Walking dead

As quick as a bullet in her head, departure feeling strikes her again, like a cyanide cocktail to her already damaged brain.


Every moment and every word, every laugh and every chord, every lie she took like a newborn in her arms, singing lullabies heard by no one but her own illusions, which now haunt her without a rest.


'You are everything I need', he says to her built human grave, while she watches by the door, tears falling for these words she always wanted to hear becoming dirty and spoiled, wasted with another pathetic plastic doll.


Like a burning knife in her heart, it aches harder with every breathe, as she desperately punches her chest which is now nothing but an open cage to sorrow, ready to be fulfilled by angry maggots of rage.


Bleeding body to match her bleeding soul, just another scar to collect, nothing but a new reason for seclusion, bringing back the wounded child she thought has been dilute by her fake-smile-pills.


And all the songs she cant no longer sing, and all the melodies she cant no longer play, and all the words she cant no longer hear, and all the poems she cant no longer say, and all the feelings she cant no longer face... it all lies in a cemetery that bears his name.

"Behind these eyes self destruction swims through my mind

I'm confusion and contempt, I am the void
You are the emptiness of black tomorrow
I feel so hollow"

The grave

Till my light be able to shine

Till my eyes be able to see again

Till my head stop to ache

Till these tears stop to fall

Till this hate stop to eat me

Till your ghost stop to haunt me

Till my dreams fade in departure

Till these wasted plans turn to dust

Till i get buried alive by this feeling

Till this battered heart stops beating...

.

..I can wait...

... Till i get killed by love again.

"Love's the funeral of hearts, an ode for cruelty,
When angels cry blood on flowers of evil in bloom"

Two wor(l)ds.

"This is my last chance to make things right", she kept saying to herself after that 40 minutes talk with a total stranger. This stranger wasn't just a stranger. It happened to be that person she never thought she would met, cuz "who in hell would agree with those fuckeries created in my mind?" she kept in her mind for 17 years of a lifetime. But then, i must repeat, a total stranger out of nowhere happened to be this person, and she could realise it in 40 fucking minutes. Nothing else, nothing less.
As days passed by the stranger was no longer so stranger, or at least she thought it wasn't. She have always loved "too much and too soon", but this time it was like her personal record. With the blink of an eye that no-longer-so-stranger was a part of her life, and she couldn't handle a whole day without it. Talking about random stuffs has never been so nice, and so necessary, and luckily she wasn't the only one to agree with that. "Give me back the life you stole", he would say to her everyday when it was already too late for them to be talking, and no one was up to end it anyway, cuz they just couldn't. There was never been such an incredible connection before, and she felt it, THEY felt it, and for the first time in her life she was actually optimist about something. "It is him. It gotta be".
As she watches that friendship in her heart turn into something more, the so-called-the-one started to show the same.

Desire

Things has never been so right, and she was never so sure. "He's the first, and I've never been so sure about it." she found herself thinking, which actually scared her a bit, but she didn't care, cuz "He's too good to be truth", was also in her mind. As days kept passing by things were getting better and better, and what was only this awkward amount of friendship and desire has turned to passion. Passion? She wish! It was actually LOVE. That four letter word she hated more than anything.

Fear

Suddenly things wasn't going so right anymore, and what once seemed to be both-side, was now unilateral. "No. Not again. Not anymore." What was heaven turned to hell in a second. Just like many times before she has been forgotten, like if she never existed. No more talks, no more calls, no more messages, no more nothing, just this emptiness and silence that has been left.


Departure

Pain. Lots of it. "What the hell happened?", raped her mind every single second, and even in dreams she wasn't allowed to find some peace, cuz he was also there, and everywhere, and his smell, and his voice, and every second they shared. It was always there, haunting her, and she doesn't even knows what to do with so much rejected feelings right now. She also still doesn't know the reason behind it all, and probably never will, and she will never get it too, cuz someone who has been so hurt like he seems to be could never reject something so real and health. But like i said, she knows anything anymore. The only thing she knows is that this feeling is avoiding to say good bye as easily as he did.

00:00

De repente tudo que é importante perde o sentido, como os sonhos infantis que o tempo carrega sem prévio aviso; tudo que é real perde a essência, como a inocência colorida que as decepções cobrem de cinza; tudo que se construiu desmorona, como um castelo de cartas exposto a um sopro que sussurra realidade aos ouvidos incrédulos.

Carcaças nostálgicas a se lembrar da felicidade que há muito partiu de mãos dadas com a ingenuidade, sem bilhetes de despedida ou um telefonema de adeus, sem tutorial de sobrevivência ou manual de instruções para o que fora deixado pra trás; repentinamente se foi do mesmo modo que repentinamente batera à porta, embora tivesse convite de entrada mas nunca horário de saída, pichando pelo caminho que quando não se tem planos de continuar é melhor sequer começar, porque o que se ganha a princípio nunca cobre o saldo das dívidas futuras.

Espera-se enfim que existam muros e placas pelo restante do percurso, e que a tinta não se acabe enquanto as interrogações continuam insistindo em permanecer.

"... I'm digging my way
I'm digging my way to something
I'm digging my way to something better..."

Voice of the poet

Não sei quem sou, que alma tenho.
Quando falo com sinceridade não sei com que sinceridade falo.
Sou variamente outro do que um eu que não sei se existe (se é esses outros)...
Sinto crenças que não tenho. Enlevam-me ânsias que repudio.
A minha perpétua atenção sobre mim perpetuamente me ponta traições de alma a um caráter que talvez eu não tenha, nem ela julga que eu tenho.
Sinto-me múltiplo.
Sou como um quarto com inúmeros espelhos fantásticos que torcem para reflexões falsas uma única anterior realidade que não está em nenhuma e está em todas.
Como o panteísta se sente árvore e até a flor, eu sinto-me vários seres.
Sinto-me viver vidas alheias, em mim, incompletamente, como se o meu ser participasse de todos os homens, incompletamente de cada, por uma suma de não-eus sintetizados num eu postiço.

                                                                                                                     Fernando Pessoa

Pens and Papers

Que seja por desilusão ou por pura ilusão
Que seja por querer ou por desejar não ter
Que seja por tantos motivos ou até mesmo por sabe-se lá o que
Queira-se sentir, queira-se buscar sentidos pra existir
Queira-se permitir ser humano, ainda que tão desumano

Deixe-se não fazer questão, mesmo que seja tão difícil dizer não
Deixe-se ser tolo, ainda que já velho demais para esse jogo
Deixe-se ser jovem, ainda que se irritem por sua desordem
Deixe-se afogar, e jogue em mim todas suas cartas naufragas
Apenas deixe-se ser, e conte para mim o que mais ninguém consegue ver 

  

                   "Ainda que ofereçam ouro, não venda o meu filtro de tristezas."

                                                  

Lie to me.