?
Is it worth changing yourself for the world, knowing the world won’t change for you? Is living all by yourself an option? (is happiness an option?)
Can you really get used to desperation?
Is the world so fucking sick you can’t be yourself? Why are human beings so obsessed with making sense, growing and being happy – or in search of happiness? Why can’t I be in search of something else?
Why talk, at all, about your life, unless your means are an end in themselves? Why cry on your shoulders if you will get wet and I will keep sad? (or can sorrow de diluted in water – or cloth?)
Why does anyone read this, anyway? How can people be interested with what goes on in my head? (was that self-pity?) And why has every single sentence so far been a question if I’m so sure of my doubts?
Now let’s take a moment to think these questions if they mean anything to you, well do they? (“see how I went all the way through the end, like I care?” / “oh, but I do”)
Is lie better than the truth? So: is a good liar better than a bad honest person? Is there ‘sin’, at all? (why do people fake orgasm, friendship, love?)
Can a past be forgiven? Can a future be forgiven?
Can you forgive yourself for the person you are?
Are you satisfied (I bet you are, now – but how can you if when you look around it’s all shit, hopelessness, despair, death, hypocrisy, stealing, corruption, hunger, savageness, evil, low payment, no future at all, more people being born, global warming, people cooling, getting sicker, spreading viruses, noises invading our houses, dogs waking us up at night, people fucking up our lives, bad people prospering over good people; women, negroes and homosexuals being beat, raped and killed; kids, teens and adults being exposed to ignorance and believing it, contributing for a future of absolute fucking hell)? How can you be glad you’re happy? Aren’t you fucking ashamed? Have you no. fucking. shame of laughing? What reason have you? Have you got someone? Oh yeah, until when? Don’t you know you’ll die all alone?
Or can you just close your eyes to all the world and pretend it’s all going pretty-well? Oh, isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it just FABULOUS?
They said ignorance is bliss, right, but is it really? I bet you think so, don’t you?
Oh, why live in this world? And yet they say it’s you that’s wrong, it’s you who must change, it’s you who must move on – but move on where? Where ARE we going other than downhill to our graves? Why pretend this is happy? Why pretend this is worth it if you’ll lose it all?
Should we be thankful for what we have? Yes, or so I’ve been told – but should we be thankful for what we don’t, should we just forget?
Is it better to not be loved for who you are or to be loved for someone you are not? What’s the difference if YOU are not loved either way? Is there an essence? And is my essence what I think it is?
How can pain be the easiest if it’s the hardest? How can this all be juvenile if a child is happy (because she doesn’t know how the world works)? And I still don’t know how it works, but the more I find out, the worse it gets, do you feel it too? Does this bring us together or further apart?
Should we give up on people who are not ‘useful’? What’s the use of something useful? Should we throw out those we ‘love’ because they’re not good? Is there love, at all? Is there love other than desire for flesh or fear to be alone? Am I shallow? Does that make you deep?
Does this make you sick? Do you think I’m hopeless? Do you think you should still hold your head high instead of hanging yourself now? Aren’t all of us who think alive because we’re afraid there isn’t anything else? What’s the exact point where nothing is better than anything possible, and do we know it when the moment comes?
If you hurt your friends being yourself, then do you really have friends or just people who want you to be someone else? Why can’t you be whatever and still sigh? Is being pathetic worse than being empty? Would you rather be a good kisser or a good writer?
What is the meaning of hope except for illusion? Why is this man most of us place our trust upon (though not me) pissing, shitting and coming all over us every single day? Are the insane wiser? Would you kill for food? Would you kill for thought? Do you live for what’s your basic needs? Would you leave if nothing else fulfills? Are you fooling yourself things will go right?
Does love have a distance? Can hearts easily be fooled? Can words so easily be believed? Can people get easily depressed?
Can you stop this all?
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…
segunda-feira, 8 de fevereiro de 2010
i still mantain
As I lay here and I – a-lone-r – wonder why or what you’ll be where you are. Wonder how and see – though it’s only (you) and me.
Ponder reasons for the silence, longer seasons for the grievance, taller buildings shall relieve this, other loves – I can’t relive this.
Take me to where I’m trying to go, let me know if you will ever or, if you won’t, don’t let me be here while you are there – the distance is… as far as Is can see.
(if this is final don’t be shy, no – turn the page, but be kind rewind)
This is the sanctuary where we meet every night when the stars are bright and with them only I shine – though in a perfect solitude and unforgivable darkness. Sounds and images fail to reproduce what only my mind tries to seduce.
This is where you fertilize my brainstorm with your life juice. This is where the crowd vomits. Remember me?
Why should I make sense just like everything else? And yet I do. Yes, I’m a public – no – pedophile. If I had sex with dead animals, though, it wouldn’t be a crime. I could fuck them while you ate them. Stupid us.
What have the years told you? Do you go in circles and realize that, unfortunately, it all comes to this? Why bother, then? Let us write suicide (news)letters and let you know how we’re coping with pain.
Pay me a ticket to Dreamland only you can afford. Just open your legs and let me baptize you with (un)holy saliva.
Everybody’s got someone. I have your absence. I’m the most happiest (!) man alive.
Come.
Coma.
Ponder reasons for the silence, longer seasons for the grievance, taller buildings shall relieve this, other loves – I can’t relive this.
Take me to where I’m trying to go, let me know if you will ever or, if you won’t, don’t let me be here while you are there – the distance is… as far as Is can see.
(if this is final don’t be shy, no – turn the page, but be kind rewind)
This is the sanctuary where we meet every night when the stars are bright and with them only I shine – though in a perfect solitude and unforgivable darkness. Sounds and images fail to reproduce what only my mind tries to seduce.
This is where you fertilize my brainstorm with your life juice. This is where the crowd vomits. Remember me?
Why should I make sense just like everything else? And yet I do. Yes, I’m a public – no – pedophile. If I had sex with dead animals, though, it wouldn’t be a crime. I could fuck them while you ate them. Stupid us.
What have the years told you? Do you go in circles and realize that, unfortunately, it all comes to this? Why bother, then? Let us write suicide (news)letters and let you know how we’re coping with pain.
Pay me a ticket to Dreamland only you can afford. Just open your legs and let me baptize you with (un)holy saliva.
Everybody’s got someone. I have your absence. I’m the most happiest (!) man alive.
Come.
Coma.
sexta-feira, 1 de janeiro de 2010
little man being erased
This is my room, and this is my bed. These are the sheets. If I wasn't so fat, my mattress would be brand-new. It never carries more than my weight.
These are my things, these are the books I've read, these are the books I won't. These are my records, and this is my favourite (la-da-da).
This is a box of things that are broken. That, in there, is my heart.
The thing you hear is a dog barking. This stain will soon be cleaned. This is my door, it's closed now.
This is your picture. I drew a heart next to your face and autographed your name on it. I had to add a line crossing the heart later.
This is my corpse, it's still hot. Those are my unkissed lips, and this is my disgusting body. I should've placed a plastic bag over me whole, I shouldn't be allowed to be seen like this. I shouldn't be allowed to be this ugly. People will think I'm bald. They're wrong. This is just a bad hair day.
This is just a bad day, tomorrow will be a good one. You will eat your lunch while planning your daily schedule, your teacher will be happy because he got some pussy last night, mom and dad will be crying (and that's sad), but they can always turn my room into a library. Or a museum in my memory. Or an arcade with fun games for african children who are dying of starvation right now. I hope they find me tasty. I'm just afraid there won't be much left, cutting off the fat and the rotten. I hope I don't bleed too much in your mouth while you're chewing, that would be boring. If I taste bad, you can always call the cops. They're not too picky.
I have sent you my soul, it will arrive next month - international shipping is very expensive, you know. Here's a picture of me smiling.
No, I was lying. It's just me, laying. Close the door again, now. Don't wake me up.
You can't.
These are my things, these are the books I've read, these are the books I won't. These are my records, and this is my favourite (la-da-da).
This is a box of things that are broken. That, in there, is my heart.
The thing you hear is a dog barking. This stain will soon be cleaned. This is my door, it's closed now.
This is your picture. I drew a heart next to your face and autographed your name on it. I had to add a line crossing the heart later.
This is my corpse, it's still hot. Those are my unkissed lips, and this is my disgusting body. I should've placed a plastic bag over me whole, I shouldn't be allowed to be seen like this. I shouldn't be allowed to be this ugly. People will think I'm bald. They're wrong. This is just a bad hair day.
This is just a bad day, tomorrow will be a good one. You will eat your lunch while planning your daily schedule, your teacher will be happy because he got some pussy last night, mom and dad will be crying (and that's sad), but they can always turn my room into a library. Or a museum in my memory. Or an arcade with fun games for african children who are dying of starvation right now. I hope they find me tasty. I'm just afraid there won't be much left, cutting off the fat and the rotten. I hope I don't bleed too much in your mouth while you're chewing, that would be boring. If I taste bad, you can always call the cops. They're not too picky.
I have sent you my soul, it will arrive next month - international shipping is very expensive, you know. Here's a picture of me smiling.
No, I was lying. It's just me, laying. Close the door again, now. Don't wake me up.
You can't.
terça-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2009
dores positivas
This is my last cry for help. But oh, not really.
This is hardly a cry for help. It is a cry, of that I’m almost certain, but it isn’t help I seek. It is also unlikely that it is the last, for the end will be broadcasted. Only you will know the secret channel, so take note in your cellphone: 555-666-888-33… I forgot. I’m making it up. I’m making you up. I’m making me up, I’m faking my life and I’m faking my death for a much wider audience. This is life, a theater. This is my premature third act, though the play definitely goes on. I’m just an annoying, sorry-for-himself character the writer is trying to get rid of, because audiences dislike him anyway. I’m getting rid of life as a solution for my issues. I’m giving me up as an actor for my role (and if you want it, send me a letter to:
Yuri C.
Hell, 69
God’s Cute Little Ass
).
I’m giving you up as the only one worth living for, because my director keeps telling me I’m saying the wrong lines. How could I disagree? When it comes to making things work, I’m a stranger in a faraway land. I don’t speak your language, and I’m starting to believe I don’t speak mine either. You’re my mirror, a reflex, a personification of unreachable desire and I’m sicker than fuck of pretending knowing my issues is having any hope of seeing them resolved.
If my retirement is my choice, then so be it. “There ain’t no point in moving on until you’ve got somewhere to go”. And if you’ve got a nice self-help sentence to go with that, shove it deep up your ass, fists and all, no lubricant. And then, perhaps, you’ll feel how I feel about life.
This is hardly a cry for help. It is a cry, of that I’m almost certain, but it isn’t help I seek. It is also unlikely that it is the last, for the end will be broadcasted. Only you will know the secret channel, so take note in your cellphone: 555-666-888-33… I forgot. I’m making it up. I’m making you up. I’m making me up, I’m faking my life and I’m faking my death for a much wider audience. This is life, a theater. This is my premature third act, though the play definitely goes on. I’m just an annoying, sorry-for-himself character the writer is trying to get rid of, because audiences dislike him anyway. I’m getting rid of life as a solution for my issues. I’m giving me up as an actor for my role (and if you want it, send me a letter to:
Yuri C.
Hell, 69
God’s Cute Little Ass
).
I’m giving you up as the only one worth living for, because my director keeps telling me I’m saying the wrong lines. How could I disagree? When it comes to making things work, I’m a stranger in a faraway land. I don’t speak your language, and I’m starting to believe I don’t speak mine either. You’re my mirror, a reflex, a personification of unreachable desire and I’m sicker than fuck of pretending knowing my issues is having any hope of seeing them resolved.
If my retirement is my choice, then so be it. “There ain’t no point in moving on until you’ve got somewhere to go”. And if you’ve got a nice self-help sentence to go with that, shove it deep up your ass, fists and all, no lubricant. And then, perhaps, you’ll feel how I feel about life.
Assinar:
Postagens (Atom)