quinta-feira, 11 de março de 2010

Descrição de uma modesta sexta-feira

If I was a poet,
I would dance in the sky,
But I'm just a fucker,
Who just want to die.

If I was a genius,
I would learn how to fly,
But I've lost my heart
And everything I say is a lie.

If I was a lover,
I would live in pain,
Anyway is just a feeling
that drive men insane.

If I got famous,
I would simply forget
that most of the human race
is nothing but shit.

Then come the neuronal talking,
Opening my eyes during morning,
Just enough to catch a breath,
Hear the heart beating until death.

Since madness has become naked,
My eyes bleed and get baked,
Rhymes fall in the dark,
And the metric tear us apart,
Logic, moral, sadness and sorrow,
Begin unusually like someday tomorrow,
Even though I'm again Breathless,
My heart stopped beating, cause I'm restless.
So I hear myself going away,
Begging as hard as it was the other day,
So to stop this stupid waste of time,
I'll write my last rhyme,
Before someone shots at me,
Ending the sickness of my misery.

On more thing is meant to be said,
If there is anyone out there, really bad,
someone with guts made of steel,
come to my white home,
hear my last appeal, grab my suicide note,
and grab the gun,
put a bullet in my brain,
and then....everything is done.


And the crowd goes wild,
Stupid-sick-fucker is nothing but vil,
Anyway it is suposed to be..
And everthing...

oh fuck this shit
it's late, i'm going to get hip...
mais rimas, fdx, para de escrever,
senão até o papel vais lamber,
agora não passas de uma criança a teclar,
e nem sabes se vais parar,
porra, para com esta merda,
já chega!

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