If you were to ask me where I’ve been during the days when you were dreaming with open eyes, I would say, “My friend, I was in despair.” You might think this despair is just a trend from ’82, but truly, I am discontent, desperately shouting out in Portuguese. I carry sixty-one years of dreams and blood, rooted in South America. By the force of fate, an Argentine tango suits me far better than a blues. You might think this despair is merely fashionable, but I wish this crooked prose, like a knife, could cut into your flesh. This cry … Continue reading If you were to ask me …

Voilà donc comme j’étais, rêveur, insouciant, avec l’humeur indépendante et railleuse, me bâtissant une destinée et rêvant à toute la poésie d’une existence pleine d’amour, vivant aussi sur mes souvenirs. Le collège m’était antipathique, un microcosme où la régularité était synonyme d’emprisonnement. Ce serait une curieuse étude que ce profond dégoût des âmes nobles et élevées, manifesté de suite par le contact et le froissement des hommes. Je n’ai jamais aimé une vie réglée, des heures fixes, une existence d’horloge, où il faut que la pensée s’arrête avec la cloche, où tout est remonté d’avance, pour des siècles et des … Continue reading Rêveur

When the poem you are reading does not tell your story, seek one that does. When the poems you find do not reflect your journey, pick up your pen and craft one. And when the verses you create still do not capture your essence, persist until they do. Do not rest until your voice sings true, until your heart’s whispers are etched in ink. For your story is yours alone, a precious tapestry woven from your dreams, struggles, triumphs, and hopes. Write your own story, with all its beauty and imperfection, because it deserves to be told. Embrace the power … Continue reading — Dear daughters,

Toi, belle âme qui fait de moi un poème, tu transformes les matines d’incertitude en poésie. Nos souvenirs résonnent comme des cordes qui vibrent ensemble, chantent ensemble et crient ensemble leurs désirs. Je veux rendre inévitable ce qui pourrait être évité, ressentir chaque nuance de manière complexe. Car si l’Amour est une terre sans chemin, je me suis égaré car je veux te retrouver. À chaque pas que je fais, je me livre, car je reviens toujours à nous deux, et nous ne revenons pas tous les deux. Les syllabes de ton nom se confondent avec les battements de ma … Continue reading Belle Âme

One year since my mother passed, and the longing that resides in my chest has grown too large to contain. It overflows through my eyes, each tear a testament to the depth of my grief. There is a restlessness within me, a discontent that makes every breath laborious. When this longing cannot be confined, my eyes grow weary from the wait, and I feel so small, almost invisible, lost in a sea of sorrow. When the longing strikes, it is as if my very soul cries out, begging for the impossible: “Come back soon, come ease this immense longing and … Continue reading Written one year after my mother passed…

Some relationships will come, some relationships will go, and some will forever remain close to your heart. Each person who enters your life leaves an indelible mark, shaping who you are and who you will become. There will be those with whom you share laughter, shedding tears of joy and developing deeper, lasting bonds. Equally, there will be those who bring pain, igniting fury and teaching hard lessons. These connections, no matter how brief or tumultuous, contribute to your growth. They teach you about resilience, empathy, and the complexities of human emotions. As people walk in and out of your … Continue reading Relationship

In this word, saudade, lies the profound essence of absence and longing. It is the weight of moments that have slipped through our fingers, the spaces left by those we’ve loved and lost, and the echoes of laughter that now reside only in memory. Time, with its relentless march, has carved out these voids within us, leaving behind an ache that is both sweet and sorrowful. Saudade is the silent whisper of what once was, a gentle reminder of the beauty and pain intertwined in our past. It is the measure of the emptiness that fills our hearts, a testament … Continue reading Saudade: a unit of measure for the voids of the soul that time has brought us…

October 2016 In the depths of my being, I find myself entwined with the untamed spirit of the wolves, sharing a connection to the wild and primal forces of nature. Yet, as I stand amidst the clovers of fortune, it seems that fate conspires to rip them away, leaving me bereft of luck and fortune. I dig my place on the earth, seeking solace and grounding amidst the chaos that surrounds me. But instead of finding respite, I feel myself being devoured, consumed by the darkness that lurks within the ink-black nights. It is in this darkness that I encounter … Continue reading Letter to my abuser

She wove herself with threads of faith, ensuring she would never lose her way again. She stitched herself with self-love, freeing her from the binds of the improper. Dreams became her fabric, protecting her from the abrasions of routine. Forgiveness was her needle, bringing peace even in the face of mistakes. She embroidered herself with her own light, so she would always greet the dawn. Hope was her thread, softening the pain of sadness. With the lifeline of existence, she blessed her tomorrows, and with the scars of her past, she found the strength to heal. Yesterday’s losses became today’s … Continue reading Sewing

French for “the little death,” is a phrase that dances on the edge of the sublime and the sorrowful. It is an idiom and metaphor for orgasm, capturing the profound spiritual release that accompanies this intimate moment. Beyond the physical, it speaks to a fleeting transcendence, a brief melancholy that follows the expenditure of life force, as oxytocin floods the brain, leaving a lingering sense of both fulfillment and loss. Yet, “la petite mort” extends its reach beyond the realm of sexual experiences. It encapsulates those moments when life deals a blow so profound that a part of us withers … Continue reading La petite mort