terça-feira, 27 de novembro de 2012

where is my pride? sometimes I wonder .
I still remember fighting for myself or for what I thought was myself at that time.
I remember acting tough since age of four. nobody could ever beat my pride, my precious pride.
I remember being an androgenous little girl who then turned out to be an androgenous little teen as well. I remember being picked at school. I think I lost my pride here, if I ever had it at all.
I still look at the scars sometimes. they seem so pitiful now as they seem back then.
my lord, I was a digraceful little girl. I still am.
I never forgot my lovers. I still can recite every name. The first one is unforgetable they say. I don't know, maybe that's true. That clumbsy girl almost drove bipolar. no. no. t'was not her fault. It was mine. all along.
And you. oh you who I know for so many time. you are my vortex. I will die within you. and I'm dying. never I though I could love this much.
And the alchoolic pits I drank all my life. They're still in my liver , making me stay forever in this amazing inebriate state. 
I shall not proceed. I'm stuck in this town . I've been fighting all my life for nothing. Now, I'm hiding in this black veil. I can't reach a thing. My dark clothes are keeping me warm and I don't know what to feel anymore.
I still remember that day, It was a wednesday. 17. seventeen. seven. teen. se. ven. teen. the number echoes through out my brains. I failed . I failed at dying too. I stopped being a fighter because I was losing the battle, then I tried to quit and quitting was a failure too.
I'm stuck in this apathetic state of mind. my face hides the harm. In true, I don't quite feel a thing.

I still listen her in my head: GROW UP

Fuck you. I'm Peter Pan.

quarta-feira, 14 de novembro de 2012

nada sinto
nada sinto
nada sinto
nada sinto

sinto tudo até sentir quase nada.

terça-feira, 13 de novembro de 2012

saudades minhas e de toda a ingenuidade que tomava conta de todos os meus dias felizes.

quinta-feira, 1 de novembro de 2012

às vezes ouço a minha voz, bem clara no fundo da minha cabeça. ela diz-me para andar. chegou o dia do juízo final. chegou o dia do fogo do inferno. queimar-te-á o pêlo e todas as artérias.
ela diz-me e obriga-me a andar. tapo os ouvidos para não ouvir. esqueço-me que a voz vem do interior da minha cabeça. ela obriga-me a correr em direcção ao abismo. melhor morrer que arder no inferno. eu não quero morrer, tento gritar, mas não há força, não há absolutamente nada.

a voz parte-me os ossos, corta-me os nervos , rasga-me a pele. não há dor na amputação. apenas e só alivio.

sem pernas, sem braços, sem nada. peças soltas balançando nos confins do universo.