The blur

Every night I feel sad.

I don't speak my language;

I don't speak my name;

I don't have a name.

I am no one;

An abstract.

The lamb

Cooked on someone's meal.

On the Tiger's tongue:

Teeth and mouth,

saliva,

blood,

but even my blood is transparent;

I am invisible.

Every night I pretend

I play games

I do a theater piece of nothing

An emptiness spectacle

I delete my brain

And my life

As if I was able to erase myself from

the existance whom I 

never belonged to

I don't remember

It's even hard to say what exactly 

I get myself so confused

My mind feels like it's loosing itself

Sometimes I think I lost it for good

And that comes with some sense of relief

Finally

I don't have to worry about getting mad anymore

Now I already am

I don't have to pretend to be sane no longer 

I skip pill days

Like rabbit holes

The more lost I am the better

I want to feel hurt

And I wait anxiously and willingly

for the moment where destruction 

Will find its way back to me

I want to go home

To my graveyard

I wish to disappear in the air

I'll never receive or possess

the privilege to be

Alter

I see you

I close my eyes and see you;

I smell you

I breathe you

Through the smoke

and my polluted lungs

I feel you;

You are here.

I am you.

I hear you

Beating in my chest

How fast

The lack of coherence

A skipping balance 

Cadence;

I taste you

Experiment you

Try out this new type of being,

New type of place,

Strange,

Which I don't recognize at all

because I am you,

now

And you are from another time–space

And around these new ideas

you know nothing about;

Neither are interested to, are you?

That's what I see at least;

Deeply, I listen to you

Not with my ears, you know

I feel you with my skin though

But that's quite relevant 

At each and every goosebump 

I fall in love for you

Another one more time

Baby

Quando eu desato meus cílios

E descaso meus lábios

Para te ouvir me ver

Baixar maré

Solto meus remos, 

Temo

Maremoto, seca

Rio com piranhas

Jacaré, arraias

Águas-vivas

Escorpião do mar

Ou do deserto

Carneiro contrariado

Sou um cordeirinho

Perto do tubarão-tigre

O pensamento de ter o mero direito

Ou chance

De ter um lar

Não confio no Deus que o fez

Que me fez

Porque se te fez, qual dos dois?

No preto ou no branco, ou

se — ainda pior — no cinza?

Porque o mínimo dos riscos

De pisar nessa estrada

De alta velocidade

Em horário de pico

É colocar em teus braços

A cria macia que me pari

Com tanto apreço e desespero

E se ao piscar os olhos

Ela te escapa os dedos

Te soa escorregadia

Pesada demais, mesmo que por

milésimos de segundo

Me sobram cacos

E levei tudo que sou

para cultivá-la

É um projeto

literalmente

de toda a vida.