Bad poetry


I'm cursed for a failure that wasn't mine, and I moved into a garden of dreams to escape. I'm sorry, okay? Please forgive me- I didn't mean it, I didn't mean to let it happen.

What's my worth when I have this curse? What's the worth in being kind when the world only rewards cruelty?

Money will make me less of a person, but I can't afford to lose that, not when I'm only portions of oneself. Two halves, four quarters… how many were we again?

Our escapades into the garden make me lose myself, but since there was never a self to begin with I might just be okay with that.

The king

Sebastião, Sebastião, ghost of a nation's hope and pride, I write to you on behalf of our shameful and proud country.

Did the Spaniards make us so contradictory, or were we doomed ever since Afonso hit his mother? Please, I beg of you, save us before the land is flooded, before the cities crumble under the waves! The forests and their animals, the cities and their animals, please, come save us...

I beg and keep begging, because God has left us and we didn't get the memo. Yet despite all my begging, you won't come riding on your steed, because you're nothing but mist, a burning ache in my heart, and only historians remember you.

The cold approaches with people outside, and we hide them under tourist traps.

Love letter

Neither of us knows how to dance, we share two left feet, but you can pace around this hell so beautifully.

Holding each other in colors, like an OLED screen (too real to be true), and can anyone believe that when I hold your hand I hold mine, when I hug my body I hug your own?

One day, you'll get to smile and laugh so nicely that your cheeks will hurt. We'll prance around the white grass until we tire. And then, we'll never have to suffer again.

When I see you so happy that we cry, we'll hold each other as we have so many times. Death be damned! We'll hold each other whether we're person, or tree, or fungus.

Disregard the non-believers.


God has always hated a crybaby.

Maybe that's why I'm not even a martyr, born to suffer, maybe, teeth yanked out, nails on my hands with no cross, and God has always hated a crybaby.

Unfortunately, the sand on my eyes was too much; Unfortunately, I had to grow up so fast; Unfortunately, my arms would cry once I learned better, but not better enough;

That's the way things go… and God has always hated a crybaby.

Doomed from the very beginning. What do I do, God?

Sick to the core

Aliens from within our planet, with multi-limbed bodies and rough skin, looking to end us, coming to attack us slowly, ripping air apart from our lungs. Nemo Ramjet tried to warn us, will tomorrow come? I don't know anymore.

Because while we were hiding, schools closed, hospitals full, a storm was brewing from within the computer. And when we said «get your guns!», they said «what about freedom?». And when a million people died, they said «we have a million more.».

Again and again, we were never united, we were never the same, Not even death can make us equals, not when your casket was built in gold.

And I might be nothing more than a dropout- future street cleaner- yet I'm somehow smarter than a corrupt judge yelling at silent policemen.

What a sick little world we built!


To go ahead with change, I must be evaluated again and again (are you balanced?). They'll take me to a room with white walls and wooden floor, sit me down… and I will be studied like a rare bird.

hey'll put me in a tube and hope i don't come out a worse creature. I may be a small bird, strange bird, weak bird, but I can still peck at their eyes. My colors are dull, and they don't attract mates.

White light

There was a certain kind of darkness in that well-lit room, and if it seems impossible to feel your heartbeat with your crotch, it's because it should be.

That artificial light, the white that blinded me, and the figure with hands and horns and teeth. Darkness made a hole in my body where the fingers went through.

Mother, father, anyone. Please save me.


I spend my days in a landfill reminiscing, and you'll tell me to forget my past because that's what you always say. «Just forget» is easy for you to say because you were smart and worked hard and weren't yearning for a violent end.

I wish I could tell you to «just forget» that you raised a freak of nature instead of a person, but I can't and you insist on reminding me. Perhaps I have it easy compared to you, and perhaps I could do better, and you won't let me forget that. You're just like the masters and fellows from my past, how could I ever forget them when I see them in you?

I'll keep remembering in the midst of garbage until my memories fester enough to kill me.

The fall

Moving between the tombstones without reason, the leaves were yellow and falling. I felt the wind hit my face, was i running? I was cold and felt myself drift away from my body. I don't think any of us understood, because I didn't see any other kid crying. Your life stolen away, with water and a hard surface. Your parents invited us to your funeral. You didn't get to start school that year and i'm trying to remember that last exchange.

What did you want to be when you'd grow up? After the "see you next year"s, did you figure it out? Are you an astronaut now? Are there cows in the milky way, and is there even a heaven to explore? You were 6, I was 6, and so were all our friends. We were young, with heads full of dreams and lice. No one i know seems to remember, and that's what hurts most of all.

Black sheep

Cold showers during winter, the desire to cut off my tongue, memories scattered about. My room is messy and I rarely pick them up anymore, and you'll get angry at me for acting so childish. Do you get it? I'm making it up as I go because I was never taught how to fold clothes or clean my place. You never thought me to remember something nice for a change, and now you only teach me that whenever I try to speak you're already tired of hearing me.

And if you ask me why i'm not happy, I'll want to say you people painted my wool black with permanent ink and never bothered to shear it. You'll rip off my mouth if I tell you that though, so I'll merely stare at you like the scared sheep I am.

This is my chant

It's been over 17 years, yet I'm still underground. One day I'll grow up and sing during summertime.

Metamorphosis boy

I am a larva, crawling towards the surface, and when metamorphosis hits me, I'll change. I'll become a stag beetle, and I'll lift those who opposed me.

And after that I'll die, and start over again.


Things that slow down the inevitable, I am compelled to leave them behind.

Will you call the firefighters now that the house has burned to the ground? No one can fix me, for I am a fire no one cared to put out.


I felt myself scream, yet I couldn't hear any of it. Who hurt me?

If I ever find you, not even god will be able to help you. I will grow sharp fangs and claws, and maim you like a wild animal.

The parrots in Lisbon

The parrots that fly 'round these parts are zoo escapees. It's midnight, and they sleep while I ponder:

Will I ever be free from this? Will I ever fly about?

World at war

I don't know anything at all; Land, religion, politics. Do they matter?

60 years without war around us, while every other country burns. Will we be next?

Government, government, government. Money, oil, power. What do the people up top want?

From the TV speakers i hear civillians crying. Are they my people too?