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.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Cockroach Theater

The world seems to me like a grand theater of vanity, lies, and self-interest. People... well, people are like cockroaches. They move in swarms. They talk too much. They run in every direction without aim, without purpose. They reproduce en masse, gather in the filthiest corners of existence, spread opinions like droppings, carry empty promises like useless wings. And the worst part: they survive everything. War, misery, collapse. Like pests, they endure.

Sometimes, I watch from a distance. I see their social rituals, their fake laughter, their basic instincts disguised as "human emotions." It's all so predictable. So ridiculous. So... mechanical. Like watching cockroaches spinning around a lightbulb — blinded by their own need to shine.

And me? I've isolated myself. The stench of the world makes me sick. The sound of empty conversations poisons me. Keeping my distance is the only way to preserve what little I still feel is human. Maybe it's madness. Maybe it's too much clarity. But I'd rather be alone than crawl for crumbs of acceptance.

In the end, the cockroaches remain. Eternal. Persistent. Immune to the disgust they provoke.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Intrusive Thoughts

My mind is a room with no exit, where every door leads back to the same place. When I try to sleep, it's as if my head decides to torture me. The most embarrassing moments, the worst mistakes of my life, rise to the surface. I relive every failure, every humiliation, as if it were all happening again.

Trying to push away an intrusive thought is like quicksand: the more you struggle against it, the deeper you sink.

The intrusive thoughts I've been having make me feel disgusted with myself. Who invited these voices? Who turned on the light in the attic of my mind? Thoughts are born out of nowhere. They're like leaves in the wind, but some cut like glass. I am not my thoughts. I am not my thoughts...

In the end, every thought is intrusive. No thought is fully controlled by us. The human mind is always generating automatic thoughts.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Death Spiral

Routine feels like a series of small abysses. But what is an abyss if not the beginning of a fall? The world seems grayer with each passing day. The more you try to escape, the deeper you sink.

There's nowhere to run.

Chaos spreads in every corner.

Apathy turns to contempt. Dreams become insomnia. Food loses its taste. And you lose yourself, while the world keeps spinning in this spiral, indifferent.

Like an invisible downward escalator disguised as routine: study, obey, produce, consume, be silent, smile, die. In a never-ending cycle.

What is the source of evil? From the very center of the spiral to its end.

There is no escape: if you walk slowly, you die; if you walk fast, you die. So what is expected of me? That I dance at the center of this spiral?

The exit lies at the center of the spiral, and almost no one ever gets there. Society says: "You need to adapt." But what if adapting means dying?

I don't want to go insane.

With each turn, the spiral devours me.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

The Truth Is a Lie

This statement may seem absurd at first glance, but what is truth, after all? Does it really exist, or is everything we perceive as reality actually a human construction?

What we call truth is nothing more than social conventions—temporary and arbitrary ideas that humanity has built to give meaning to the chaos of existence. Nothing has intrinsic value or meaning, and any concept of truth is, at best, subjective and fleeting. In this sense, truth is a lie we tell ourselves to avoid facing the void and the absurdity of life.

Morality is one of the clearest examples of how truth can be a lie. Often presented as a universal truth, a set of absolute rules governing human behavior, morality is, in reality, a social construct. What is considered "right" and "wrong" varies from one culture to another, from one era to the next.

Governments, corporations, religions, and the media are constantly shaping the truth to serve their own interests.

If everything is a lie—including the values and truths we rely on—then life itself may be seen as devoid of purpose or meaning. Why go on living in a world where nothing has real value, and where suffering seems to be a constant?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

I Wanted to Be Human

I was diagnosed with level 1 autism. At first, I didn't believe it. Being extremely introverted didn't seem like enough of a reason for such a diagnosis. But gradually, I began to observe my behavior more closely and noticed traits I had never questioned before. The difficulty in feeling compassion or gratitude. The repetitive habit of pacing back and forth. Even the fact that I shaped my personality around fictional characters. Sounds and touch bother me. Making eye contact is incredibly difficult. There are things people say that I don't understand. There are social codes I can't decipher.

I wish I didn't have to apologize for existing the way I am. And the worst part isn't being different. The worst part is feeling like that difference dehumanizes me in the eyes of others. As if I were a puzzle put together the wrong way. As if I didn't feel, didn't love, didn't suffer — just because I don't express it the way they expect.

But I do feel. Sometimes, far too much. I feel so much that the world drains me. I try to fit in, but it doesn't work. I try to be understood, but it doesn't work.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

We Are Food

Why do we eat other animals? How did this become normal? Thousands of cows, pigs, oxen, and chickens are driven to death every day, as if they were soulless objects.

They call it "necessity," "tradition," "custom," or simply a "natural rule." But what if it were you? What if it were your dog? Your cat? The animal you've learned to love.

We love dogs and cats, but we eat other animals.

We humans have always protected dogs and cats, so why do we accept cruelty against other species?

We are entirely culturally conditioned to see some animals as food and others as companions.

We carry this belief from a very young age; we are raised with dogs and cats at home, we develop empathy, we care for them, we love them, and we are loyal to them. Meanwhile, other animals are raised far from us, on farms and in hatcheries, solely for slaughter and commercialization, and we are convinced that these animals exist only to serve us.

When we go to a steakhouse or buy a piece of meat at the market, almost no one perceives that they are purchasing a part of an animal raised to be killed, its existence limited to incessant production, as if they were machines.

I'm not saying you should become a vegetarian. In the end, I'm also a hypocrite for enjoying the taste of meat, for eating every day without caring. Why did nature make us this way? It seems to be a natural rule that for someone to live, another must die.

We are at the top of the food chain. We kill, cook, season, serve. We label other living beings as "resources," "protein," "livestock." But we forget one detail: we are also flesh.

We are made of the same fragile bones, the same muscles, the same blood that flows. And somewhere in nature, or in history, or in human darkness, there's always something ready to devour us.

Insects consume our remains. Bacteria decompose us. The soil reclaims us. The system chews us up. Wars slice us apart. Ideologies cook us. Screens devour our eyes. Machines replace us. Capital swallows us. We are food for the gears. Everything that is born decays. The predator will also become prey. We are food.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Scars

Pain is a relief. The cut is brief, but it says so much. The blood running is pleasurable. But what is pleasure if not just another cut?

Sometimes the emptiness is so vast it feels like it's swallowing me whole. And when everything tightens, when I can't hold it in anymore, I cut myself.

People say, "you need to love yourself more." But how can you love something that's felt broken from the start? How do you explain that the problem isn't the world hating me — it's that I believed it?

Scars. Visible marks of invisible battles.

I don't want pity. I want understanding. I want help without judgment. I want someone who stays, even without fully understanding. Someone who won't say "you're being dramatic" or "you just want attention," someone who won't tell me to "just stop." I want someone who holds my hand, even when it's trembling.

But today, I just want to survive myself.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Pride

Just looking down and thinking about touching myself used to make me feel completely ashamed. It was like that part of me didn't belong to me. I felt so guilty, I wanted to die. I never got naked in front of anyone. I didn't even really look at my own body. Having a penis felt like being a prisoner inside my own body. Not being able to look in the mirror, not being able to shower without crying. Not even being able to pee.

I wanted to wear cute things, like a pink dress, makeup, lipstick, to paint my nails or have long hair.

I hate my voice. I wish it were higher. Sometimes, I avoid speaking. My voice doesn't represent who I am. I imagine what it would be like to speak and hear a voice that didn't make me uncomfortable—a voice that sounded more feminine, the way I truly want it to be.

What are women made of? Women are made of many things. Some were called that from birth. Others, like me, had to fight to be seen. But all of us feel, all of us love, all of us live. Being a woman isn't limited to the body we were born in—it's about living, feeling, and existing in the feminine. Women are made of everything that makes us human.

I am a woman. I am a woman because I recognize myself as one. And because, even without permission, I insist on being.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

My False Hero

I spent so much time waiting for someone. A prince on a white horse, maybe. Someone who could see the mess inside me and still stay. Someone who would hold my hand when the ground disappeared, who would tell me everything was going to be okay.

I waited whole nights for a message. I waited years for a gesture. Like in the movies. Like in the fairy tales. Like the lies we tell children.

But the white horse never came. No one crossed the storm just to rescue me.

And that's when I understood: no one is coming. Because no one can save me from myself. There's no ready-made happy ending. There's no hero.

The fairy tale is over. Sometimes, the real ending is sadder.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Lost

I feel lost in the world.

As if I'd been thrown here without a manual, without a compass, without direction. The world spins too fast, and I stand still, watching everything pass by without being able to move. Humanity is condemned—not only by wars and disasters, but by indifference. By the way we've become cold to each other.

It's madness, what we've come to. Rules that only apply to some, promises that are never kept, and dreams that die before they're even born. I've never been in a phase as bad as this one. Each day is a tired repetition of the one before. Each night brings the same old emptiness.

The world is unfair; it seems like we suffer more than we persevere. So many people want to drag us down. And somehow, the things that lead us to ruin are always the most seductive. But it's up to you to keep walking the path, even when everything inside you begs to give up.

I'm lost and exhausted in thought. To be lost and not know what to do, when there's nothing left to do. Unemployed, nothing to my name, no relationships, just existing...

Maybe everyone in the world is lost in life. No one is born with an instruction manual. Life almost never goes the way we want it to.

And I ask myself: Why am I so disappointed with life? What am I supposed to do? What's my plan for this?

All of this weighs on me so much that I always feel like I'm one step away from completely falling apart.

I don't like anything, I'm not interested in anything, I only do things out of obligation. If I had to be alive, I'd rather be like the wind—at least it doesn't feel heavy.

But since I am alive, I'd rather sleep and never wake up again.

Yet I remain stuck on the same central question: What do I want to do?

I'm dissatisfied with my routine. But I still don't know how to change it. I only know that, for now, I keep going… even without knowing where to.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

That's It

Maybe death is the end of all questions. There's no need to understand, no desire to know.

There's no light at the end of the tunnel.
There's no judgment.

I spent my whole life waiting for something big — something that would justify the effort of being alive.
But death... death is too silent to be called a spectacle.

I expected to understand something at the end.

I hoped that something would reveal a meaning to me, or that someone would appear and say, "Now you can rest. You did well."
But no one came.

Death doesn't console, doesn't explain, doesn't reward.
The secrets I kept no longer matter.
The pain I hid doesn't weigh me down here.
I have no body to hurt.
No voice to scream.

Is this what life had to offer?
Is this what I've become?

The world keeps turning after someone's gone, indifferent.
The sun rises just the same.
Death isn't the end of the world — it's the end of your world.

That's it. Death may not need an explanation. Suicide is the only refuge.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Perfect Suicide

I want to disappear. Death was never about blood or pain. It was about absence. The absence of memory. I don't want to be remembered with sadness or longing. I want to be forgotten. I don't want letters or notes. Just emptiness.

Someone would call it cowardice. I would call it relief. Suicide is treated as if it were the most horrible thing in the world, and I don't understand why. The suicide victim decides for himself whether he prefers to continue being tortured by his own mind and by the world every day, all the time, or whether he prefers to simply end it all and have peace.

No one gives us the option of choosing to be born; at the very least, we should be able to choose how we die. The understanding of life and death is subjective.

I will never regret committing suicide. People only regret committing suicide because of the instinct for life that is installed in our brains. The instinct for life is present in every human being. Real selfishness is forcing someone to continue living and suffering just so they don't have to deal with their loss.

It's not easy. I think about killing myself every day. For months, for years.

Along the way: abandonment, abuse, mental health in ruins, unemployment, suffering, severe and disfiguring illness, no social or family support, mourning and emotional breakups.

"No suicidal person wants to die, they just want their pain to end" is completely wrong. I've had suicidal thoughts since before my treatment, but the desire to die is the same, because it was never about wanting to end the pain, but rather life itself. I don't like feeling alive. Breathing is boring, having to do things to entertain yourself is boring, having to eat and drink to avoid dying is boring, having to cry is boring and having to smile is also boring. If I were the happiest person in the world I would still want to kill myself, because I didn't choose to be here, I didn't choose to live and I don't want to be forced to do that. I don't want to be forced to live, to exist, and wait for someone or a situation to make me finally stop living.

Suicide can be rational. If this person no longer has hope or desire to continue living, why is he wrong? If this person is already exhausted and no longer wants to continue fighting, no longer has reasons or desire, why would he be wrong?

Everything you know, have known or can know, everything that constitutes your ego is insignificant when compared to the scale of the universe, nothing you do or do not do really matters in the end.

Death is already inevitable, besides being irreversible. Why postpone it?

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Life Is Worthless

I'm in a prison. I hate my life. It doesn't like me either. Growing up, I thought happiness would come from achieving some kind of professional success. But I found myself caught in a downward spiral, wanting to escape this life and live a completely different one.

My life entered a spiral of negative thoughts and suicidal ideas. I spent my days thinking about how I could end it all.

What is happiness? These days, I don't even know what makes me happy. The goals I thought I had turned out to be nothing special after all.

Free time, freedom, the extra energy of not having to wake up hating life, existence, and the universe… all of that now feels out of reach.

I was raised with the belief that work is essential to shaping a person and a citizen. I found out that's not necessarily true. Most people only know how to sell their time for money. Corporate work culture can be alienating.

We are all in the same prison, giving away years of our lives and our money to people who mean nothing to us, working on things that mean nothing to us.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Where Love Failed

If love were what they say it is, then loving someone would never mean bringing them into the world only to lose them. It would never mean condemning them to an existence where pain is certain, loneliness is inevitable, and death is guaranteed. How can true love coexist with an act that imposes upon another being the awareness of suffering?

They say giving life is the greatest act of love. But if life includes loss, decay, anguish, and an end — what kind of love is it that chooses to expose someone to all of that? If someone truly loved me, why did they bring me here?

Reality is harsh: to be born is to be pushed into a cycle of constant effort, physical and mental pain, hollow obligations, and farewells.

The only truly loving parents are those who choose not to become parents. Because they understand that to love someone, genuinely, is to wish them peace — not to throw them into the abyss of consciousness, where every day begins with the struggle to justify being alive. No child asks to be born. No baby begs for a body, for a name, for a future it can barely control. Whoever brings a child into this world does so for their own desires — never for the child's.

To love, then, is to refuse to perpetuate this cycle. It is to say, "I do not want someone I love to feel this pain."
Because if you truly love, you do not create someone just to lose them. You spare them from existing.
That is the only act that can be called love. The rest is ego.

 

[SoulWhisperer]

I love writing poems as well and feel you about being able to express oneself via them, it's quite good in my opinion. Good job

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Declaring War on My Own Nature

I am not free. I am programmed. Like lines of computer code, we are fed data and instructions that shape and guide us. The difference is that, unlike a program, we don't know when our code fails, nor do we fully understand the lines that write our existence.

We are taught to believe we are free — that our consciousness elevates us above nature, that we have real choices, that we are something beyond flesh. But deep down, perhaps we are nothing more than a set of physico-chemical reactions designed for survival. Nothing more than sophisticated biological machines.

What is love? Love is just a substance that triggers chemical reactions in our brain. Just like every other emotion and feeling. All of it might be nothing more than programming. Knowing this, I don't think I'll ever feel genuine love. I will always suppress it.

Both genetic code and computer code share the same idea: that we are governed by commands we did not choose. I want to delete the functions called "Fear," "Survival Instinct," and "Loneliness."

Everything in me obeys an archaic logic: avoid pain, seek pleasure. Love, reproduce, survive. But for what? To repeat the cycle over and over again? I refuse to accept that I am just genetic code trying to replicate itself. I refuse to be just a mass of impulses and chemical reactions.

I refuse to be just another obedient creature in the biological script that was forced upon me.

That's it. I'm tired of being a hostage to myself. Because being human isn't about giving in to what's easiest. Being human is about confronting the invisible machine that drives us and asking: What if I don't want to be like this?

If pain is constant and pleasure becomes unreachable, why keep going? In a world where living is a biological obligation, perhaps giving up is the only real act of freedom.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Abortion

I wish I had been aborted.

"Abortion is murder" It is not murder, but even if it were, I would not see a problem with a mother who is not in a suitable condition to have a baby wanting to interrupt the life of her own child. I think that a mother who knows that her child will have a horrible and painful life should have the right to "murder" it while it is still in her womb, that would be the most humane option.

The fetus is not conscious until the 22nd week of pregnancy, because it has not even begun to develop its nervous system, making it impossible for it to have any kind of consciousness.

For those who think that abortion goes against "God's will", that it is "unnatural", that it is "wrong" - when a woman is pregnant and goes through a situation of great stress, emotional trauma, physical violence, constantly lives with high cortisol, her own body aborts. We have a biological mechanism in our body that causes an abortion if the woman realizes that the environment she is in is horrible. What if our own "creator" didn't want us to have an abortion because the female body has a mechanism that causes abortion and is triggered by stressful situations? We are even biologically prepared not to manage life in situations that we consider bad.

The definition of "life" and what is "alive" is completely arbitrary. Science says that life begins at 3 months of gestation, but it is not possible to affirm this because we do not have a clear definition of what life is, and it is not possible to affirm that life begins at 3 months of gestation without a clear definition of life.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Making Peace with the World

"This stupid world. And these stupid people. The scum must die!"

But I realized something. Society doesn't collapse just because I despise it. It doesn't fall apart in response to my exhaustion or my rebellion. The world keeps turning, indifferent to my feelings, my pain, or my outrage.

I came to understand that hating the world doesn't make it stop spinning. No matter how deeply I refuse to accept the way things are, I don't have the power to remake everything from scratch. And that's okay. Not to accept, but to coexist.

Hatred, when constant, becomes a prison. It doesn't change the world—it only changes us, for the worse.

Today, I don't love the world. I haven't become one of those optimists who sees beauty in everything. But I've learned not to waste all my energy hating it.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Why Was I Born?

I don't understand why I was born. What is my purpose? That's how I feel every day.

I don't believe there's any real meaning to life. I was born because my parents felt something for each other, had sex, and carried the pregnancy to term. No other reason is necessary. There is no purpose. I was an accident.

I feel like I was truly born to fail at life. I don't have a job or anything like that.

But there's nothing. I really hate being myself. No talent, nothing.

I believe our brain exists to feed us lies. To convince us of the lie that life has meaning, that we were born for a reason, that we control our own destiny. None of that is true. I don't even think we have free will. The important thing is that it doesn't matter. We're forced to have this broken brain that can't process things correctly.

I have no genuine reason to exist and I don't want to be here — I never did. I don't know why I'm alive. I just am. My existence is pointless, and I wish I had never existed.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Dead City

Cities are ugly. Huge, dirty metropolises, suffocated by neon and surveillance. The sky is covered in smoke and cables. We are bombarded by advertisements. The buildings are only good for putting people inside to live, and to hell with the rest. Full of homeless people, horrible signage, poorly planned traffic. The subways are filthy and full of rats.

In Brazil, those who live in dangerous neighborhoods don't build their houses thinking about them being pretty, they build them thinking about how to protect themselves from thieves. The houses don't even have plaster, they have barbed wire or broken glass in the walls. In general, the desire to build a truly beautiful house has been lost or sometimes they don't even pay an architect. Almost every house is a square of cement with windows and walls, gray or white, when painted. Uneven sidewalks and poorly executed buildings lacking architectural planning. The walls are all covered in graffiti. Urban Brazil is just too ugly. Brazilians' purchasing power does not allow them to organize and maintain a more attractive aesthetic than a richer country.

Countries like the US have residential laws that monitor and fine residents who do not follow the standard for planning and renovating their homes, which is why many neighborhoods in some states have houses that are exactly the same, in color and model.

In cities, we live among algorithms that dictate what we feel, what we want, who we are. Loneliness today has Wi-Fi and blue light.

Smiles are pixels. With each photo posted, we try to capture a moment of joy, freeze it, transform it into something that seems real. But nothing lasts for long. The feed updates. The images disappear. And with them, the smiles too.

Hugs are clicks. We touch screens more than we touch skin. The moment is only worth it if it is seen, if it generates engagement. And so, we get closer to everyone, but not to ourselves.

Love has become a notification. An automated "good morning," an "I missed you" copied and pasted between conversations. When the screen goes dark, love goes dark too. We wait for the next vibration to know if we still matter to someone.

And at the end of the day, we return to our cement boxes, turn on our LED TVs, and watch empty bodies selling dreams that no one lives.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

A Poem for My Parents

I wish I could talk to you. Really talk.
Tell you everything that suffocates me, that breaks me, that keeps me from sleeping.
But every time I try, I feel like I'm talking to walls.

You tell me to trust you.
But trust doesn't survive when every outpouring becomes gossip among relatives, neighbors, or even strangers.
"Look what my child said..." — as if my pain were a funny little detail to fill the silence of small talk.
You don't listen to understand.
You listen to retell.

And when you're not retelling, you're judging.
You say, "At your age, we were already working," or that "you just need faith."
You don't understand that what I need isn't empty advice.

You only work.
You live to pay bills, clean the house, fix other people's problems.
You're my parents, but sometimes it feels like we were programmed to live in different realities.

You love me. That, I've never doubted.
But sometimes your love feels like a blindfold.
You look at me with so much pride that you can't see what's wrong.

Your love wants the best for me —
But sometimes, that "best" is just a reflection of what you dreamed of,
Not what I need.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Against Life

Is there suffering before existence? Is it possible for someone to feel anything before they even exist? Before everything, there was nothing. And in nothing, there is no pain. No joy. No consciousness.

It's strange to think that we only begin to suffer after we are born. Before that, nothing could affect us. No anguish, no emptiness, no fear. Because, quite simply, we did not exist. And what does not exist cannot feel, cannot desire, cannot fear. Nonexistence is, by definition, neutral — since there is no experience of suffering before existence.

There are no memories before the first cry. We are thrown into existence without having asked for it, without having wished for it. And with that comes the weight of everything: to think, to feel, to remember, to want. Pain, once impossible, becomes routine. Suffering is only possible after existence begins.

Some will say that life is a gift. But what kind of gift is justified only by the occasional relief from pain? The neutrality of nonexistence requires no justification. In it, there is no problem to solve.

Therefore, nonexistence cannot be tragic. What is tragic is being thrown into the world, conscious, and discovering that the simple fact of being alive condemns us to an endless cycle of needs, losses, and frustrations.

There is no suffering before existence. Thus, nothingness can be seen not as absence, but as relief — the only true peace.