If the purest of persons would come over, certainly the wilted roses would bloom again.
But in this world there is no such person.
It is the mysterious adventure of a blind man who dives in the ocean, the man without arms and legs that skydives and the deaf man who goes to a concert.

You don't have to be innocent to be pure.

Depression Major or Major Depression...

Life got me longing for what I've lost before I've had even found it, but not only that...
also left me sad like a guitar that just lost its last string.

Here's to being a sad tomato and eating ham on rye...

The perpetual lost and lonely children

On and on, through the history of mankind,
people are fabricated to be lost and lonely children.
It is a factory of unconscious existence
producing them,
carelessly,
these abandoned drifting beings,
generally roaming in the insidious nights,
drunken dawns
where the likes of Rhys and Bukowski meet,
they all suffer of extreme awareness
and do everything to numb it
in the struggle to survive another day
in a corrupt and rotting society
without knowing exactly why and what for
We are the defeated, the demented and damned
hurt from the start by our creators,
so complex and everywhere
but never able to be found.

Pictures on the Wall

Will you remember me when I'm gone?
I am the man who watched over you,
Stayed by your bedside singing a song
And never saw that your love was true.

Now, I know that I'm not on your mind.
The times has passed and you are gone.
I'll never understand why you left me behind,
But surely I'm just part of what went wrong.

The ghostly visions of you make me tremble
Like the images on the screen so noisy,
Something tells me I'm not on your photos,
The ones you collect so eager to handle
They're proof of how meaningless I am to you.


[in arroja, 26/20/2017]

Do you recognize my handwriting? Do you know its curves and swirls? Does my writing inspire you to create, to dream, to paint, to scream?

Each letter is drawn unconsciously: in my odd way of holding the pen, my thumb hugging it and the rugged feel resisting my grasp, I let the ink flow and suddenly - less than in a blink of the eye - the words are aligned with the atrophied thoughts that come down the brain through the arms and the veins, rushing ink elegantly on paper.

[in arroja, 26/20/2017]

Anatomy of Decay

The brain has mines taking the neurons place, my head has death taking the once black hair's place, my mind has jazz cymbals perforating the space between my ears.

My neck is filled with nodes strangulating me, my chest is a festering putrid place where my bronchi and lungs where replace by webs and the heart is no longer, my stomach is permanently on fire burning every emotion to ash, my womb is boiling with stillborn creations.

My arms are now similar to ropes that hold nothing, my hands are melted butterflies that won't fly anymore, my fingers just the bones that once held the tips of the angel's wings.

My legs are walking sticks of the oldest man on Earth, my feet are made of coal and their toes no longer touch the ground. 

You were everything to me, just like Spring is to flowers.