segunda-feira, 14 de fevereiro de 2011

lying on the grass, standing under the moon, handing the same device, admiring the same mistery, our hands together, similar smiles facing the beauty that is out there

Yeah, I am alive again.

domingo, 13 de fevereiro de 2011

Maybe you can be allowed to live again. Be grateful, then.
Point your dead finger to the few things that are worth loving and do it, indeed; your dryed eyes, your nothingness may be forgiven and you can breathe again.
Congratulations. You can always break a million things more when you just want to break one. The main shit, you, is unbreakable.

Where is the man on the phone that sweetly gives you the hint: kill yourself?

Where is your Romeo + Juliet memory, from the happy moment you first tried to kill you?

Where is the damn courage you have a large mouth to say you have it but that is as hollow as your shinning shitty dreams?

Go hurt yourself, go feel something.
You just need to cry. You deserve it. You owe it, surely. It is never enough crying, drying out, running out of tries. You are never enough. Good enough. Admired enough. You simply are not worth it. You keep living and wondering about that. And then you dry out again. You put on some weight, liters, stones. You swallow but you cannot throw it up. If you try it, the proper words do not come out of the blue as you want it to. You just want to run away, and run and run and

Break everything if you have time to.

Either you like running from small everyday worthless shit that makes your day a even worse one, or you just let the damn words come out of your fool dead mouth.

domingo, 6 de fevereiro de 2011

You clap with Bill Haley.
You wave shoulders with Louis Armstrong.
You also dream of a kiss with him. Not exactly with HIM, I mean.

You talk to old friends.
You make some smoke, no harm, a little smart acid and large packages of happiness.

Therapies, each one with his own.