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?