Inhale air,
Exhale your pain.
Don't search for mirrors,
Your reflex is irrelevant.

Be your own flower,
Be your own thorn,
Cry your own heart,
Learn yourself up.

There's a stop,
There's a fast lane.
Both exist for a reason.

We've got nothing about ourselves
But a room full of stories
Full of memories,
All we have is us.

If, at moments,
You feel like drifting,
Is just life taking control
Once again.

If we are all we have,
We are lonely,
But there's also
Only one way
To be strong:
Through ourselves.

When I left town,
I meant to come back,
To turn my village
Into a great city,
Make it flourish,
But I'm not there,
And I ain't coming back.

My old street is my name,
My neighborhood, my family name,
Its lake is my busy calm place,
Its morals, my constant fight.

A town always wanting,
Waiting to be,
The capital of county,
The capital of the state,
The capital of hearts,
Trapped with a small
Megalomaniac obsession,
A misplace inside a panic room,
The dream of a solved traffic congestion,
A myth of buildings and skyscrapers,
A proud town,
Proud of all citizens that left,
Proud of all you can find in there
That could never be found three,
Proud of a growth measured by irrelevant mesures.

A great town,
Hidden in a beautiful valley,
In the middle of no paths,
More peculiar each day,
With decaying ideas
In the exact proportion
Of a growing population.

There is many of it in me,
But there's nothing there about me.

In the absence of a future
To guide my past,
I carry the moment in my shoulders,
With any baggage within.

Let it explode the pain,
Let earthquakes build shelters
No calms can destroy.
Let pain explodes
For what I don't see
Is stronger than every color;
What I deny and exclude
Conduct me more
Than what I accept and embrace;
All that explodes
Cannot be hidden anymore.

I expose open wide what makes me small
For I choose to be great.

I wanted, truly, to believe
That this fire in the words and the eyes
Won't get our hands *****
Of clay, cement,
Of walls to face to,
That this same fire
Won't consume all the air we breathe,
Won't reduce to dust
All the ornament and all the content
That bonds us,
And all the remains
Are looks to the floor,
The first degree burns,
The second degree burns,
And those, more serious, but not painful,
Third degree burns.

I cannot believe
That this is a phony, fictitious,
Neither a harmless fire.
The awake of any sleeping volcano
Is more serious than those known, measured.

It is not the blow of the words
That make fire;
It is made in the stomach,
With all the acids ingested,
With poisoned food,
In the masochism of cultivating
Unnecessary pain,
In the sadism of wanting to see this pain
In any other eyes,
In the self denial as also a poison producer.

We are alone, naked, hands *****,
In cubicles, over a soft soil of the ashes,
Protected from everything,
Except ourselves.

There is a big "no"
Dividing, mutilating
The feelings of a fatherland,
Turning a home into
A sum of rooms.

There is a "no"
To the fundamentals of civility
Whenever it is said
Criminals must die,
Queers must be content,
Whenever racism is defended,
Although hidden into lamb's costumes,
Of the paladins of Order and Justice.

A country cannot be built
Under so many tearing premises,
We, more than ever,
Need to rescue
What it means
To be Brazilians,
To be Us, again,
Not the imbecile crusaders
Against a self nightmare
Of the enemies dreams.

Underlying all ruins,
All chaos and all lack of trust,
There, untouched,
Stands an indian-african-european child
That, without any comprehensible words,
Will present the chromatic yarns of our fabric
In which any shred
Dissolves everything.

For union, never unity.

Spread,
Infect,
Pulverize,
Migrate,
Pollinate,
Propagate,
Reverbe­rate,
Echo,
Transmit,
Amplify,
Expand,
Convince,
Multiply,
Prolif­erate,
Create,
Pass on,
Reproduce,
Tell,
Shout.

It's worth it.

I can always do better next time.
That's the curse of time:
The end is a never happening event.

There's no such thing
As a perpetual motion.

Full,
I am in most ways:
Loved, lived, livid.

Empty,
Spaces grow
When I pass:
Weeks, days, lengths,
Lands, roads, feelings.

I'm a point in nowhere
Incalculable in speed, in size
And dimensions,
Half here, half there,
Not mine nor others',
Just a vague matter
In a strange strange
Full-empty world.

It takes courage
To leave home,
To return and see nothing's changed,
To realize things go on,
To see smiles where tears were expected.

It takes courage, and only courage,
To fly.
It's our fears, doubts and regrets
That anchor us to the ground,
Not the absence of wings.

It takes courage
To abolish mind constructions,
To listen to different musics,
To bring love after treated with hate.

It takes courage
To stand up against time,
Against things that went the wrong way,
To see that there was not a wrong way.

It still takes courage
Just to see the courage
In knowing our very own likes and dislikes,
Our whys, our whens and our whats.

I wish I was different
In a way I can't be sure
If I would still be me.

Then even colors would be different,
The path Earth follows
Would be slightly different,
The moon, either closer or farther,
But altered.

In essence,
Nothing would change:
Another person among billions,
Another ideas within an ocean,
Other undetectable interactions.

Still, incrementally different:
A different gravitational field,
Tenuous distortions in trajectories,
Touched by other winds,
Colliding with new molecules.
In thousands of years
The future would be so recognizable
I would say:
It all could only happen
For I wasn't me in the first place.

I changed so change could happen.

At points
What pumps us
Imprisons.

The difference
Is abundance.

The day ends
With another dose of order.
Million heads inside each one
Standing on bus stops,
On the way home to work to home to work
Missing the *****,
Missing the dancing,
The movement.

All enclosed
(Myself included)
Within imprisoning sounds,
Engine's music or music's engine,
Whatever works;
Feeling ***** through unacquainted eyes.

My voice shut
For I know the disease, the medicine,
But I know not the wellness;
I know rolling wheels
Riding over what I've been at some point in life.

I'm just missing a cross of eyes.

... And the train never arrived.
There are tails and the station
And trains somewhere...
But not here.

Nobody came
And nobody went,
It's just me,
A lone loner,
Trying to blow clouds
With a straw.

There's just me here,
The town is dead
With everything inside.
It's no wonder no train comes.
There's just nothing here.

Anyone knows where to go?

It's a load,
It's all unforgotten unfinished dreams,
It's all the love that could be and want,
A lot of missing but doing the same stuff.

It's too much to bear,
It's all disappointments,
It's all the accomplishments that matters to anyone but you,
It's all the things you see and can't explain to anybody else,
It's all the experiences in your life you wanted to share but the moment's passed.

It's the struggle with time, actions and decisions,
It's all the worry about money,
It's everyone and just you,
It's the weight of knowing that it was you all along pushing yourself farther from everyone,
It's the deceiving lightness of being distant in a new city every 4 or5 years to blame geography and culture for being alone,
It's all of that and nothing apparently.
It's a lot of feelings, some this bad, others not so much (waiting for the right time to pop up).

And on top of that,
It still has blood to pump.

There can only be rhythm
Subject to a passing time.
Existence is against remaining,
Equilibrium is the cause of all death,
All resistance is change.

To stay when invited to leave,
To let live when shouts call merciless death,
To be space when asked only surface.

The thoughts of yore
Are no longer welcome
There is already too much past
Stick to the structures,
To the looks, the fears, the hierarchy,
The privileges and the possessions.

Steadiness itself
Is at a countdown to extinction,
The death of death
And the rise of immortality,
The new mindset
That will conquer galaxies and caves
Will emerge:
Always changing, always new,
Always self-discovery.

Everything else is vanity.

Futures should be always distant,
Unthinkable, untouchable,
Something to be seen
As a turbid figure,
Refracted, reflected, deflected.

The approaching future
Is always a troubled one,
For excitement is not future,
It happens in the present.

To think of the future
Is always a form of fear,
Is denying the passage of time,
Is the control of uncontrollable.

The only place it could never be
Is in the present.

Sometimes we have to stand
Upfront the immensity and the abyss of nothing
To realize the only greatness
Lies inside.

I feel nothing capable
Of providing me a poem.
A weather report could be
As abstract as I am now.

In any instance of lack of creativity
I shall remember
My invisible world, although hidden,
Is there at any times,
Ready to conform
Ideas into anything sensible.

Breath,
Pulse,
Think,
Eat,
Drink,
Choice.

Everything else is luxury.

Obvious things are not stamped,
They are hidden beneath the carpets,
They are shout in between words
(But never represented by them),
Seemingly obvious things are misleading.

I've searched endlessly
Inside myself
Only to find
In you
What I needed
For my own company
To be enough.

If only
I could see
Farther than my ego.

The longer the roads
The more we have of ourselves.
Landscapes pass through
Without alarm,
Until we're awake.

Mountainside are a sculpted beauty,
The solid of geography,
But also a reminder
Of everything less than great.

Hurray to the sun,
The stars, the predictions,
And, consequently,
The way of life.

We're nothing less of our desires,
We're nothing more than our greed:
There lies our boundaries.

Doesn't matter what you think.

My words are my language,
My only, my own, mine and nobody else's.
We happen to have things in common,
Same name for colors, for beds and rooms,
I have my own past, present, future,
Perfect or not, continuous or not,
My time contains all verbal tenses.

We touch each others' lives,
We are nothing but leaks,
We need tons of ourselves
To give just grams to others,
But, again, small leaks,
And it's OK.

Uniqueness does not make me
One of a kind,
It just makes me
An other.

Hail to being one, being all,
and being none.

Men is evil by nature,
It is civilization which ruins him.

I don't have an address,
I don't live in a street.

I don't live in a city,
I don't live in a country,
I don't live in a neighborhood,
I don't live in a house:
These are all concepts,
We can't live in a concept
(this is schizophrenia).

I live in a piece of land
Above a piece of land
Above a piece of land.
I live above the earth
And beneath the sky,
I live guarded of danger, cold and sunburst,
Also guarded of stars and moonlight.

There's nothing mine here
Except what I see, hear, touch, smell, taste
And what my mind does with it.

First there were farms
And we were worried
It would rain too much,
It would not rain at all.

Then came the cities,
Roads, cars, banks,
And we got worried
All life would drain
During a fatal robbery.

Then came the jobs,
And more jobs and
Lack of jobs, and
No matter what,
Money will be short.

And we worry now
Time is precious but
Viscous, uncontainable,
Irreversible, and to
Waste it is to die a little.

If everything is worrying
Why any of it is, actually?
Maybe its not a question
Of what is worrying, but
Of who is worried. Am I?

I keep moving
Not to understand
Why I'm going.

I keep moving
To be moving
To change landscapes.

To smell is not a choice,
But to select what is good
And what is not:
That is an option!

Freedom is to understand
What are the rules that imprison us
And use it to evolve,
Like the water of a river,
Restrained by gravity,
Keep going down
In order to grow
Inevitably to meet
A more tempered version of itself.

Carbon,
Hydrogen,
Oxygen,
Nitrogen,
Small little other things.

Now and ever.

We're as strong as our hearts,
We beat as hard as it beats.

I'm more than been lost in a dream
That I no longer dream,
And my heart tells me so.

I'm fragile
For my ears are shut,
Numbed or whatever,
But I resist.
I'll move on, I'll swim
And I'll fly if I need to.
If I want to.

Want,
What a strange word.
I never know whose voice it is
When it is pronounced.

Round, around, surround,
Rounded, surroundings,
Tangent, tangled, tango,
Dance, dense, tense,
Intense, interior, international,
Nation, notation, notion,
Purpose, purple rose,
Thyme, lime, time,
Evolve, involve, revolve,
Round, around, surround.

Again, gain, grain.
Rain.
Revolve.
Start. Smart.

Pointless, less.
Point.

Make.
Your.
Point.
Revolve, recycle.
To the origin.
Begin.
Up.
To.
The.
End.
And.
Over.

We strive for numbers
To seek productivity,
Followers, approval,
But most of the time,
They come unexpected.

To think in things we see
Is to see less;
Numbers are as distracting
As distant thoughts
In things we could reach
If whatever "ifs" happened.
Feelings must be whole,
Untamed,
For the sake of whatever we have
Rather than feelings.

Numbers are lack of confidence.

Let the cannons come:
My flowers are awaiting.

The more silent we are
The farther we can hear the wind.
I'm not really sure
What is the use of it,
But, in its own tongue,
It has much to be said,
Many places visited,
Many plagues delivered,
Many flowers pollinated.

Our absence of understanding
Does not mean absence of meaning.
It's just the language.

"Us and them
And after all we're only ordinary men".
That said, what's left?
The two worlds, that one living in me,
And that other one, living in you,
How different could they be?

Everything to us, nothing to them,
I cannot be hurt, except
My skin are theirs,
And my pain as well.
I earn their money,
I wear their clothes.
I am a different person,
And, yet, depending on the distance,
Exactly the same.

Between us and them
There can be no we.
But we can be heroes,
Any day we want
(Maybe, for unknown reasons,
We just don't want to).
We fight for our rights
Whenever I can't.
We change by voting
Whenever I can't.
We are a country
Anywhere I'm not.
We are the world
Where I, alone, can never conceive it.

The world, by itself,
Is just a floating rock
Tempered with moving molecules
Unable to see farther than the eyes.

You set my riot.
Time is not relative. It's just our choices.
Time is there,
It doesn't even notice us.

I don't like what we became.
I don't like to have done what I have done,
I don't like watch things from distance,
I don't like that your eyes cry my tears,
I don't like that my pain hurts you.

But there's no more to the world
Than the world.
Is this where we came,
I either deal
or keep rebelling. I'll fight.
Probably.

I've just let someone in,
And, now,
I just don't know what to do
With all the spaces left.

For any practical purposes
My body contains everything I own.
I do not own my food
Or my oxygen:
I steal them
From the land and the air,
For everything to be transformed
Into waste.

Nevertheless
There is an outer part,
Unreasonable,
Waiting for inconsistencies
To install itself
In the cracks of personality,
In the voids of indecision,
This part, insubmissive,
Remains unattached,
A slave of the lack of rules,
Traveling faster than light,
Unseen until a careful watch
Freezes its amorphous form.

There are complements of ourselves
On every surface touched,
Outer parts of who we are,
Of electrons shared,
Of not imagined interactions,
Rendering responsibility obsolete
Due to our limited capacity
To be affected
By the smallness
We are all made of.

Every position
Is denying any others.
It is conquered
Through all that is learned,
Through intuition and grit,
And, that, is the only possible position
Oneself can be,
At those circumstances,
At that moment.

The result of billions of billions of billions
Of tiny particle forces,
Together in as much combinations,
To happen into only one solution.

Yet, time and time again
We divert that position,
That self constitution
Relative to the place of values
And beliefs and dreams and wishes,
Where we stand, bravely.
The distance between we and our ghosts,
The self imagined ghost,
Our own view from above
(untrue, but real),
This ambiguous gap
Eventually leads us farther,
Away from our core.
But be not mistaken,
We go. The ghosts stay.

The gap is only imaginary,
A concept, as any concept:
Ceases to exist the moment
It is brought to life.

The only judgment ever to be made
Should be that our own lives
Matter most
Than anybody else's.

Your ruler cannot measure me.

Anyway you call it
It's a label,
Virtual, invisible,
Post real,
Post truth,
Things are things
Not the name they have.

Change the names
Our minds change,
But it is inside:
the outside remains.

There is nothing more to words
Than senseless vibrations
We use to attach things.
We live delusional states
Where we think
Verbs, nouns, prepositions,
Trying to locate
Minds into grounds,
But we forget their nature,
That they're tools,
Deceiving, necessary tools,
Simplistic, manipulative tools,
Practical, addictive tools.

Lately I've been realizing
To be truthful
The only start
Is in the the anti words space,
The reverse map of reality:
All that is known, hidden,
And all that is mystery, shown.

Otherwise the only thing to do
Would be to hope
To find a new continent
On everyday commute.

I sink,
I drawn,
I try to swim
In this vast quicksand,
Swinging arms
To desperately grasp
Any remains of firm soil.

I feel the sand up to my nose
But I fight:
I have this feeling
That somewhere
I'll find a branch to hold on,
An air bubble
To keep me breathing.

I don't care being defeated:
It will eventually happen.
To accept it is my revolt.
I'll stand against the inevitable
For resigning is confirm it.

The revolution
Can only happen
Inside out.

It is bold to fly,
To distance from feet on the ground,
Of the roots we try to create,
Of the soil we recognize,
Of the short (beautiful) horizon.

We need a lot to fly,
We need instruments,
We need pilots,
We need machines.

But we know it is beautiful,
We want to see new perspectives,
We want to go to other lands,
Other languages,
We'll see many other rivers
In an expanded horizon.

But finally we need to land.
To fly is easy; to land, not.
We count on a whole team to do so.
It's the way it happens that changes everything:
A gentle kiss on the ground
Or a disastrous impact on the ocean.
The same thousandths of seconds
But with very different futures.

And we are so used
To being landed
That we don't know how to touch the ground ourselves,
There's always a pilot,
A crew,
We forget to know how to recognize the terrain,
To wear a parachute,
To chose when to jump.

It's always risky,
But not to take it
Is to be, everytime,
Where everyone else is.

Aterrisage is terrifying.

Happiness does not flourishing
In the minimal spaces
Left between
The unsoiled feelings
Occupying our anxieties.

We find the fertile lands
Where we don't seek,
Where our thoughts diminish,
Where heartbeats are heard
In the intensity of the rush
Warning us
That any of our ideas
Are less than useless.

Words fly high,
Trespass walls,
Penetrate, extirpate,
Build and implode,
Code and decode,
They're just words
But much more than
Physics behind them.
Words are phenomena,
Pure causality,
Pure order spiced by disorder.
Beauty and pragmatism.
Words fly high
And fall heavily.
Anchor and wings,
Ship and harbor,
Grenades and first-aid kit,
Surgery room and coffins.

No more than words.

Down the road,
In between leafy trees,
There is a lone lamplight:
Sometimes steady, reliable,
Sometimes flickering randomly,
A mist of lighthouse
And faery fire.

Through its clearance extent,
The unseen horizon of its light,
Passes a man
After a woman.
Dark, light, dark.
Dark, light, dark.
And the sounds,
Untouched by the photons,
With accelerating rhythm,
Gives a sober dreary tone
To the undisclosed scene.

Not even the privileged highness
Of the witnessing lamplight
Could reach the sight of what happened.
Part of every eye
Are just not capable of see it;
Another part
Simply refuses
For the freeze of action
Would render all conscience useless.

The hidden darkness
Within every clarity
Contains more danger
Than all of them shades.

Let yourself be lost
In the middle of a crossroads,
No destination,
No goal.

The ends do not
make the ways.

Sleep, sleep
May you find
In dreams and mourns
Your awaken answers.

Sleep,
The rest is yours,
In other parts
The day is through,
People are running,
The sun out there,
But sleep in the calm
Of constellations.

Sleep,
Slow down
Hold your heartbeats,
The frequency of thoughts,
Don't miss your sleep,
Don't think of it,
Don't let it talk,
Breathe,
Breathe,
Gently breathe.

If you catch the train,
You'll go far and you'll go deep.
Sleep.

I find meaning
In the dark shadows of death,
In the thoughts of missing parts,
Of what has been excluded,
On things our childish existence can't notice.

Whereas you, in your anchor to life,
Find meaning in the deepens of yourself,
Your body and the immanent love,
The contact with whatever can be felt,
In the euphoria of self discovery.

As a consequence,
Our house is too big for us,
The future, too repetitive,
I cannot contain life within me,
And all you do is hold on to it.

There's beauty in all of them,
It's, beside all metaphysics,
A matter of the space we occupy,
At the same time,
At the same coordinates.
Too much we compete for the same place
We end up in complete different desires.

Feel
My
Changes.