To be born and live: I guess when you go on a suicide mission you always tend to overrate your abilities and powers...

What's all the fuss about??

People have this incredible ability to make a fuss out of nothing. Like when it's an end of a year with Christmas and new year's eve and people go all crazy and stressed for something that happens every year and that they forget all about on the other more than 300 days.

They build up events and the correspondent attached anxiety and when it gets to their nerves, in this supposedly season of thanks giving, peace and love, people just take down on others, frequently, in a very violent way, even with members of their own family with whom, in some cases, they didn't speak throughout the whole year.

This whole humanity thing just took the wrong turn in the early beginnings and I guess it was just too easy to blame a fictional serpent and a naked woman.

when I go down crashing and burning
it will turn out to be just fine
because I'll be a shooting star

The lingering light

Turn out the lights,
the flickering annoys
the clarity too bright

and let me hold you
tender and warm
into a dark haze
of endless love.

I could spend years
without  feeling
the same sweetness
and the same despair

but your heart is just too close
much more than I can bare.

I try to close my eyes
and live without you
but everyday you don't resist
neither do I to this mist
of never saying goodbye.

In and About Madness

Every path to the twirly fields of the derranged mind begins with an obsession that has roots in deep childhood trauma.

When the upbringing is conditioned by pressure to excel and prejudice it can undermine the self-esteem and even behead the early development of talent.

To escape the woes of daily life one tends to seek to escape and the instruments to do it. Though these artifices can bring a quite instant getaway they produce states of chemical happiness leading to the unevitable post-euphoria low which is huge depression.

As a result of the consumption and frequency of the evasion objects there's a magnification of whatever comes out as being the object of happiness and slowly it becomes an obsession.

Thus one is set to dwell in the maze of madness with all its tricks and spells. To free yourself from it is impossible if you do not acknowledge everything that happened and that it resulted in  the state of madness. It is surely a harsh process to make the necessary steps and to unravel them.

"The only lesson in life is how to suffer in silence", Van Gogh

Not only about consumerism and religious conventions, Christmas is for elves and middle-aged men who dress as Santa. And of course for parents to cook tons of food (more than they can eat) and then their children take the leftovers to eat at their homes for the next weeks.

Lifeless hairs in a lifeless body
and yet
still waiting for the burst of life

She

Fingers like serpentines
unfolding along her hair
and the image of her eyes
so clear as the sky...

Golden reflections
drawing to her locks
and her beauty reminded
the splendor of Botticelli's Venus,
the luscious innocence kept.

Her embrace was confort and warmth of Spring
in the cold November days.

She was the most beautiful girl
who ever noticed me
and then I didn't feel so bad
anymore,
at least not in those moments.

The mere sight of her renascence prettiness
made my day much brighter.

Everything needs support, otherwise it just crumbles and falls. It's all about gravity...

The truth and nothing but...

People can't stand the truth, otherwise they would be free.

The complex notes of the human soul

I'm not a mere follower of what others conceived

I am a creator,
the reflective and philosophical creator of the mind.

Trees

The trees so sure of themselves,
in the same place for ages and all around everything shatters slowly
with the uncertainty of times
and as the trees stand tall I wonder
what was it all?

Who knows when their roots first penetrated the Earth?
Who knows when their ashes will be blown by the wind?

*in the bus ride to Lagos (31-08-2013)

I think that one of my famous sentences ought to be: I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Inexistency

No victories, no pain, no sorrow
for there's nothing existent
that won't cease tomorrow

And although it might take a while
to end and disappear
you can be sure it's never been

All you see and feel and hear
is nothing but an illusion
in the reality of the Universe

And even when everything seems all
it's just your mind and your body
segregating chemicals within
to ensure its survival

For nothing is, or has become,
just because it never was.

And in being in complete solitude I have become one with the world.

It was invented that the lack of human solidarity was making a white blindness. I'm asking myself whether my daily suffering has turned me white.

The darkness of the night

The dark tones grow slowly in the night
and everything becomes bluish and purplish
just like the dead that are buried six feet under
being slowly devoured by tons of insects.

The moon is shining rays of striking white
but on the earth they do not bestow their light.

Hear your thoughts become louder
and your heartbeat turn deafening
as the wind decided to stroke your hair
your face turned from pale blue to red.

And all the while the animals flee
hiding and seeking shelter in some tree.

Now rises every noise around you
as if they were once oppressed voices
and your blood speeds inside your veins
while your body starts running wild.

Come now wanderer through the night
hope that no wolf will make you fright.

To believe and to not believe*

Olivia: Simone, you have a gift. You can see things that other people can't. I don't doubt that. But wherever you think this gift came from, or whoever you think bestowed it upon you, it's simply an anomaly. I know that because I'm an anomaly. I have moved things with my mind. I've lit things on fire. I've caught bullets mid-air. I've seen things that people only dream about. I've seen... the seams between universes ripped apart. Things that humans shouldn't see. People make up explanations, assign meanings to things without knowing, because it's reassuring, comforting. But I can't do that. Because I know too much. It's all just numbers. And the invaders, as you call them—— they're just better at math than we are.

* in Fringe, 5th series

Dying in this spiral of blood-sweat-&-tears
I rest my soul in your metal heart
and deliver into your hands my charcoal heart

be gentle, don't in the end dust it apart. 

Nothing to lose but the beat of the drum.

Once your detachment is complete and you got nothing to lose, the only thing attached to you is your beating heart.

On bleeding and dying

How can someone bleed so much and so many times and not die?
How can someone die so many times and not disappear?

You bleed but at the same time, even though the wound is open, there is a huge battle being fought for you to scar. And with time, eventually, you end up with a closed wound.

You die, time and time again, as you rise from your own ashes and sometimes, most of times, only a part of you dies, not the whole complexity of your being.
Yes, that must be it.

Boredom

Nothing to do but to watch time rust everything with its oxidizing clock.

You ask me how I am

Whenever you ask me how I am,
I think: how the hell do you think I am?

Trying to resuscitate
but it's been more than two months
and no sign of life
So I'm guessing I'm no Jesus
maybe, who knows, in the third month

I think I'd better stick on trying
not to crumble and fall into tears
whenever I miss you too much

But it's easy to say and hard to do
like every other thing
because I'm still so close to you
in my thoughts always
surrounded by references of us.

So ashes to ashes I await
as I'm buried in the dust of my heart
knowing you were the only good thing
in my wretched life and now I have not.

When feelings are pure they are never altered by time, not the Love nor the Hate.

31,
more than a hundred poems written in Portuguese
and more than a hundred written in English,
2 epic love stories,
more than 1000 movies seen ...
so, just for that, I can say: yes, I lived

I belong in the gutter; belly and face down on the filthy tar, stoned and shot at.
Because that's how I feel. That's who I've always been.

(written last month)

Forget the World, 
Forget Life and go!

Where does all this evil come from?

Is it because I am a poet? Is it because in a former life I was evil and now it's only karma?
Is it all just my fate, am I doomed and marked to die of love and loneliness?

Where does it all come from? Why does it keep running me over?
Why do I lose everyone every time?

Does it really exist?

Angel

Come to me in the darkest hours

lift me up with your wings of innocence

and carry me in your velvet arms

Sometimes I think of you

but most of times I don't

because you're never here

And all my wishing won't reach you

high where your are in the sky

And all my love won't kiss you

close to your heart where I am

To be or not to be, by Shakespeare

To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;

No more; and by a sleep to say we end

The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;

To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there’s the respect

That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover’d country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pith and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action…

Through my paintings I'll live on in someone's wall
and through my writing I will live in someone's mind.
But it is through my love that I'll live in someone's heart.

when I die

my parents have other children
my brothers have other siblings
my friends have other friends
my cousins, aunties and uncles
they all have other cousins and nieces.

I do not have anyone
and no one needs me
completely and exclusively

therefore it's all OK
because there's no need
for me to exist

Stomach

Evil comes only when we think we're not strong enough to beat it.
Darkness is only aroused when we underestimate our own value.

And everything revolves in the gut. The stomach boils with acidity and only wants to throw up.

I am surrounded by madness. I am a victim of the desire of others and yet I am powerful, I do not break, I fight with the automatic pressure and the shots of stress.

I vomit. I don't. And it makes me sick.

...

Frozen in the lake of unhappiness
I am    not
I only

lonely

no sensation but all
no burden but all weight
no feeling but

Come on and rip me from myself

I ask   not

Dead

Crushed, zombified, ripped out,
my body and my mind numb,
my limbs and back can't fight gravity no more.

Empty inside, my heart inexisting
my soul never tried

I do not know why I still breath
shallowly but enough to keep a pulse
But its beating doesn't mean I'm alive

Tired and destroyed all over again
and again and again
countless times since coming to life
dying slowly, sometimes violently
sometimes indifferently.

Love is a losing game by Amy Winehouse

For you I was a flame
Love is a losing game
Five story fire as you came
Love is a losing game
Why do I wish I never played
Oh, what a mess we made
And now the final frame
Love is a losing game

Played out by the band
Love is a losing hand
More than I could stand
Love is a losing hand

Self professed, profound
Till the chips were down
Know you’re a gambling man
Love is a losing hand

Though I’m rather blind
Love is a fate resigned
Memories mar my mind
Love is a fate resigned
Over futile odds
And laughed at by the gods
And now the final frame
Love is a losing game

Somebody who loves and cares

I miss being held by the long arms of the green grass.
I miss being kissed by the warm sun.
Most of all I miss...

Nobody Knows

We see what we want to see and feel what other people want us to feel.
And yet knowing this doesn't make us care any less.
Sometimes I wonder: do you ever think of me?
Do you see me? Do you see me as I am?
It doesn't matter in the end.
Nothing does.
But before the end there's a lot going on, sometimes too much.
I wonder if you know. I wonder if anyone does?

Love and 3 types of men

I reckon there are three characteristic types of men:

1 - The ones you love
2 - The ones who love you
3 - The ones you love and who love you back


The ones you love

These men are always emotionally unavailable.
It's like every other occasion when you dedicate a lot of your time doing something in order to reach a goal and you always turn out frustrated.


The ones who love you

These men are the ones who go the extra mile for you. Even if you're just having a tantrum, they'll put up with anything just to satisfy you, and at least make you laugh.


The ones you love and who love you back

These men are brave but still, deep inside, afraid; however they will never show it.

Leadership

“The challenge of leadership is to be strong, but not rude; be kind, but not weak; be bold, but not bully; be thoughtful, but not lazy; be humble, but not timid; be proud, but not arrogant; have humor, but without folly.”
— Jim Rohn

I'd rather be unknown than being a famous assh*le!

I've got more questions than Google could ever answer me.

Unplaced

I can't go back no more
my mind or soul don't fit the door
and the key to the lock is lost
all around I see just moss

The mellow days are over
as there is no more horizon
or sun or waves in the sky

Oh my, oh my,
what has happened to the mizen?
we're not sailing moreover
just going adrift in the seas of thought

A forsaken existence in no altar
since I was born into this world
I've always  felt unplaced and whirled
though my courage didn't falter

There's no place for someone like me
utterly dead and infused with adrenaline
there's no place for so much contradiction
there's no posture or position.

I've always felt the darkness

Most of the days I feel like dying. It has been like this since I was very young still at elementary school and she used to hit me for no reason, calling me names, saying what seemed to me the most awful and uncompreensible things.

How can someone put us in this world and treat us so badly? Deprive me from my happiness, my peace, my nourishment, my whole health and then act for my brothers and father as she was the victim and I a bad person and a bad daughter. When I was little I could only think of what could I possible have done to deserve this.

Many times, killing myself seemed the only way to put an end to so much pain and make everyone else happier. I know what a cliché this all is, but that fact doesn't make it less serious and problematic. I could never find a way to get out and get rid of all this. Adding the physical health problems and consequential financial problem I've still, in these three decades, haven't been able to free myself either way.

And I feel pity for what my situation became and ashamed for it all. And I still want an escape, though I never took the easiest escapes that crossed my path.

I've heard about horse whisperers, what about people whisperers? 
They're the most needed!

People don't know the feeling of longing anymore.

Everyone's got cellphones, and became ubiquitous in another attempt to play god.

Along with the loss of this ability we've blinded all our different views of the world at its utmost beauty: its textures, its lights, its veins, its blood and the tears it sheds when, at the same time, the colors divide and irrupting from the ground to the sky they, once more, draw a path for wonder.

Do you prefer being loved
or to love someone?
Both seem to me selfish unlike one would suppose about love.

And then there's the best of paradises: to love & to be loved at the same time.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could all taste it, the joy of love?

Look at me. What do you see?
Do you see someone who had lived,
someone who has enjoyed herself, someone who has all she needs?

What do you see? And even furthermore, inside me?

Loss

It seems that life is nothing but a course on detachment
til the ultimate detachment: the spirit from the body.

And the worst thing is to remain in doubt
of whether we've lived all we could
we said all we wanted
we loved all it was offered.

I look at the trees branches waving
dotted with fingerprints leaves
and there I see the whole life:
the birth, the living, the dying.

And even knowing it's going to happen
I can't help but thinking: why?

There comes a time in life when you gotta ask yourself:

- Am I living?
- Am I worth living?
- Is living worth it?

“We are perishing for want of wonder, not for want of wonders.”

G.K. Chesterton