I dropped….

poema-e-poesia1

because i’ve lost my glasses
and i  saw a tiny letters
a name … signed with a huge feeling
I feel myself strange
divided
that was you but but i was not expected for you
rude… am i?
blind, i am, be sure of that

stumbling into drinks and papers
it was not a time for surprises

surprise me when i am awake
when i can be polite as always
when i know that can be you
and, finally, when i find my glasses

The Thief of Souls, The Autumn Man

Happy in MaringaThey are in my poor notes. Words without nexus, written in several moments and in thousand notebooks that sometimes I find the motive to poetize.

Words like green and soul and phrases like: Lonely friends to a lonely friend ….That Makes me write.

I have no more inspiration! I need a single touche who drives me crazy where I can draw a poetic verse!

It was wasted!

I was wasted!

I do not even know if I hate the one who drained my restlessness and recklessness in being …

Being who I am!

Which, incidentally, is not at all interesting but only a relief.

I know that I spend days in solitude.

The face,  folded into books and  sheets and an tremendously  aversion to the common.

With  each passing day makes me to be more   alike a poet!

People escape me and I thank them in silence.

An eternal and grateful reverence for his absence.!

The ideas disappear inside a chest , full of memories and I grow in rage …. So much the  autumn man taken from me but on the other hand I was given so much that we are even. But the anger still grows.  Increases, foams inside the chalice.

A cold touch!

My biggest secret is to fear the thief of souls and he should never know!

It is perfect to fear who else looks like dry branches … And will  fall….

I do not see anything on him.

The convenient, the polite,  the polished movement of dry lips accompanied by  a empty  soul. And so imperfectly.  He touched my soul with her cold, icy hands. He marked me!
I have a mountain here. Immense and beautiful. I got lost there and found me there.

Cursed be you!

Let the green fills my soul, the airt to purify my blood and the cold to freeze me.

Ishould return by the  sun’s ray  and

touchs by   people,  with affection and that should bring me to  life.
I would like to dissemble!

The price would be too high!

I would like to  write happily things instead  you have to read the   defrosting process of a imprisoned soul .! A inner struggle for freedom and a  history. But, by chance, i  always have a good delivery to my soul! Always!

I survided!
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Histórico
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They GO for a walk

The keepers of secrets have memories to imprison

such is their sad condition

Such it is the obligation of the sun , to be  pale and weak, fanting behind the clouds

for the Ghosts…. When the  Ghosts …

They have to get a ride

droplets are falling , a little bit careful….  A tribute

for them … because they are going for a walk

They are going to breath

and I….

I am here …. trying desperately  to close the door and my only window

but the wind…. Ha!!!  He had to appear….. Throw me violently to the ground and they came , dancing in my eyes

A whisper

A trembling voice to a devastated body

Listen upthe collector of souls

Such is my sad condition

when they go to a walk …

When the prision is not enough

 

 

 

 

Writing

20150329_150116i was at the middle of one letter but suddenly all change and

I guess I wasted time not feeling anything for so long .

Words that once come from my feelings.. . And now it is so hard to write again.

Or else my life has become so comfortable and It forgot to Warn me .

Comfort and poetry do not exist together.
do not exist together!!!

 forgot to warn me!

I’m not happy but I’m a poet and I’ve never seen a happy poet, either.

They are always fighting great inner battles. Some dying, others being unhappy in love. Especially in love.

It takes so much efforts to be happy that I gave up. I can be happy just writing to you or about you.

I think happiness exists but it is not the desire to have something.

But have someone!

She is a being that is given to you or not.

Drink her in small sips or write when she arrives and if have lips around, kiss them. Push them against you. Enjoy the feelings.

You can lie too. All becomes true later with the pen and paper in hands.

Push them, push them out of you!

A body helps a lot and if you have it one close to you, use it.

Write, above and below your love. On the soles of the feet, on the palms of the hands, on the thighs. Ah! The thighs. They are soft and respond more quickly to inspiration. Listen to your heart . Do not forget to breathe slowly and then deepen.

At the last minute, in the last drop of sweat. Then yes … your poem will be ready before she flews away.
That is my way to be a poet and to love
and
My loneliness of which my soul is made feasts.
And i write !

because

There is something terribly wrong when I do not write.

Penny dreadful

 

i  supose  i dont need you to be a man in flesh and blood
or I, a woman … in spirit
or being human or not….

You could be a beast

dreadful
horrible

your speech, the way you express yourself
is not
and you count on me
you count with the fierceness that i believe on you

that   complete all gaps..  all holes inside you
when you are alone

if you are real… if you are a  man…

But I…I am penny dreaful
and they talk and chant about me in the alleys
at the dawn
drunks …

sustained by the walls

and when they has fully exhausted all the bad options

they wait in a veiled dream
that redeem all of them
but not me…

I know….

Another night will come and
another sing they will chant
and
“Penny Dreadful that is what we want”

 i’ll succumb to the charm of their voices and depraved calling
again….
So, i dont need you be a man in flesh and blood
perfect  and charming
just hear you
because sometimes i need to be rescued
not by a penny , not by affliction

but by a poem

penny