Poem — Metaphors and Curses

How many times have I not wished death
to knock on my door?
How many times have I not suffered
anguish that tormented my whole being?
I am an accursed man,
and my curse is to live

And the times I hated my life,
I envied Jesus for faith and pain
wanted me to die on a piece of wood
and still be called lord

Sacred to me only love
the love I never felt
the love I’ll never feel
because I only feel pain,
and a hatred that I myself fed

I don’t hate people and I don’t hate gods
I hate only the wounds that open in my body
and make my soul bleed

In the bowels of pain and anguish
I drowned in the sorrows of silence

And hung myself on the ropes
bathed in the blood of my own pain

The misery of my being,
spreads through every corner
of the house and loneliness
is the silent company of this tired soul
In the stars I found my own home
my passions are the books and the nothing itself

Every time I cried I bled poetry
and from my tears were born so sublime pains
able to make even the stars cry

• Gerson De Rodrigues