Poet and Feeling

About how a poet can sing and claims feeling that the never, even once, has felt.

I do lie, yes. Though I never lie. I omit facts, if you prefer.

I love. And I hate. I wish, if it suits you better.

I'm poet and therefor my feelings don't belong to me.

Not always. Not when I turn them into words. They get bigger, smaller, twisted, stretched.

Never faithful. Never the same, for there a more things between the feeling and the word that your fool interpretation holds true. They're not mine, no longer mine.

Belong to nobody, to anything, to no moment. Belong to nothing and to everything, to all.

They're utterly fake, like the illusion of falling stars. More truthful that the purity of a cristhal.

More intense, more bloody, more brute that Creation itself. And at the same time weak,

cowards and dociles like a child.

Off of me, everything seeds, grow and give fruit. Reproduce. Reproduce. And reproduce.

And don't die. Poetry is not alive, it doesn't fit in this cycle that has so well defined a beggining and an end. Feeling don't die, fake or real, as long as they are immortalized.

They are born by me and grow by my power, my will. But they don't die.

Go on.

Swim.

Flow.

And contamine, contact. Tell about me and about my artificial feeling, artificial words.

And again, are born on me. And die wherever they please, wherever the stop.

Caio Emmanuel

31/03/09

Author's Note

Originally written in Portuguese. Nothing major lost in translation.