Fernando Ferreira

Sometimes I am alive
Because I still hear the beating of my heart,
Because I keep the reason,
Because I still breathe and feel my broken interior
Because I still sigh whenever I look at your photos,
I’m alive because I scream against my pillow in the dark,
And shivering from the cold of the moon’s breath,
I live because you too and I know that of this you sin

I’m alive because I feel dry.
From rage, incomprehension,
pain, nerves, pure sadness even disgust,
laziness, disdain, anguish and bitterness.
I live because my grief lingers,
And I still need to write letters to escape my madness.
I live tired, but I live,
Losing my temper and feeling like a native of oblivion. Releasing a deep breath because time passes slowly.
Because I sit on the couch thinking I’m really mess up.
I live because I cry,
I burst into tears,
I explode in twenty thousand pieces,
I can not get up.

I live because I fall into the well,
I swear I try to climb more stumble,
And I see sketches of my triumph without end.
I’m still looking for a way out,
An alternative to get me out of this crumbling cell.
I mix ink with saliva to practice therapy.
And that’s why I think that I am part of life…

Sometimes I’m dead.
Because my arteries look like deserts,
Because my eyes are open but I am not awake.
Because i’m lost in the dark nothing,
This beggar swears that I no longer have reasons
And that by inertia I follow this path.
I’m dead because I am in an existential vacuum,
I can not take it anymore.
My dark circles are screaming that I’m wrong … wrong? No I’m horrible,
Each step is a challenge.
I no longer feel cold,
Nor heat,
Nor love,
Nor hate.

My pencil has already been broken.
I will not write any more episodes.
I do not feel overwhelmed,
Nor enjoy,
Lazy like a soul in pain.
A lot of rain,
I’m in mourning because of the blood in my veins.
There is hardly any desire for nothing’
Without hunger or satiety.
I watch my will replete with dirt.
I let her go to another place,
I do not want her …

Now I am another corpse and my bed is my hole.
My mattress hugs me as if it were my niche,
I’ve already said,
I spend every night looking at the ceiling.
I do not notice anything in my chest,
I’m still talking on a whim
I see Dead rummaging through my shadows lurking.
Why leave here if I already saw everything?
If I go down the street,
People are seeing a zombie.
I no longer feel anything,
Nor am I weak,
Nor am I strong.
That is why I think I am part of death.