I’m far too worn down—a disembodied, crumbling mess—
to be writing poems of weakness.
Yeah…
The silver lining is seeing that cursed folder
nearly empty, compared to the others.
And fuck you, you son of a bitch…
I mean, searching for strength in an offensive catchphrase—
insistently—
just for the perverse pleasure of wallowing in banal vulgarity,
and to express total rejection and complete disagreement…
You say you're too worn down to write poems of weakness, then write one anyway. The cursed folder being the emptiest one is the detail I keep coming back to. I read the swearing as you keeping the door shut on the sentimental version, and as a reader I'd take the swearing over that version any day.
To feel, once again, like you are dying while still alive.
Waking up each morning is not like falling from the sky.
A wish to be present in the conversation.
You could hear the sound of nature, as if you were in a dream. A rhapsody, a melody, a symphony.
When morning comes and the alarm screams at 6am, you're gonna have to go. I swear.
Today there was a capoeira showdown between a capoeirista from Minas Gerais vs a capoeirista from the state of Bahia. The main rule established for the dispute was not to hurt anyone, but after I…
Love doesn't announce itself when it comes, when there are no real intentions.
Thinking about life, I caught myself asking stupid questions about people.
Walking on the track during the night, a little dazed by everything that’s been happening in life, it seems foolish, but it isn’t.
I'm freezing outside. Feeling my skin cold and pale like marble. Just waiting for you.
I’m far too worn down—a disembodied, crumbling mess—