I wish

I wish I could write a melody line. A poem of hundred faces and thousands of verses. It would take millions of people of America to read this poem. Waste of time. Our people is calling for clothes, cell phones and a giant smile in the cover of the next magazine. 

I wish I could write a harmonic tale. But here comes the sound of the bass, marking the time and not being heard by the audience. The first verse would be impossible to read. Perhaps the solution is never to write anymore!

Stay

         Quiet!

                   Until

                          There

                                   Is

                       Nothing

                      Else

                  To

            Say.

Hey!

Words fabricated to hurt

Knife in the back

Snake in the night

Owl in the tree

A raven flight

Stop!

No rhymes can fix your problem.

Wasting your time...

I don’t want to waste my time anymore. I don’t want to prove to myself that I am poet. I don’t need to show anything. Only silence and tears which are not worth of misery.

I accept my fate and the pain which is being sold on drugstore. I heal my sickness on the next corner, on the next bar, or the next lonely girl on the street. I am counting my money, trying to find the love lost late last light. I try to find you in every kiss. 

I don’t deserve your chocolate, your red brush, your hundred pair of shoes, your dream of going to Europe, your hugs and your smile: frozen pictures of the past do not disturb me anymore. I don’t deserve to be anywhere but alone. I know I'm loser and I don't suffer for it. My time to bright will come and if not, I don't mind. I don't have the one I love and I am certainly going to die. 

I guess it wasn’t real at all. I tried everything I knew. I was playing accordion down on her window. She closed it on my face. Next day I came with an entire choral and we sang the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven. She said go away and do not come back next day.

As every fool desperate in love, I returned to bring roses and music to my dear.

She didn’t want to hear.

I came back in the night, drinking brandy and talking to the moon,

To the tramps, the trash, the posts,  to the homeless to nobody

But the minor poet inside me.

Poor devil: all he ever wanted was to have a house.

Now he has a house

Full of worms and the own rotten meat. 

When I look in the mirror I know it’s not me.

The disgraced poet should die

His verses are full of dust,

Skeletons that we bring back on our family breakfast

Would you pass me butter?

It would be my pleasure. 

There is always some blood when we eat with our family

Under the table. The girls are washing the dishes

The guys watching T.V and saying how successful they are

I wish I could erase this universe and create another

To make things as they never happened. Sweet illusions on the cup of coffee.

I wish to speak English, Spanish, French, German, Esperanto and know the secrets of

Dark matter and the dance of stars, and why the light travels on the space

And brings light to your eyes!

Ah! Her brown eyes in the sun! Wake up poet! 

I wish I could have some rhythm. So I could dance alone in my room

When there is nobody to follow my steps.

Even learn another language, find a job, wash my mouth,

read the papers, but everything is so boring these days.

I start to play guitar, piano, flute, drums

Reading verses. But music cannot reach her heart.

Will I get there?

Will I resist?

Why?

I am low level.

Driving my car I wonder where the road will take me.

Over the hill there is a house.

The father is working in the garden.

His wife is on the phone talking to a friend.

The children is sad on the bedroom

Watching television and the television is watching her sorrow.

No one can hear the steps of the ghosts in the night.

Stories of past times. The stair is bright. I give one more step.

C’mon Henrique! Where is your courage?

Curse the world, curse the gods, the poets, your mother,

The college, the air, the spirits, your love,

Curse the life and the minute you are breathing

Where is your destructive power of words?

Nobody is that strong.

It is easy to speak when is soft in the dawn

And your lips barely touch my lips

Everything burns

Only inside the frame of smoke.

I am realistic guy now. I accept my fate.

Today I wish my enemies to be happy.

Even so the night  still have a bitter taste

Come, leave my hand. I am going to the Capital.

I will leave you alone, because I am not good enough for you.

In deep you know I am not a hero. I am not good enough for poetry.

I am too weak:

I am very extreme coward.

Carlos Henrique Barbosa

Clarissa Lake - Pathetic poem #1 - Amateur Brazilian poet - experience number 24.