Onde?

 Quem me dera perceber

Toda a minha insanidade

Todo e qualquer vislumbre da minha doce sanidade que escondo nas sombras.

Quem me dera esse vislumbre, de serena insanidade.

Por consequência de viver,não sei, não conheço... Não reconheço.

Mas por tudo.

Abraço o inconsistente.

 

É toda uma experiência que não sei.

Quero, por saber, por conhecer, que um abraço me venha de ti.

Que uma noite seja contigo.

 

Não me chega um beijo contigo.

Não me chega uma noite.

Não me chega um segredo.

 

Quero te a ti.

Quero o teu murmúrio.

Quero o teu domínio e todo o teu ser no teu beijo e no teu devaneio.

 

Se ainda procuras, eu não sei de ti,

Mas por tudo

Alguma vez escolhi.

 

Raro anexo de loucura e sanidade.

Tangente dos meus sonhos e realidade obtusa.

Anexada a mim...

Habitação

 Se a mente é uma casa, portas abertas deveria ter.
Nos seus confins certos e emparedados, o pensamento deveria correr.
Se a mente é clara, segunda e sem fim, certamente que esperaríamos, do amanhecer ao anoitecer, uma segunda via de vida, correctamente sem perceber.

Pelas coisas que vamos descrevendo, sempre atentos ao que vai de nós, pela leitura diagonal, coisas que vamos perdendo.
Sempre que podemos, sempre que somos, pela forma que vamos vivendo, que vamos passando, que vamos falando, escutando e lutando.
Coisas, enfim, que devemos encaixar.

Abre-se a porta da casa mental, somos pelos confins dela perdidos, a cada voltar de esquina, somos uma pessoa diferente do que cortou essa esquina.
Pela ordem unilateral, de pensamento, de dissociação…
Cada escolha aparente, pelo momento, pelo vivente.
Abre-se a porta da casa mental, fecham-se as janelas, nem uma aragem parece passar.

Sufoco.
Não há como respirar, não há como escutar, não há como viver.
Coordenação inepta.
Se cada palavra parece passar, por um momento esquecida, não resta investigar, o assunto parece estar submetido.
Escolhe a ilusão que pretendas apresentar hoje, ontem passou, não há regresso.

Com a vontade de ser, de viver, de pensar, vulgar existência e ainda assim, parece que nada me faz passar, por essas portadas, não para sair ou entrar.
Pensamento transversal, condições que decidiste escolher com um olhar, que te cabem de fundo na mente e que sinceramente, fizeste por ignorar.

Abre a porta, deixa alguém entrar, deixa alguém sair.
Não existe um ponto de regresso, quem decidiu partir, perdeu a chave.
Penduradas na parede, as chaves de mil pessoas que passaram, mil almas que estiveram, que entraram, desfizeram e quiseram ainda assim ser.

Não há, não pode haver, não existe em uma menção.
Desliga, fecha e esconde.
Pendura mais uma.
Passou da portada, com sentido de nunca entrar.

Se a mente é uma casa…
A porta, estava aberta e continua aberta, apenas fechada pelo ponto de vista.
Cruza e decide.
Será que ainda está para ti virada?

Where?

Should have brought a writing utensil.
Should have drawn all over the tables.
Should have sprained all the words, dividing them to new meanings.
Should have crashed the sky.
Should have sent it all falling down, restraining all sense of causality.
Should have fought the waves that crashed.
Should have proclaimed the end of the day.
Should have embraced fire.
Should have danced with sweet embrace.
Above all, should have chosen what was wrong, to try out all the steps that make a mountain.
Although in perspective, how will I know if my steps have been right?
Should have clashed with the clouds, bathing in the falling rain.
Should have asked for forgetfulness, as forgiveness is never tame.
Then with arms wide crossed, approach the world defenseless, in contrast to expectation.
Should have made allied of m my confusion so not to confuse myself in this tiring time.
Should have asked for more?
No, it makes no sense.
Shut your eyes, wide awake, twist again in the high tides of time.
Should have witnessed the passing sands.
Just sit down, expect a crowd of crows.
Listen not to the murder.

Winter monster?

Refer to my madness, winter eyes, will you not look beyond as the savage men cried.

Secluded in himself, averts his eyes, for all the sunshine cannot be from a brighter smile.

Take rude precaution, thread lightly if you will, for in an instance of reason, the train of consequences derailed.

Check for pulse, a no resuscitation not lays dangling from his neck torn from head to toe, no more lips or gums to flap.

Cut the rope and dangle the line, mast to stern, no captain nor rime.

Gaze at the clock both hands are missing, stillness and silence, horror of winter at the door.

The look into winter's eyes, for more descriptions to follow, winter in itself, a construct disguise.

Shall we look, amazed, lost and dumbfounded, deeply into Winter's eyes?

Your sentence, lost for conclusion.

Your eyes, stuck to her visage.

And with a giggle, a haughty smile, Winter leaves.

Weight yourself, take note of more weight at heart.

Winter left, left you behind.

Static

Static electricity and static cling.
For all left aloof nothing can divide.
The mind in its wisdom did try to hide.
A slice of science for the untrained eye.

Static discharge, shock to the senses.
Colliding realities based on lies.
Foretold discrepancies asinine bigoted cries.
A temporal still, closer to the blind.

Static motions, close to home far from the sky.
Going down a metal pipe, compressed and diluted.
Scary notions, what a life.
Erode and decay, stillness declines.

Static mind, mental shun.
Cramped thoughts and apathetic replies.
Disconnection and dissolution.
Care to jump in and try?

Static notion, voided warranty.
Scrambled calls and innuendo filled speeches.
Faster backwards, idiotic conclusion.
Shutter for silence, statically clinging to static mind.

What never changes

Run afoot the flame, cold fire in separate horror.
Entail, all the stories, confusion and malice, the shock of ages that seems to put off the flame of existence.
Bury it, notify next of kin, only to find that nobody came to care, no profit, no loss.

Scream, avarice and gluttony.

We the distinguished dead, lay to pay entrance, two golden coins.
Note however the price has changed.
Note that we have come to a standstill.

Douse the flame with gasoline, get drunk on napalm.
All idiotic, craving down and carving in, the students of self-destruction.
Escalate the notion, the war was always our pact.

Charge ahead.
Cut the countless loses.
You never looked back.

Canvas overhead, bound and blind innocent.

Do you still know someone like that?

Diagrams and pointless routine

The clairvoyance of sorts, that leads down this path of forgottenness.
Jump in, follow in suit, you only know the page that needs to be read, alas, not the words that need to be heard.
The structure that would lead to the path, to the way to follow, inscribed in blue paper, rebelled and destroyed itself.
For consciousness of honor lost, so should the ashamed be forgiven.
It matters not.
If the sense were indeed left for the sentence, the sentence would gladly be left to be read, but with no one to know where to find it, the words have lost the meaning and the pain is strong and unmourned.
I would call for qualms of balance and temperance, for still rhythm and logging passage, to follow, to be on the way, for once lost, we know not how to reclaim.
Wake up.
Arise.
Get ready.
Eat.
Leave.
Enter.
Clock in.
Eat.
Clock out.
Return.
Ride for self-destruction.
Shall it sit in dismay? Reclaim to revive or simply follow the same path, the same pathetic excuses, the unwillingness to re-access the situation…
Wake, sleep, repeat, repeat, repeat.
Then should it be sent to the drawing board or the butchers board?
Should the plan be denied and defiled, forgotten, lost in arms and has simply non-existent, toss and turn, revolve and revolt.
If you cry for the words, the worlds won’t understand the writings.

It’s all rather pointless, obtuse and imbecile.

Synthetic

The passing clouds
Waves of light and confusion
Clamor and childlike delusion.

The sounds
The festering wounds on the ground
The silence.

The science that claimed religion
Unclaimed the roar of passing leaves
Spelled confusion and disbelief.

Invisible
Lain and put to rest
Clocked, loaded and cocked.

It is, in reality, all artificial
The sight and sounds that confuse
The river that must flow to nothingness.

Artifacts that are left in the rain
Rotten and lost to dismay
Ethereal sensation of endless negation.

Plastic
Unable to be corrupted but re-fabricated
Dull and without purpose.

Insane and disconnected
Left to the world, juxtaposed
While the blind man must lead, the deaf scream to follow.

It is the situation that you reclaim.
It is a chapter written once again.
Synthetic, just like you were.

First to last

 Do you still feel it?

The clawing of hours
The horrors laid bare
Beneath it all
The wars to be held

Do you understand it?

The insanity put in motion
The monsoon of time
The wasted knowledge
And the mile, so high

Do you even look?

The smile
The Lie
The element of despair
Connection through disconnecting.

Do you honor your word?

Claim to fame
The fortune to be hold
The plagued knowledge
The fall from all

Do you even remember?

One time was all it was
The simple gift that ran
The motionless stand
The inability to think

If you ever get it, know that it was not a lie.