quarta-feira, 26 de janeiro de 2022
Conhecer
segunda-feira, 17 de janeiro de 2022
Disjecta Membra
domingo, 9 de janeiro de 2022
Letter #2 from Erika to Mr. W.
My beloved W.,
It would be unfair to assume I'm unable to have feelings because of my... Condition. I didn't expect an answer to my letter because we were endangered, for you'd always been the only effective way in which someone could really hurt me. And still now that I can send you a proper letter, we both know there'll never be such a thing as a safe ground for any contact between us. Not unless you let me... Actually, never. You've already gone through a lot and I can't let my whims make you suffer more than you already did.
Truth is I can never be sure of my feelings. At least, can't figure them out on my own. And I'm telling you this because you're somehow connected to most things that attach me back to existance. I'm not proud of it, and I will understand if you hide and fear me for telling you this, still I want you to know. Truth is whenever I feel hunger, when I'm desperate and can't move my mind away with any other thought or idea, I think of you.
I remember that day. Bleeding drops of red laid on the floor of your room. Still I didn't have this condition, but the idea of maybe losing you - and I'm grateful I didn't - recorded the image of those drops of your blood in my mind as the beautiful picture of when my death began. The melancholic goodbye of a person who needed to die to start living. It's beautiful because I, now, kind of live. I kind of enjoy my condition. And it's all happened because of you. Because of your blood.
As you obviously aged, do you enjoy the life - the path you chose? I don't truly believe our paths could ever be excludent, do you? I'd like to understand what am I still able to feel, and only you can help me. I think you do not fear me, the same way I couldn't fear you back then. And now some shit ended and we're kinda safe. If you're smart enough, if you can still read me - and I truly believe you can, otherwise wouldn't be writing you another letter -, there's clue enough from what we lived for you to track me from this letter.
With some of the memory that remains me,
Elise,
Whom you've learned to recognize through multiple names.
quinta-feira, 6 de janeiro de 2022
Backyard
Been looking at a blank paper, wondering,
Like I wonder about life,
And I do wonder a lot,
And remain silent between my pages
Reclude my mild spark for ages
I control every thought
I allow myself to have
Even though after each cigarette
Silence punishes me
With regret.
Like putting a word to the paper,
I dispose of the weight
For I stared for a long time,
For I spared me of each rhyme,
For I know it's too late
To wait for something to happen,
And to weep
Every word I keep,
Pointless as could be,
For everything's already been said
And still silence tortures me
Inside my head.
Like the coldest fire trying to survive while it rains,
I do something,
I write a poem,
For that's what remains
For me to do,
I can only write a poem,
Between every verse of my silence
Can you still read me?
The world is my backyard,
To explore, too many rooms
And still
Not a rose blooms.
When living your own life,
Are you upset with the routine?
Do you regret
What hasn't been?
Do you scream your heart out when it begs
For shelter
Between someone's legs?
I write a poem.
It's too late to wait for something to happen,
Do I waste you like you waste me?
We're getting old and complacent
Of routine, quarantine,
Would you taste me,
With the thirst of all the times you did
On the times I made it up?
For the world is my backyard
It's open to be seen,
To care for flowers,
Tidy up all the green.