gutural

youd think id be able, right? to answer accordingly. a simple hey. acknowledging presence maybe simmer a lame excuse for the silence.

an honest conversation - without the mirror now. id be able, right? nothing i cannot do. but... i have eyes too demanding and a leash around my wrists that keep lashing out for the faults, the stepped lines, the doors left open.

i need someone else to look into my eyes and say that they dont see a spy. what else can i do? my mission has been evasion since i knew life.

but youve seen, the way I work. corpos got me hypnotized. gold chameleon. too good ethic, nice to haves at hand, smiles and correct talk. (did I learn all of it in spy work?) none would say i leave open doors, taut bind is what they see.

i need perspectives. thats real core: cant make a decision without options. even if i knew the answer from the start.

honesty not being my trade, im so sorry. im just too sold into this cold thing. i dont know how to let you down easy, no soothe for neither. ive become too bitter.

quem sou sem a cabeça da hidra, sem os pomos de ouro, sem o cinturão de hipólita pra mostrar? de quem é essa casca de corpo sem o troféu, sem signo predizendo minha glória? eu preciso, anseio, clamo

Hércules, me ilumine tu quem definiu-se, mártir expiado doze trabalhos foram-lhe suficientes, porque pra mim nada satisfaz? eu preciso, anseio, clamo

the wind sometimes brings me a familiarity tickles my hair daintily just how you used to.

i don’t know how to put or describe it well there’s something in your winds, strikes me Put me down to sleep or Electrifies my soul.

talked about it to my therapist once: nothing in my days has the touch the detail only your presence suffices.

os olhos dela se expandem e eu não sei o que é que eles tanto alçam? o que recolhem pra si? será que ela sabe que o seu olhar para o tempo?

é nessa janela que eu vejo um mundo de carinho, onde ternura é lingua franca e a gente conversa por afago.

viver pra sempre pra conhecer mais: criar mais: sentir mais:

i hope that when you drink, youre soaked with the thoughts i hope that when you see the lakes, youll remember when i was there, with you.

i have no choice but to doubt the vision. the thing is that even with sharp lens i am rendered unknown.

should i act like the image? and emulate the moves, sly reactions, tasteless syntax? but then: have i ever not?

observo há uns dias o pobre beijaflor nada conseguir em sua visita esperançosa vigoroso em sua inspeção pelo turquesa que balança com os ventos

eu decido retirar os fios, um resto de nada azul nas minhas mãos, e perco a visita do ilustre beijaflor mas lhe dou a verdade: nada havia ali.

ou será que havia?

na próxima manhã, o beijaflor ou não me visitará ou me deixará, confuso, triste onde haverá ido seu azul cintilar?

i tried, i begged, i held it all so tight stopped breathing, slept through it, created a distraction, a meaningless wrath simple and complex pain inflictions

just thinking about it, bawl eyes, coarse teeth, raw throat, so idiotic. stupid and bloody.

how am i able to fake it for show and leave the mauling to my own eyes???

how can you, in the face of malady, stand this poor view? in the thought of getting tender, weaker, i take all. for the strength is my sin.

it is just a shame i can not mention, boiling, bubbling up my flamed, double edged sword adorned, torn apart body.

i am afraid of you lacerating my chest that if i am ever witness of your voice, i'd be instantly cursed for eternity that if i am ever to touch and interlace myself into your skin, i'd be poisoned with a breathlessness that nothing could be ever so special and immense as the presence of you.

i fear the beast i'd become to satiate my hunger would you be the sacrifice to the sacredness of my mouth? the dried sea, open, fragile and unholy that would show my heart could you ever warmly keep it layed down on your soul?

i am scared you'd never open me and ravage and sign my death terrified if it never happened repeatedly with every sight of you worried about spoiling the chance, the evermore

quando eu penso menciono, recito, até antes de sair o som que fartura é essa que preenche? qual é o recheio que tu usa? água na boca sempre que eu rolo a letra pela língua

logo eu, julgando graça e sabor de fonema pinho, pacote, jubarte, galante escolhidos e guardados no coração. logo você, com os fonemas estranhos beijo, caju, perjúrio, cádmium pra cada som, uma nova fome.

que feitiço é esse junto do teu nome que me põe no deserto, acorrentada, sedenta, mirando adiante o oásis mais abundante que me rende incapaz se não o repito?

hold and linger. stretch and take a bit more. is it patience that i need?

squared and tight is a me caged into my DIY prison-mind. invisible are the boundaries, though so tight are the binds.

i have given up peace a long time ago. no wind brings me any hope, though i wait for the whisperer, i should expect exactly what i trade.

truth sets free only for some. and in freedom, i keep and loiter and take. but it is not enough.

in freedom i acutely ask myself what is it that makes them stay on the horizon? when there's an ocean to be drown. how can I give up? when I am the only temple here.

in freedom i laugh at the thought. im binded. the whisperer may never come.

to gut the fish or to learn to breathe? the strangled choice is but a trap: taut binded, i dont want to choose. tormented, i entertain the scenarios.

shadow casting is the standard at home I am but a humble mage at it, still working the magic. so hard to get right, such dumb codes.

At work, things fry. All is code. All can be seeped and become some cool logic. I am but a junior at small talk, small code, slow frying… At least I fry deliciously.

é dificil sair da corrida infinita. do eu e o outro e o espelho e sei lá, a barata. uma dá atenção pro besta, pro estranho. outro dá atenção pra economia, pro poder. quem eu ouço?

eu consigo vencer esse jogo? essa distância infinita do quase-Deus da existência imortálica que me prometeram? me lembro como é fácil morrer mas como é doído nascer.

não existe isso de viver sem o desejo, sem a lua, sem o pão. mas que besteira é ver nascer, que decoração. mas que desgraça é essa esperança, que contradição.