quando ele parte
parte também o coração,
agora mais pequeno
que a soma das partes
A beautiful dayIt’s a beautiful day
and I don’t know why.
Of course the sky is blue,
and the sun’s in the sky.
But the sky being blue
Sometimes makes me so…
And I can’t even say
I’m thinking of you.
But it’s such a beautiful day!
And I think now I know why!
It’s not because the sky is blue
Or there’s candy cotton clouds in the sky…
It’s such a beautiful day…
Because I’m happy.
In my own
Obvious SecretsWhen you look at her
You know what she did
It’s written all over her face
Clear on those rosy cheeks.
The hands behind her back
match her big innocent eyes
and the sweet treacherous grin.
A cherub who knows no sin.
And once you ask what she did
She’ll bat her eyes
Giggle, smile and speak:
“I’d never steal a cookie!”
Unaware of the chocolate
smeared all over her cheek.
Things That Fit in the Palm of My HandIn the palms of my hands there is everything.
Roads from one side to the other,
Mountains, hills and red spots.
They carry my life.
They carry my love.
And if I could…
If I wanted in my hands I would carry
A whole country, a whole continent.
Maybe the world or even the Universe.
But, my love, there is nothing I wish more
than to carry your hand in mine.
100TC - 52. ChristmasMerry Christmas I am told
And I am waiting to be cold.
But it’s hot everyday,
Even when it rains!
And if Christmas is so close,
How come it’s spring?
Shouldn’t it be fall?
And are you telling me Santa will bring
All the gifts here?
He must be wearing shorts
And drinking cold beer.
When I die I'll be MusicWith so much beauty in the world
Couldn’t I have been born
As anything but this flawed being
That I am?
In a world of waterfall and trees
Wolves, foxes, squirrels and fawns,
With buzzing wasps and bees,
Flying doves and silent swans
Why ain’t I one of these?
If I float in the universe alongside galaxies,
Comets and stars,
Not too far from black holes
And even closer to Mars,
Why ain’t I from one of those?
When I’m surrounded by the arias,
The poetry and the paintings,
By the sculptures and the buildings,
The songs and the plays,
Why ain’t I one of these makings?
When I die I’ll be music.
What about you?
100TC - 94. Brokenhearted (or Chris' Lament)The problem is not that I’m alone,
That there’s no one to welcome me home
Or that the bed is empty in the morning
in the evening and dawn.
The issue is not the meals for one,
The evenings in on my own,
That there aren’t calls from anyone
and no reason to have a phone.
The question is not that I’m lonely
in this one bedroom apartment.
That there’s nothing to make it homey,
except for what I can’t have anymore.
The question is you once were here
and you were my one and only.
The question is you showed me more
and had me longing for what I hadn’t before.
The issue is my heart longs for you
and my body misses your touch.
The issue is I’d love to hate you
but I can no longer hold a grudge.
The problem is I fell in love
and made a terrible mistake.
The problem is I am not above
of feeling this heartache.
100TC - 19. HomeI once thought I could only be
happy on the other side of the horizon.
Where the grass was greener
and the seas were so much bluer.
Wherever I was…
I wanted to be somewhere else.
Whoever I was with…
they were never the right one.
Whenever I saw the snow,
had snowball fights and
I wished for the white sand
and to take a swim
on tropical beaches.
Happiness was harder
and harder each day.
The horizon was further
and further away.
(It’s just an
and you can never
I realized I can be happy anywhere.
If I call it home.
The grass sometimes is tall
and the sea if far away.
But there’s no place like home
and no one quite like myself.
I miss the snow.
The water here is freezing.
But happiness is so easy.
And the horizon is just a line.
100TC - 50. 5 a.m.Most days
5 a.m. is when I’m asleep
And you’re awake.
Later I’m awake
And you’re asleep.
5 a.m. is “your 10 p.m.”.
When I wake up and it’s night.
It’s when there’s no work
And I’m awake till the morning light.
5 a.m. is when we meet.
On the street, by your door.
We forget all those screens
And it’s like never before.
100TC - 39. AutumnSeason of gold,
with leaves falling down,
stories to be told,
memories of summer
fading with the cold.
Season of silver,
of rainy days…
some rays of sun.
Murmuring of a river
down my street.
Wet socks make me shiver.
Season of red,
the beauty of vintage,
dark grapes for wine.
Lazy morning in bed,
reading my favourite book
as if I’ve never have.
Season of brown,
of aromatic land,
carpets made of leaves,
I drink coffee in silence
Listening to the sounds.
A world of porcelain peopleWe live in
a world full
is a living
day and age:
pick up your
at daybreak and
drape it over the
we are all
eyes open but
we are all pretty porcelain people
living in a pretty porcelain world
but our masks
(and reveal the ugly truth)
stardust. (you're beautiful)he's
out of orbit -
dust in his
veins rise and
each word that
drips and pools
defined like the
ribcage of a
baby bird, his
were not made for
this earth but
for the stars.
some days he
fades in and
out of reality like
he never really
wanted to be there
on those days
i just think
my god, you really don't
realise how amazing you are.
DisappearSometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
All I had to worry about was
If the bubbles I had blown, were about to
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that one time,
I began to worry about the day that
My childhood would simply
Sometimes, when I'm sad
I remember that some day,
When I'm sitting with my husband
In the old old house... my days will simply
And that day,
The day when my heartbeat is
The day when my breath
Truly gets taken away.
That's the day
When my worries, my concerns, my fears...
Little GirlThere sits the girl with the things in her eyes
Monsters, destruction, and sweet butterflies
Hopscotch and daisies, surrounded by screams
Beautiful dresses now torn at the seams
Crayons and paintbrushes, villains and grins
Young, gladsome innocence, hatred and sins
Little red houses on roads left to fade
Gorgeous moonlight shining off of the blade
Blood pouring out as she cries her own name
Knowing she's forced to take each bit of blame
She could have stopped it and left it behind
All of these things in her troubled young mind
She could have saved them if she dared to try
Rather, though, she left herself there to die.
Now, others watch as she sits on the ground
Keeping their distance and letting her drown
In her own worries and things she won't tell
Waiting for her mind to kill her as well.
your poemyou tell me on a thursday that you can’t find
the god inside of yourself anymore, that
you think that you are finally
too much honeycomb and not enough human
because lately everything has been slipping
through your fingers, and you don’t know how you can
keep holding yourself together anymore.
if today is the day that you look
at the stars and you no longer
feel their burn beneath your bones,
i will show you the blanket i tried to make
when i was eight, and i will tell you all i know
about the string theory, which isn’t much, i admit,
but i do know the basics,
and that’s that everything in the universe
is composed of strings that somehow
loop onto each other infinitely.
so whenever you feel like you’re
walking a tightrope without a safety
net below you, know that you are
thousands of tightropes strung together,
and one fall will not kill you.
i have never told you about the way
i can feel my pulse skitter to a stop
in my wrists whenever i hear you laughing
LightLight pooled in the floes of her flesh
the warm tone of polluted amber
it ran down the window,
the stream broken in places by silhouettes
and other such distractions
it spilled, soundless
and flooded silken sheets
setting adrift the skin and breath and whispers of her
to steal away into the polluted dark
her sighs overflowed, sonorous
pouring into the amber and black
the constellations dotted along her
disrupted in places by the shadows of trees
and other such poetry
Depression Isn't RealDepression isn’t true, my dear
Depression isn’t real.
It’s just a silly tragedy
You’ve forced yourself to feel.
Anxiety is fake, my friend
You wonder why it’s there.
But others have it worse than you!
Stop forming false despair.
Cutting is dramatic, love,
It’s ugly, and it’s dumb.
Why not just get over it?
Is the attention fun?
Suicide is stupid, dear,
And selfish, if I may.
Get over yourself, darling,
Can you hear these things I say?
Why aren’t you replying, love?
Oh, where could you have gone?
I never meant to hurt you, love,
Did I say something wrong?
Why aren’t you replying, dear?
Depression isn’t true!
Oh, but yes it was, “my dear”...
Just maybe not for you.
To the Struggling ChristiansMy cross broke the other day,
snapped off of the chain,
and nearly rolled away.
I caught it in my hands,
though it nearly slipped through
like tiny grains of sand
I'm a college student.
I attend a public school,
Nine hours away from home
and my faith too.
There's no emphasis on Catholicism,
no morning prayers through the Saints.
No “Our Father” to guide me,
no Mary to keep me through the day.
In fact it's the opposite,
grace comes in the form of drugs.
The new morning prayers
are deadly smoke to lungs.
I've never had a problem with Sexuality,
you know me.
You can tell this by looking through my old poetry.
Though what I cannot stand
is when you feel the need,
to invalidate one's Christianity
because of your sexuality.
They're giving me reasons not to believe,
in long list like shopping recipes.
Telling me what I already know,
begging me to tell God to go.
It's not easy to keep your faith,
when people are giving you reasons
to throw it away.
Though I'm lucky I sup
it's okay to not be okaysometimes it’s okay
to sit on the floor of the bathroom stall
and let your feelings gather- it’s okay
to let them pool like a lachrymose lagoon
as the inside of your stomach does summersaults;
I know these emotions can’t be tenderly released,
they’re not soft waves kissing the expecting shore,
let them pour out of you like tidal waves-
release the tsunami from within you
and I know sometimes the tears will sodden your pillowcase,
they’ll be juggernauts- those brackish beads
cathartically-cartwheeling down your flushed cheeks;
but remember how even the clouds
may cry tempestuously today,
only to make room
for much brighter days
so I promise you, darling
it’s going to be okay.