My Poems

[Açucarzinho583]

Who am I?

It's really hard for anyone to truly understand who I am. Who I am — meaning my perspective of myself? Or what others think I am?

I'm so tired of my life right now. I sat in the dark wondering who I was. I feel lost in life — how do I find out who I am? Am I a man? Am I a woman? Or am I trans?

Maybe I'm just a product of my parents' emotional relationship. I'm still discovering myself, and most of the time when I reflect on it, I only see myself as a human being enduring the world.

Or maybe I'm just a selfish being, living for my own interests and lacking empathy.

I still don't know who I am. The truth is, I don't know what I am.

I am a brain, and I control this body — my fingers, organs, everything — but I do it all automatically, like breathing. I have my own personality and tastes, but people never stop to think that when they look in the mirror and see a face, that's not really them — it's just the form of their body. We are brains controlling a human body, that's all.

My character traits, the decisions I make, my hobbies, tastes, and everything else inside and around me might be temporary and not fixed throughout my life. So, it wouldn't be right to think of myself as a set of these temporary preferences.

Maybe I'm just a pile of anxieties, doubts, and stresses — even though, from a scientific point of view, we're all just bodies with some biochemical reactions going on.

What you are today is the sum of everything you've ever been in your life. You are the sum of all the social and personal factors that come together to make you who you are. Every concept you think, every development you've made, was shaped in that context.

So, I am nothing.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Maze of Life

Life is a maze. Twisting, ever-changing, filled with wrong turns and dead ends. Some people think they're forging a completely new path, machete in hand, cutting through the unknown. But the truth is, the maze isn't new. It's ancient. Worn. Every mistake you think is unique has been made thousands of times before.

Life isn't a single path shared by everyone; it's a deeply complex maze, different for each person. Some walk with fog in their eyes, while others have a clearer idea of the maze ahead. Each path is shrouded in mist, littered with fallen trees, or filled with things that shift and move unexpectedly. Even when there are guides, they often fail to account for how each individual has walked their own maze, or how ever-changing its nature truly is—making some guides resonate and others fall flat.

Some people are stubborn and ignore the signs, or want to follow their own way. But that's when you realize: everyone is in the same maze. Can some people truly see the rope in front of them that lets them climb over the fallen tree? And what about those whose maze has been shaped by barriers or past experiences—blocking paths or limiting their ability to recognize the way forward?

The wise? They don't waste time pretending they're the first to walk this path. They look for the markers, the footprints left by those who discovered it before them. Call it tradition, call it wisdom... whatever it is, it exists because people learned—often the hard way—and passed it on. Ignore it, and you'll find yourself stumbling into the same hellish traps, wondering why life feels like a cruel joke.

Some people start with a harder maze. Life isn't fair. But fairness isn't the game. The game is survival. And the best way to survive is to find those who've mapped the route—those who know where the ground gives way, where the real monsters live.

Every search for clarity leads me into a new maze. Maybe there is no final way out.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Last Sacrifice

It wasn't cowardice. It was liberation. People say giving up is weakness, but they've never lived through days where even breathing was a struggle. My last sacrifice wasn't dying — it was accepting that I was never needed. No one will remember who I was, and perhaps no one ever truly knew. This is my last sacrifice: to unlearn how to exist. To stop searching for meaning, to stop justifying myself.

I try to find myself almost all the time, and every time I search for answers, I find myself even more lost among countless questions. And the more I searched for meaning, the more I got lost in questions no one can answer.

You've been dying since the moment you were born — life is a sacrifice. I never asked to be here. I don't like anything about this place. I feel trapped in a cage of flesh that won't let me die before my time.

They say at the height of love, there is sacrifice. Parents give up dreams for children who never asked to exist.

But there's a kind of sacrifice no one acknowledges: existing without purpose. When a person chooses their own death, or wishes someone else would grant it, they are merely trying to cut the thread of an imposed existence. It is simply an end. The idea that my death would serve some greater purpose is an illusion — just a pretext to say goodbye with a little less guilt.

I let go of the need to be understood.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Purgatory

Only the dead live here.
But perhaps the dead here aren't truly dead — they've simply given up on trying to live. Fear, cold, despair, and pain. These are the seasons of this place.

Trying to escape is like trying to wake up from a dream that never ends.
You realize you're dreaming, that you're trapped — but you can't find the way out.

I think this dimension isn't far from ours.
People walk past us every day and don't notice.
Or maybe they choose not to notice.
Because facing someone dead inside means admitting you might be dead too.
And no one wants to admit that.

We are ghosts of ourselves, walking among modern ruins.

It's easy to blame the Devil.
But if we're honest, the Devil never had to do much.
Because the truth is simple: the Devil has a human face.
The Devil didn't create war, cruelty, or misery.
We did.
He merely watched, satisfied.

In purgatory, there are no screams. There is silence.
A silence so thick it forces us to hear ourselves.
To look inward and realize that the cruelest judgment doesn't come from outside, but from within.
Because here, we finally understand: good and evil have always lived in the same body — our own.

There is no way out.
Maybe I'm starting to understand why they stayed.
Because staying takes less strength than returning.
Purgatory stopped being a prison and became a home.

 

[Açucarzinho583]

Memories

My memories are nothing but poorly told stories I repeat to myself just to feel like I've lived something. Because deep down, there's a strange emptiness.

Sometimes I think it would be interesting if there were a clinic capable of erasing memories. A place where you could choose what to forget, as if deleting the past would be enough to ease the present.

Some would say that even though most of my memories bring me pain, I needed to go through them to become who I am now.

But maybe the argument that "everything is a lesson" doesn't apply to the more extreme and delicate situations, because the exchange between experience and learning is often not proportional. It's a simple logic: would you willingly go through traumatic experiences that leave a deep and permanent negative impact on your life just for the "lesson," or because it made you "who you are today"? You say that mostly to make peace with the bad things that happened, to feel a little less awful about them, but deep in your heart you know the truth: you'd be an even better person today without those traumas and wounds.

Maybe erasing trauma doesn't really work. The trauma remains, even if the memory is gone. As far as I know, the brain has some emotional defense mechanisms that help us forget or remember less of certain painful events.

And I don't know who I would be if certain memories were erased.

Sometimes, memories lie. How do you tell real memories from false ones? I constantly mix reality and dreams, sometimes having false memories, and I could swear something happened when in truth I was only dreaming. It feels like I just woke up from the dream.

In the architecture of consciousness, what do memories represent? Some form the walls of the building, like painted murals, shaping its appearance. Others are buried deep in the foundations of the unconscious, supporting and giving shape to the entire structure.

My mind is like a VCR with the same tape stuck inside — constantly rewinding "The 50 Moments That Make You Want to Die."

And maybe, in the end, euthanasia seems more effective than a clinic that erases memories.