I will once again
Be deprived of rest
For the sake of movement,
For the economy,
For the reason,
For the fire in engines,
For pulps,
Bulbs,
Bulls, dulls and dolls.

Half words corrupted
For the increasing lack of control,
A time within my time
To mark hours within my hours,
Corroding my moments
Into a drifting yaw.

Ungoverned in direction
Of a natural collision
Against shields left behind,
Forgotten, but solid,
Shields against will,
Shields against pleasure,
Shields against animals inside,
Shields against killing time.

I anguish for the incompleteness
In everything I produce,
In the words I pronounce,
In the interruptions of flows,
I anguish for the circle has no end,
I anguish for the ideas that left untouched,
For the inspiration underutilized,
For the balance never to be found.

I anguish for I anguish.
There is no end
To what has no start.

Does it matter more
How intense I give myself
Into creating quality,
Content or just a process?

There is a fragment of unpredictable behavior
Where all of this components
Feed themselves
And we don't know
Where it begins,
Where it stops.

The only thing to do
Is trust whatever process
To evolve into a result.

Quality follows production.

I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.

There are hidden prices
To go through the highways.
The destinations are always known,
The landscape is known,
And there is only repetition.
Nothing is created, and
Movement becomes ephemeral,
Incapable of producing anything
That will outlive the own highway.

There are hidden rewards in clearing territories:
Everything is new,
Opportunities lie anywhere,
Everything will make you stronger.
But harshness comes alongside,
Callused feet, cracked hands to open ways,
Sleepless nights in a mixture
Of cold, fear and anxiety with the things to come.

There is no authenticity in routes already traveled.
In somewhere, still unaccessed,
Lies what composes us,
Our unique voice tone,
Our journey that might lead
To our potential super-humans
If we learn to use discomfort as a weapon
And comfort as a momentary prize.

I often misplace myself,
The wrong place and the wrong time,
The repeated search of a lightning
That, in an effort to not strike
The same spot twice,
Hits the exact same coordinates.

To place yourself is to create a label.
It is written in my packing:
Person, curious, kind, perfectionist, independent.
But the course of happenings is organic.
Rules are only a posteriori things.
I can't be a person because
There is no such thing as a person.
Curiosity is a movement,
Kindness, liquid.
Perfectionism, illusion.
Independence, a vague concept,
Lacking definition and sense,
Useless to be argued.

To be correctly placed
Is to be sole,
A desirable, painful choice.

Sometimes
We just need
To hack our own rules
Whenever we feel
They do not fit
Us, the moment,
The vibrations,
The intention
And the breeze.

Today I disobey myself:
To write
When all my cells tell me
To surrender to the deepness of a sleep.

There is a detachment I seek,
I can sense its lightness
To lead me to new routes,
Wander town to town,
But it is unreachable.

It is there in idea,
Form, smell, colors and shadows,
But never in walls, floors,
Treads, acting and feeling.

There is this impression
That I know what I want,
But that I don't know how to be it.
That I can't find the place to unearth it.
That I can't find the compass to point it.
And, drifting in the sea of everything inside me,
I lose myself in fake storms
Created to sustain my farce failures.

There is this light impression of control,
Of a premeditated operation, reasonable,
Which I carry at all times
Like coins in my pockets:
Don't know what they're there for,
And I'm always willing to give some to whoever asks.

But it is a light impression.
It is a fact, although questionable.
It is the principle of a doubt fed day by day
By vague thoughts,
As if they're thought by others through my mind.

It is the impression of a renunciation,
But I want it real.
As I want my breakfast
And healthy legs to move.

I want the softest of breezes
To carry me even to places
I don't want to be.