The Voice (of me)

[Brownlie]

rite poetry to you, when we talk.

Why would I if I did not care?

How could I if I did not?

You tell me now!

What is next, you ask, I say:

Not yet written.

.

You can hurt me, but

you are the only one

allowed to

do so.

You should read some Heine:

He talks finely about love

and hurting.

.

On those rare vists to my mind

I question myself what I do.

I take a liking these gloomy days

in other people's love affairs

becauses it soothes me now.

You still have a life in front of you

to be filled with new love. - I like the hope I contemplated adding a smiley but they seem too ambiguous

It is just around the corner.

You simply need to look up

and that is all it takes

to love life once bloody more.

Just know that I now what I am talking,

your mock huffy,

he says so:

Of course – to spread banalities:

It ain't over till it is

and that is exactly how it is now

with us.

You know, I think that's fine lyrics

for just another

to be put down into

living

song.

So let there be song:

You say we differ;I ask how.

Is it about the Emerson quotes

about friendship I quoted to you?

What is it about?

Friendship is about

you don't have to return my favors,

but if you desire so:

return them to make me return them to you.

I read your eyes that ask:

Can we have that

without sex? Really?

Get lucky with my shrugs.

I write poetry to you when we talk.

Why would I do that

if I did not care?

Vutiou believe it: I read you.

The message I can't, it simply lies.

I can feel some other one's grief

completely.

I just love Italy

because on her coasts

I can feel the brise,

touching he rumbling waves of the sea.

I can feel a free bird's song in the wind.

Too many unsweet attitudes

in peoples these days.

They lost our moon

from which to look down

upon us, them and me.

Once the moon lights up again

they surely will see

what thy missed, I am talking

the richness of colorful life,the voice

lol - I don't know about lol in a poem

meant solely to please them

and easy their, our's. introduction

to death.

Jean Genet in Miracle de la Rose

with his friend facing the guillotine

played Boetius reborn in order to soothe.

In vain, in vain life and death., too.

In vain for all of us

it is to live.

Already covered Beckett, of course.

And may he be cursed because of that:

Leaving no options to choose from

for us to make a fine life,

but instead to sadly accept the fact that we'll die,

having been made so by our maker.

No praises from me for that.

That's our old existentialism Blues

Enough of sweet talking maybe, for now?

Up to get into it, into the real?

Into what matters?

But see: you loose me there,

because nothing really does.

Pra quem não sabe amar

fica esperando*

Because they do not know love waits for them.

Senhor, piedade
Lhes dê grandeza e um pouco de coragem *

Lord, have mercy

Give them a bit of grandeur and courage!

.................................................

*from Cazuza's Blues da Piedade lyrics

You have some noble sentiments here, if you're writing poetry about someone you are thinking about the other person and that can be a gift. I hate to call you pretentious but that is what comes across when you throw in too many literary names and use archaic words like thy. I think you can write much better than this, but I've been having a bad night and your optimism was uplifting. Hopefully you don't wake up in the morning with a pounding headache and a thousand regrets.