Sunday, May 31, 2015

A moth to a lamp

A moth
Attracted to a lamp
Loves the light
Enjoys the warmth

It feels the heat
Senses the burning 
Yet it stays 

You turn off the light 
The moth leaves 
Half burnt and crooked

Left to its own devices
It would linger
To be consumed
Turned to ashes

The intensity 
of the light 
Makes sense 
to the moth

If not dead 
When the light is on
It will return
To the lamp
To the warmth
To the burning

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Dissertation Blues

A thousand papers,
hundreds of books
Read over and over
Squeezing every drop 
of significant thought 
out of your brain

Search, research, reach
Writer's block 
Eyes on screen
Hands on keyboard 
Nothing but a dissertation blues

Take a stand 
Take a walk
Face back pain 
Endure it 

Back to the screen 
Back to the keyboard
Nothing but a dissertation blues

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Half gone

(sem título)

Frail, gray and hurt
She looked at him 
Half naked
His eyes closed
His skin slightly blue
A bad thought crossed her mind

She shrugged it off
He needs Sun
He's lost weight
She won't say anything 
She might say he needs Sun

Half gone
And her
Half there
With him
Half gone

De borboletas e casulos

Nem um mês passou desde que vi a última borboleta e já sinto falta delas e de suas promessas de renovação, renascimento. Criaram inúmeras expectativas, esperanças de mudanças que, hoje vivem encasuladas em mim. Não se movem, não se abrem. 

Talvez estejam mesmo sendo gestadas, essas mudanças. Talvez, essa imobilidade, essa desesperança, seja apenas a capa, a casca. Quem sabe lá dentro, bem lá dentro,  transformações alquímicas estejam em curso. Daí a dor, daí o nó na garganta, essa necessidade de se ver muda, de se ter só. Sinto falta do movimento, o leve e ágil bater de asas contra o céu, mas não posso, hoje, como as borboletas, bater asas. Não posso e não quero!  Pelo menos, ainda não!

Quero a viagem interna que acompanha outras vidas a partir de casulos de edredom, aquecidos por meias de lã e pijamas de algodão. Quero o aconchego dos chás, dos livros, das músicas, que embalam e nutrem sonhos de vôos. Não quero vôos! Sinto falta de desejá-los, acostumada que estava a elas, as borboletas, mas não os quero. Ainda, espero! Não os quero ainda! 

Nenhuma lagarta jamais contou do prazer ou do sofrimento do casulo. Mas eu lhes digo  que há um pouco dos dois. E mais prazer haverá, se a lagarta aceitar o recolhimento, aceitar a incerteza. Um dia, haverá vôos de borboletas. Mas somente se a jornada interna for realizada, a intensa metamorfose, longa e profunda, do casulo.

Monday, May 25, 2015

About butterflies and chrysalis

Not even a month has passed since I've seen the last butterfly and I already miss them and their promises of renewal, rebirth. They've created countless expectations, hopes of changes that, today, live inside me in a chrysalis.They do not move. They do not open.

Perhaps they are really being gestated, these changes. Perhaps, this immobility, this absence of hope, is only the cover, the crust. Who knows, maybe inside, deep inside, alchemical transformations are ongoing. Hence, the pain, the lump in the throat, this need to see myself muted, to have myself alone. I miss the movement, the light and fast flapping of wings against the sky, but I cannot, today, like the butterflies, flap my wings. I cannot and do not wish to! At least, not yet!

I want an internal journey that follows other lives from blanket chrysalis warmed by wool socks and cotton made pijamas. I want the caring comfort of teas,  books and  music craddling and nourishing dreams of flights. I do not want flights! I miss longing for them, since I was so  accostumed to the butterflies, but I do not want them, the flights. Yet, I hope! I  do not want them yet! Some day, who knows?  

No caterpillar ever told of the pleasure or the suffering of the chrysalis! But I tell you! There are a bit of both. And more pleasure there will be if the caterpillar accepts the withdrawal, accepts the uncertainty. One day, there will be butterfly flights. But only, if the internal journey is performed, the intense metamorphosis,  lonely and deep, of the chrysalis.  

Sunday, May 24, 2015


The little boy did not want to be her friend anymore. That was the thing! He just did not want to play with her. She told her mom. Moms are the only ones who understand those things. "Did he tell you he doesn't want to be your friend?", she asked. "Yes." A big fat tear formed and was dripping from the corner of her eye. "He doesn't want to play with me anymore." The mom caressed her hair. Why doesn't he like me mom?" Tears continued falling, one fat one after the other. It impressed the mom how tears could be so heavy and fat. She was silent. "Well, if he doesn't want to play with you, there is nothing you can do, sweetie!" 

The little girl raised her head and her big brown eyes starred at her mom. She could see the despair in them. "Despair... How could that be? So young!" Yet, there it was! She recognized it. 
- You can play with your other friends! You have so many friends! You have so many people who love you! 
- But why doesn't he want to play with me, mom? Why? 
She sobbed a little and the mom was quiet again. "Why? Isn't that always the question? Will there ever be an answer to this question?" But she was the mom, she had to say something. 
You know, if you play with your other friends, if you just forget about him for a while, I'm sure with time he will realize what a good friend you are and he will certainly want to play with you again!
- You think so?
-  I do! I think so!

The mom dried up the girl's tears and held her in her arms for a while. "Little kids can be cruel.", she thought to herself while she tucked her little girl in bed and kissed her good night: "It will be alright, sweetie!" And she reflected upon her adult life, the choices she had to make, the things she did not get to choose, the lovers that walked away, the losses she had to endure, stuff she could only accept and understand as a part of life. She looked at the little girl who had fallen asleep and hoped this was not going to be her first heartbreak. A fat tear clouded her sight and fell through the corner of her eye.

Monday, May 18, 2015

Blame yourself

Blame yourself
for expecting water in the desert
Haven't you read your Geography books? 
Blame yourself 
for not learning your lesson
You had years to do it
Blame yourself 
for your adolescent look on life
Haven't you a mirror? 

Walk away 
And blame yourself
It was there all along
A sterile path 
you decided to walk

Now walk away 
Do not look back 
You chose to walk it
You chose to cross it 
You are almost there 

The other side
There shall be something 
on the other side
There shall be light 
There shall be life
For now, do blame yourself
But march still

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Maybe it's a tumor

It might have been
That day
I fainted
I passed out
I fell

A changed life 
An everlasting feeling
Of lacking 
A gap
A void

Avoid me 
The deepness
The circumstances 
The awkwardness 

I remain
Searching for

A habit 
Never enough
Never complete

Maybe it's a tumor
Strangely instilling 

A need for 
Specific stimuli 
Tender appreciation
Strong sensations 
Yet never sufficing

A high 
that gone 
Borders insanity
Leaves me lost 
Leaves me lacking

A gap
An absence 
A void

Monday, May 11, 2015

A grain of sand

All memories
will become
a grain of sand
one day

One day,
a grain of sand
in the corner
of the mind

A grain of sand
filled with
the greatness
and the dangers
of the ocean

Every teardrop
and the track it followed
through the face
An ocean
in a grain of sand
one day