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.
Dear DepressionDear Depression,
I remember so perfectly
The moment I met you.
I was nine years of age,
Wearing a pale pink dress,
My hair curled elegantly,
Falling gently around my shoulders.
And, ha! I thought it would last,
But was I wrong, oh, was I wrong.
I remember the moment someone
Impaled my mind with their opinions
Of who I was as
That, dearest Depression, is the moment
I understood what it meant
And, although it was you,
Who made it hurt,
Who made it throb
And made my thoughts thrash within my
You were my friend.
I turned to you,
my 36-day-long sadness.
I loved you.
But it killed me.
Loving you made me aware
Of what "suicide" was,
And more importantly,
Why is existed.
Loving you brought me happy little moments
Cuts on my thighs.
I listened to you, oh, Depression...
"Find the nearest scarf, rope, thick string"
You'd say these things
Echoing in my bedroom
Thoughts on Growing UpThoughts on Growing Up
I exist more inside of my mind
Than in reality.
I am not sure what I am trying to find.
I think I am trying to lose
I liked the sing song of nursery rhymes
Before I knew the story behind them.
I liked the way the world looked
Before I could read between its lines.
They sound nothing like my little kid lullabies.
Everything seems to remind me
Of how it will never be
What I wished it was.
I thought growing up was supposed to make me stand tall.
My veins are roots
Digging themselves into the ground.
But nobody ever warned me
Of the tree snapping
And I feel like a little kid,
I’ve got bright eyes and scraped up knees.
The scratches so alive and raw.
You use grown up band aids
To cover up your wide eyed dreams.
But I was never one for reality.
Keep your band aids.
I’ll make my own way to the Neverland
That I dreamed of.
I’ll make my own lullaby.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub.i.
to the woman who drowned herself in the bathtub:
in the magazine I own that published your story,
they blurred out the crime scene photographs,
erasing your face and
the full curves of your breasts.
some part of me wonders
if you would have wanted this,
or if you would have liked for
the public to see you in your final moments,
half-soaked in grey-looking water,
your hair in strings, glued to the porcelain,
eyes closed and mouth gaping,
no breath stirring, no bubbles rising.
sometimes when I look
into the depths of my bathroom sink,
I hear your voice
(or what I imagine it to be--
after all, we never met).
you sit on the edge of the toilet seat,
and chat to me about the weather.
I would give anything to hear your real, living voice,
to ask you what you were thinking
as you lowered yourself
into the tub, queen of the tendrils of steam,
and let your lungs deflate like old birthday balloons.
on the news they say that your autopsy
revealed three quarters
of a bottle o
Art and Other WeaponsI use words like an anchor.
Tying myself down to a piece of paper.
In books my heroes used swords,
I use a pen.
I got a mind as violent as a hurricane.
I could use these words to build me a raft.
Because it’s the only weapon I have.
And this pen isn’t what it looks like.
I finally found some sort of voice.
I can use it. These thoughts inside our heads are like bombs, so let’s defuse it.
It’s my torch.
I could burn the shadows, set fire to these fears.
I could use ink instead of tears.
I could use books and poetry like a night light
Because I never liked the dark anyways.
I could use it like a head stone…
Writing about all of my friends who couldn’t find a flash light
I could write and write
Until my skin was stained with lilies made of ink.
I write because I think
And when you think too much there is no escape.
So I say, when everything is too much
Little dream weaver, you have all the pieces.
Arm yourself with a paint brush,
Depression is an OptionDepression is a choice, my dear,
And happiness the same
You choose this illness, don’t you?
What a tragic little game.
Depression is an option, love
Just get up out of bed
Take your tears and worries
And just smile now instead.
Depression is a choice, you see,
And so is suicide.
Just sit back, kick your feet up, dear
Enjoy this perfect ride.
Get over your own standards
Of what everyone should be.
Just smile for once, and maybe
You’ll be living perfectly.
Depression is an illness
That we feel so deep within.
Why would anybody choose
To write poetry on their skin?
Unless there lies a reason, dear,
I would not choose to die.
If depression was an option...
I’d choose to say goodbye.
Trapped WithinShut up!
I don't want to listen anymore.
Get out of my head!
I can't depend on anyone.
There is no way to save me.
If it's up to me to make the voices leave,
I am powerless.
All I can do is try and drown them out with music.
I find myself closing up.
No need to worry anyone.
sometimes pain is the only way to tone things down.
I really hope things change.
Whispers of the sweet release offered by a blade seduce.
I can't though.
I have reasons not to.
I want to be free,
but I can't escape myself.
People are busy.
People are stressed.
People are sick.
Who am I supposed to talk to?
Who could I trust?
I can only cry and crank the volume of my music.
Sleep would be best,
but I can only sleep so much.
Go away go away GO AWAY!!!
and take my pain with you!
I am such an idiot.
HetaliaxDepressed!Reader:Self-Inflicted AchromaticHetalia x Scary! Depressed! Reader: Self-Inflicted Achromatic
I want to be a person just like you, don't you see?
I want to be a person who is still being "me"
A tired sigh escaped your lips. You were just so damn tired. The other countries said that you, (f/n) or (c/n), was scarier than Russia himself. But of course, you have lived 2500 years with wars and bloodshed always trailing after you. You just really want to be happy. But all those wars and blood imprinted on your mind, you really just released off a dark (a/c) aura and a stoic atmosphere.
It really would be nice but I'm paying a price
'Cause I'd really, not be me and that would not suffice
You asked yourself, "I know my face doesn't show my pain. But isn't it obvious in my eyes? I'm lonely and hurt" You rubbed your numb (s/c) wrist, yesterday's cuts still had a colorless ache to it. You picked your silver knife, twirling it around watching the others argue. The said knife is the one you also use to cut yourself.
A dream which
An Angel's Promise'Thou art mine,
And so thou shall remain.'
I will not let you have any other before me,
Nor can there be any after.
For it is your soul that I have shared
And it is your soul that I do take.
Your worship is the blood that flows through me.
Your praise is the heart that pumps life into my veins.
I have accepted that which is torn;
And if you are not whole before me,
Then by my will and word,
You shall be made whole.
So fear not this frigid world,
Though its cold bites deeply into your flesh.
I shall take that which has been torn from you
And weep life into it,
Until only warmth remains.
For thou art already mine,
And so thou shall remain.
For My PeopleAs far as I can recall:
I did not ask to be birthed
Into a cycle of stagnation.
I did not ask to be told,
That my dreams are achievable;
Only to see them limited by the scope of reality.
I did not ask for a failing system,
Passed unto me by half-dead corpses wearing suits.
Nodding eagerly at one another,
As they wait for an inevitable death.
This I did not ask for,
And I am certain that most of you did not either.
But it is for that reason,
And for that reason alone, I say:
That it is up to us,
We siblings bound by the chains of our forefathers,
To create a system that is better,
Than the bitter shackles of the past.
Justice is what I long for.
Justice for MY people.