Abro os olhos: IS THERE A ROAD THAT FOLLOWS EVERYWHERE YOU GO?

sexta-feira, 14 de maio de 2010

IS THERE A ROAD THAT FOLLOWS EVERYWHERE YOU GO?

My hands shake objects and I forget the days of the week. - Fear of to sleep without one more drink. - If I could I was quiet, easy. If I could I was with myself now, but the death comes with her children of the night in a long desperate cry.

There's no prayer. And a kiss cannot to dress a wound/ or soften(...)
Please tell me the truth: Am I feeling so abandoned? Have my crutches all been stolen and broken now?
We know what's gonna happen: I saw this before We lose It: I did denounce this(...)*
There is no road for Our compassion now, is there? I'm sorry if I can't answer. I'm not gonna wait for you.

3 comentários:

Unknown14 de maio de 2010 às 10:35
There's no end to the love you can give when you change your point of view.
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Anônimo14 de maio de 2010 às 16:33
... Trying
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Unknown16 de maio de 2010 às 16:29
I don't think so(...)
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glitter-graphics.com Eu tentei correr de mim. Mas aonde eu ia eu tava. Quanto mais eu corria. Mais pra perto eu chegava. Quando o calcanhar chegava O dedão do pé já tinha ido. Escondendo eu me achava E me achava escondido. Só sei que quando penso que sei, Já não sei quem sou. Já enjoei de me achar no lugar Que aonde eu vou eu estou. Estou pensando tirar férias de mim, Mas eu também quero ir. Só vou se minha sombra não for. Se ela for eu fico aqui. Um dia desses sonhando Eu pensei: não vou me acordar. Vou me deixar dormindo E levanto pra comemorar. Se quiser que eu vá, eu vou. Se quiser que eu fique, eu fico. Quero ver você sair, Dessa sinuca de bico. O espelho me disse Que só tem um jeito pro assunto: Não adianta querer morrer, Porque se morrer vai junto. Se correr o bicho pega, Mas se limpar o bicho some. Tem que desembaraçar O novelo da vida do homem. (Juraildes da Cruz)

I am silver and exact.

I have no preconceptions.

Whatever I see

I swallow immediately

Just as it is,

unmisted by love

or dislike.

I am not cruel,

just truthful -

The eye of a little god,

four cournered.

Most of the time

I meditate on the

opposite wall.

It is pink, with speckles.

I have looked at it

so long

I think it is a part

of my heart.

But it flickers.

Faces and darkness

separate us over and over.



Now I am a lake.

A woman bends over me,

Searching my reaches

for what she really is.

Then she turns

to those liars,

the candles or the moon.

I see her back,

and reflect it faithfully.

She rewards me with tears

and an agitation of hands

I am important to her.

She comes and goes.

Each morning

it is her face

that replaces

the darkness.

In me she has drowned

a young girl,

and in me an old woman

Rises toward her

day after day,

like a terrible fish.



-Mirror, Sylvia Plath.