Sick

Have you ever experienced being sick on a rainy day?

how to notice holes

in a way, holes are just invisible. they're always there, and you don't really care about a hole until it is filled. when it is filled, be it with diamonds or with leaves - you won't understand it immediately, you will wonder why has it been filled, if it was always a hole, empty.

you'll think things don't work that way. holes can't disappear like that.

and while you think, you'll walk over that ground that once was a deep hole, without even noticing. you don't jump over it anymore, for you can walk over it. you were ok with holes, now you are differently ok without them.
until you fall.
the hole reappeared.
and now you care that there is a hole.

try not to be scared, or disappointed - it happens all the time. it isn't that hard to start noticing holes instead of forgetting them.

just don't forget to keep jumping.

The lost bride weeps

I've been left here, beneath the sand
and sandstorms
My veils standing between me and my sun
Eclipsed since he left
Only an insane heat strokes my soft skin now.

I know so well it's your turn there,
the sun must be pleasantly warm and safe
While I dance like a hummingbird, lost
and disoriented
for missing freshwater and fresh love.
The nights here are freezing,
just don't pretend you can't get a glimpse!
The hands in your eyes will do you no good
now that you left me here,
beneath the sand and sandstorms.
I will still dance our ritual every evening,
to the end of times
And you may not return
For the creator still comes to light the giant lamp wherein lies
the sky itself
(where i can see you standing from where i reside)
And finally brings me morning.

I mourn no more, then,
though you above watch me forlorn
For the breeze blows my veils southwards,
pointing another sandstorm.

Momentum

All is forgetfulness,
sitting on a corner and looking at you
with disdain.

To remember where you come
from
where your origin
is
where you'll arrive to be
fixed
where you'll meet your
best
when the rest won't matter at
all

Lens shining yellow to a poor, weak light
are reflecting someone afraid
or maybe some machine behind a pile
of someone's junk
To think through words
and the privilege of
bringing thoughts to life
does not belong
to someone
as does pain

Privilege;
words that talk for themselves

Fotografia

Escrevo, então, o que não quero dizer
Como tudo o que penso já foi dito
Organizado e escrito por quem comigo concorda
As palavras que ouço, leio e repito
Se torcem por meu pescoço, em união bruta
Uma só criatura envolta em linguagem

Protegido pelo que penso, portanto,
desafio minha imagem
refletida
A refletir o que em mim se passa,
envelhecer comigo
Sou obviamente ignorado, por resposta tardia
Meu desafio recusado
Protegida, bela imagem

(Falta-me pouco, portanto
para enxergar o fim no horizonte
O sol poente pela janela do fim
da viagem
Jornada exaustiva, entretanto brilhante
insistem pessoas e fotografias
O sol poente, negro
na luz monocromática
Sob a óptica que sempre me favoreceu
nos fins de tarde)

Escrevo o que já disse além do que já foi dito
pois guardo comigo
o que não será lido jamais.

Lucy II

The lack of respect for human beings like you and I started driving her nuts.
All she ever asked for was her right to be someone. But people keep stealing it away from her hands, shattering her pride and bringing her to tears in a minute. People keep holding her down under her bed, unable to grow or to feel the sunlight at her face. People are turning her from a sweet little sympathetic and caring girl into an antisocial little freak. People who don't want her between their groups, who maybe see in her some kind of threat to their peaceful lifes and just try to get to the root of the matter by suppressing her in every single way possible. She just wonders if it will ever heal, or if things will ever change, as she can't be someone else. She accepts her identity as her own self, unchangeable and solid. She won't pretend either, even though it would make surviving much easier. She will just lay there, silent, observing and taking notes. Not a part of the crowd, never - her own world has no public at all. She just didn't realize yet how dangerous it is to keep a whole universe to yourself while being held down by everyone else.

She wishes her ideas could come out in colorful waves of pink, yellow, green and blue.

The Pupil, pt. I

Her footsteps are followed by the welcoming sounds
of a royal orchestra
resonating with each emotion
and silencing the voices of the crowd
until she asks herself "but HOW to please the crowd
whenever I'm trying to make my own steps,
my own sounds?"

She barely knew how to go on with the symphony.