My Poems

[Açucarzinho583]

Hello! I decided to create this space to share something very personal: my poems.

Writing has always been a way for me to express myself, to organize the chaos of emotions, and to turn experiences into words. In this thread, I'll post poems I've written — some recent, others that I've kept for a while.

Each poem carries a piece of me.

If any word touches you, it will have been worth it. I'm truly happy to know that someone is reading my poems.

The poems were originally written in Portuguese, but I think they still work in English. They're usually inspired by some song I'm listening to.

Poem for the Emptiness

Dear Emptiness,

I wake up every day, but it's not a choice; it's a routine, an automatic repetition. The days pass by so quickly. There are no plans, no goals, just the void of an existence that follows the path others have set.

My life is like a river, without a current, flowing towards the sea. I don't swim against the tide; I just wait to reach the end. The choices I make—if I can even call them choices—are dictated by circumstances, by external pressures.

I am merely a passive observer, a spectator of this empty existence. I work because I have to work, and I sleep because that's what one does at the end of the day. The emotions I feel are vague, as if I can't express them properly. I can't remember the last time something made me truly happy or deeply sad.

I have no expectations for the future. Death doesn't scare me; it's just the final destination, the inevitable endpoint. I don't long for it, but I don't fear it either.

Poem for Death

Lady Death,

Every day feels like my last day alive. Why am I even caring so much, if I've been dead for days already? The world, with its deep gaze, feels empty. No one wanted to help me. My mind is tired, I can't think anymore. You scream for help, but no one wants to hear. I've reached my limit, the air is running out. This time, Lady Death has come to take me.

Life is like a mother who makes dinner and forces her children to eat vegetables, knowing it's good for them. Death, however, is like a father who beats the mother and steals the children from the joy of playing, as if there were no tomorrow.

These sleepless nights, each day increasing my suicidal desires of not being here anymore. Would my parents even care if I disappeared? Only my medications make me laugh.

Lady Death, you're lucky to free me from this place.

Sincerely,

Someone who's tired of pretending.

If There Is a Tomorrow

I am bored and tired, unable to explain. Maybe it's better to set this aside; I'm nauseated, with a feeling of emptiness. When you saw me cry, death gave me an embrace. I've never felt genuine love, and today I see no more meaning in being here. I miss the days when I smiled and was happy. I didn't want to be alive; I didn't desire any of this. Death then gave me a smile, and I feel it here with me. No one notices your pain. No one notices your tears. But everyone notices your mistakes.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Living is Hard

They say living is easy. But just open your eyes in the morning to realize it's not quite like that. Living is facing the unexpected; it's waking up every day with doubts, fears, and responsibilities. It's dealing with loss, with frustration, with the feeling that things don't always make sense. It's walking uncertain paths, stumbling over obstacles we can't always foresee. What's the point of living if life is so difficult? Life shouldn't be this boring. Even so, we move forward—often without answers, but with the hope that tomorrow brings something different, something worth it.

They say living is easy. Yet living is hard and, at the same time, mysterious. Living is seeking meaning even when our castles crumble and only ruins remain. People should be valued for who they are, not for who they are not. Life is a gap—you are the one who fills it. Each person must take control of that gap and write their own story. Living is hard for those who have no purpose. Because, in the end, existing is easy. Living is hard.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Staying Sane in a Crazy World

What really separates a "sane" mind from an "insane" one? Isn't madness just a misfit in an already misfit world? Insane people are as normal as the sane; the difference is that they've stopped pretending. They've stopped pretending that they're okay in a world that makes no sense.

And then I wonder: what happens if I stop fighting? If I just let everything fall, if I stop pretending I can handle one more day, one more forced smile? It feels like no one really notices how much I'm drowning, as if the world around me is so consumed by its own madness that my pain is invisible.

The worst part is that the emptiness doesn't go away. It settles in, grows, takes over every thought, and the idea of giving up starts to seem less frightening, almost like a relief. Giving up wouldn't be weakness, it would be a way to escape this internal prison, this constant battle between what I feel and what I'm forced to show.

What's left for me? Keep pretending? Keep dragging this burden that gets heavier with each passing day? The truth is, in some moments, the idea of disappearing, of finally resting, seems like the only way to silence this unbearable pain I carry in silence.

 

[Dayrain]

Hello! I decided to create this space to share something very personal: my poems

Thanks for sharing. Those spaces are appreciated. (There is a section here called "The Sanctuary" ,which you probably can't see yet because of your post count, where members create personal threads as well.)

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Hopelessness

Looking at the world and finding no way out is like being trapped in a room with no doors. You feel, you think, you wait... but nothing changes. Silence says more than any word. The screams lose their strength.

I found no meaning in my own suffering. Why is there so much injustice in the world? The system is too big, too dirty. And I, far too small. But the truth is, in the face of such vast cruelty, my actions feel like grains of sand.

I have everything many people dream of having. But there's no spark. I wonder if feeling empty while having everything is worse than longing for something you may never reach. Because those who have nothing can still dream. I no longer dream.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

My Room Is My Universe

My room is all I have. Here, within four walls, the world seems simpler. Out there, everything screams. Here, at least, the silence understands me.

People ask why I don't go out, why I don't "do something with my life." They don't see that everything out there suffocates me.

I eat because I have to, I sleep because my body demands it, but living... truly living, doesn't happen. The world never seemed made for me. And maybe it never will.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

The True Hell

Man is born with the trauma of birth — the very act of being born is, in itself, a traumatic experience.
Right after comes childhood, which should have a solid foundation, if you're lucky enough not to be tortured by your providers, or abused physically and mentally by them or by strangers.
In adolescence, alongside social pressures and hormonal changes, come tasks of random, useless studies. Think carefully — what is education? Isn't education the shaping of people according to what society demands? We strive to build an educational system to develop individuals who meet those demands. But with the overwhelming amount of information, it ends up creating people who hate studying and learning.
In adulthood, people sell their labor in exchange for a salary, just to survive and have something to eat.
Along the way: illnesses, accidents,
abuse, existential emptiness, depression, addictions, prejudice, unreachable social standards, poverty, betrayal, abandonment, baldness, and the cruel realization that you may never climb a single step — until eventually, you die.

Humans are animals, and as such, they are capable of inflicting and suffering the cruelty of chance... Others deceive themselves into believing that "God is in control" of their petty actions. For a large part of humanity — past, present, and future — life is suffering with fleeting moments of joy. That is life's irony.

It seems like living is a constant oscillation between anguish, fear, anger, and pain. When you think you're feeling happiness, you realize that what brought you that feeling was a lie — a lie you told yourself, or one that someone else fed you, giving you hope for one day, only to take it away and rub it in your face that no one really cares about you.

Maybe the true hell is this: continuing to exist when you no longer know why.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I lost myself

It's been so long since I recognized myself that, at times, it feels like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. Everything feels automatic, as if I'm playing a role I never chose. I've changed so much that my past self can't even be called me.

I used to be happy; now, I'm empty. What I was, what I felt, no longer exists. The emptiness is thick, like a fog that won't let me see inside it. I've tried to fill that space with so many things—whether fleeting ones like coffee, sweets and chocolate, energy drinks—or with routine activities like meditation and exercise, but nothing seems to work.

People around me talk to me, but it's as if they're speaking to someone else, because I'm no longer there. What's left of me is only a shadow. A lifeless, dull presence.