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