tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57224758282685181222012-02-16T06:47:48.341-02:00Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.comBlogger111100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-66969564980725004792009-04-21T18:29:00.003-03:002009-04-21T18:34:35.526-03:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/Se47R-YsnyI/AAAAAAAAACg/DFnz7mDUXy4/s1600-h/foto_3922.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327260589216276258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/Se47R-YsnyI/AAAAAAAAACg/DFnz7mDUXy4/s320/foto_3922.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000000;">Poesia<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Dom de gritar o que se sente<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Poesia<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Minhas excreções<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Meus sentimentos<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Minha fala<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Meu eco<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Minhas convicções<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Voz berrante...<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Sou poesia na forma<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Mais simples de poetar o mundo<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">E de chorar<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Diante da ignorância das cabeças mundanas<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Sou subconsciente<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Poetisa na arte de viver<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Realizo-me através de meus versos<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Minhas transpirações transformam-se<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Em comunicação<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Risco letras num papel<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Transformo-as em arte<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Arte da sobrevivência<br /></span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#000000;">Juliana Pacheco</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-6696956498072500479?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-7733066682862370502009-04-21T18:21:00.002-03:002009-04-21T18:26:45.298-03:00<span style="color:#006600;"></span><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/Se458Ne2fEI/AAAAAAAAACY/taeU1huX_OQ/s1600-h/DSCN0086.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327259115799870530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/Se458Ne2fEI/AAAAAAAAACY/taeU1huX_OQ/s320/DSCN0086.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#006600;">A incomplexidade do nada</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Faz ser transversível toda</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Utopia existente no topo da pedra da Gávea</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Diante do mar vermelho</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Através do muro de Berlim</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Enxergamos o interrupto nada</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">E vagamos pelo inexpressante agora</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Baseamos nossos sonhos</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Em fatos da esfera "tudo"</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Somos pedra rolando o morro</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Nada relacionado com nada</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Me chamo agora</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Vivo no futuro</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Me chamo ontem</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#006600;">Reflito o inexato</span></div><div><span style="color:#006600;"><br />Juliana Pacheco</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-773306668286237050?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-9782727663941628832009-04-20T10:45:00.006-03:002009-04-21T10:17:31.129-03:00<span style="color:#ff6600;">Aproveite bem o dia!</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Faça do momento agora</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">O único instante para realmente ser feliz</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Jogue no lixo tudo que </span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">A sociedade implantou no seu subconsciente</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Jogue fora as amarras</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Abra a algema </span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Voe em busca do que você é</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">E apenas...</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Aproveite bem o dia!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SeyrrsiwqoI/AAAAAAAAACQ/FVCzvac6wKI/s1600-h/ATgAAAAH0qC5KnoH0MI3evC-tfcaLRipnCeZR_1MtW_rdDtQZNIj5zrRiDojmR1PdJ0Nlwmg89yKwBvBeXVbgtrvkMuFAJtU9.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326821226452134530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 144px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SeyrrsiwqoI/AAAAAAAAACQ/FVCzvac6wKI/s320/ATgAAAAH0qC5KnoH0MI3evC-tfcaLRipnCeZR_1MtW_rdDtQZNIj5zrRiDojmR1PdJ0Nlwmg89yKwBvBeXVbgtrvkMuFAJtU9.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;">Autora: Juliana Pacheco</span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span><br /><span style="color:#ff6600;"></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-978272766394162883?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-28244674394664404122009-04-20T10:40:00.002-03:002009-04-21T10:19:53.569-03:00<span style="color:#663300;">Mórbidas são as palavras</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Silenciadas pelo olhar de despedida</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Mórbidas são as sentenças</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">destinadas pela sociedade medíocre</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Mórbidos são os seres que vagam pelo planeta água</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">E ainda o chamam de Terra</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Mórbidos são os clamores</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Despertadores do eu introspectivo</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Mórbidos são os recomeços</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Os finais sempre representam esperança</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Mórbido é tentar poetar o mundo</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">S</span><span style="color:#663300;">obrevivendo a ignorância</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Sou mórbida,</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Assassina de falsos valores</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Poetiso e nada mais.</span><br /><span style="color:#663300;"></span><br /><span style="color:#663300;">Autora: Juliana Pacheco</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-2824467439466440412?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-38907978661471883462009-04-20T10:00:00.003-03:002009-04-21T10:25:59.114-03:00<span style="color:#660000;">Versos transcritos através da linha branca do nada</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Somos pesadelo diante do incontrolável abismo</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Quem sou?</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Onde esconderam minhas convicções?</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Passos no escuro</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">nada versus nada</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Sou pergunta sem resposta</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Recomeço de um fim inacabado</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Onde estou?</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">No meio de aliens?</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Vivo entre seres programados para serem "somente seres"</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Seguimos o estereótipo "homem moderno"</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">E não percebemos que somo os verdadeiros homens da caverna</span><br /><span style="color:#660000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#660000;">Autora: Juliana Pacheco</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-3890797866147188346?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-74870836631445952672009-04-13T11:33:00.003-03:002009-04-15T00:00:23.860-03:00<div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Oito</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Algum dia algo havia</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">De surgir do nada</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Indiferente á teoria que diz</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Como surgiu alguma coisa,</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Seja ela de Darwin ou do Big-Bang</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Sabemos que o universo e a vida</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">São muito mais do que uma simples intuição</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Questione todas as idéias </span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Que possam reluzir no interior de seu pensamento</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Desvie-se da alienação</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Filosofe a essência das coisas</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Busque estar na ponta do pêlo do coelho</span></em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em><span style="color:#cc0000;">Autora: Juliana Pacheco</span></em></strong><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SeNN-rHLPuI/AAAAAAAAACA/1RFvB_lylhI/s1600-h/N%C3%83O+TENHA+MEDO+DE+DESISTIR+DO+DOM.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324184923602108130" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SeNN-rHLPuI/AAAAAAAAACA/1RFvB_lylhI/s320/N%C3%83O+TENHA+MEDO+DE+DESISTIR+DO+DOM.jpg" border="0" /></a> </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-7487083663144595267?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-56920613794223298882007-11-22T17:29:00.004-02:002009-04-21T10:30:09.788-03:00<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XapuBXZZI/AAAAAAAAAAw/BfZrH55scSo/s1600-h/PALHAÇO+CHORANDO.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135751360349169042" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XapuBXZZI/AAAAAAAAAAw/BfZrH55scSo/s320/PALHA%C3%87O+CHORANDO.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000099;">Fiz uma casa de jornal<br />E fui morar...</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Eu tinha um neném</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Seu choro tinha som de morte</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Fiz esta casa para fugir da solidão</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Fechei o cadeado</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">E meu neném cessou o choro</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Por todos os vinte anos seguintes não o ouvi</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Achava que havia morrido</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Mas como saber o que está morto ou vivo?</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">A relação é tão próxima</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">E nunca aprendi a definir vida e morte</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Passei vinte anos escrevendo</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Se fazia sol escrevia a chuva</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Se chovia, enaltecia o sol</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">E se a noite,</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Então surgia</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Contemplava a claridade</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Meu neném e eu adorávamos ver todos os dias</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Os ângulos da vida</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Todos os parâmetros da morte</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Apesar de não distinguir muito bem essas passagens</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Não conhecia meu pais</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Não possuía irmãos,</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Nem família,</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Nem emprego</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Só existia meu neném e eu</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Eu me alimentava de poesia</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Ouvi tiros</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Falar de guerras</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Drogas e violência</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Mas esses sons eram tão distantes</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Minha casa de jornal nos protegia</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Possuía um campo prrotetor</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Meu neném</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Não chorava</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Sorria ou se movia<br />Era um neném de pano</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Minha casa era feita de jornal.</span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#000099;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#000099;">Autora: Juliana Pacheco</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-5692061379422329888?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-21180836492345992852007-11-22T17:11:00.003-02:002009-04-21T10:33:47.047-03:00<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XYP-BXZYI/AAAAAAAAAAo/6lFZ0D5hDlk/s1600-h/BXK206413_fort-lauderdale-th200.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135748718944281986" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XYP-BXZYI/AAAAAAAAAAo/6lFZ0D5hDlk/s320/BXK206413_fort-lauderdale-th200.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="color:#000000;">Resolvi cessar e esperar a morte</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Ela estava chegando...</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Vi meu corpo tomado por ela</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Estava morrendo!</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Senti meus membros, meus nervos</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Meu ser</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Gelar-se numa solidão profunda</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">E meus lábios pediam que os seus os tocassem</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Em um beijo de despedida</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Mas diante do desprezo</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Morri!</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">E hoje vago pelo vale das sombras</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Esperando na eternidade o beijo</span></div><div><span style="color:#000000;">Que eu não pude provar.</span></div><div> </div><div>Autora: Juliana Pacheco</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-2118083649234599285?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-72571744934433262652007-11-22T16:28:00.006-02:002009-04-20T09:45:23.744-03:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SexsMjW2TqI/AAAAAAAAACI/SOJdWznkGMA/s1600-h/ATgAAADFvh-Kih_3QQ02vGGFZN_zrD0rRURX1WDeh0wR_oxyWOUf-nJuDFJoPiytvmdLsFhSboH4l5QfiQ6kPBEeI76XAJtU9.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326751422177758882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 420px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 286px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/SexsMjW2TqI/AAAAAAAAACI/SOJdWznkGMA/s320/ATgAAADFvh-Kih_3QQ02vGGFZN_zrD0rRURX1WDeh0wR_oxyWOUf-nJuDFJoPiytvmdLsFhSboH4l5QfiQ6kPBEeI76XAJtU9.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;"></span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Quero ouvir o canto ardoroso</span> </div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">O canto harmonioso</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Do início da construção</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Quero encontrar felicidade</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">No amor que descobri</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Na nova vida a construir</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">No gozo de viver</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Quero dançar ao som da nova música</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Que o compositor criador compôs</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Melodias do sentimento</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Sinfonias do subconsciente</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Quero rir</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Amar</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Ser feliz</span><br /></div><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Quero ser esperança</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Escrito em 16/06/03<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135734515487434098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px" height="120" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XLVOBXZXI/AAAAAAAAAAc/oU3soiLqe10/s320/20010723.jpg" width="191" border="0" /></span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-7257174493443326265?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-79491732970352487472007-11-22T16:12:00.002-02:002009-04-20T11:43:29.281-03:00<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XH_OBXZWI/AAAAAAAAAAU/O6br2VSLSxU/s1600-h/20010723.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135730838995428706" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XH_OBXZWI/AAAAAAAAAAU/O6br2VSLSxU/s320/20010723.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Na outra semana sonhei com Freud<br />Ele ajudou-me a achar respostas<br />Mas hoje Freud resolveu<br />Fazer perguntas para as quais<br />Não tenho respostas<br />Como esse tal Freud,<br />Pode fazer tanto mal assim?<br />Não sei as respostas<br />Onde as conseguir?<br />Disseram que ele é o pai da pscinálise<br />Mas da minha mente esse cara não entende, não!<br />Pensa desvendar meus mistérios<br />Mas sou eu que o martirizo<br />Com meus temores abissais<br />E com minha incapacidade<br />Diante de suas interrogações<br />Sera Freud?<br />Freud mesmo ou não<br />Só sei que sou poetisa do nada<br />Que Freud num sonho realidade<br />Me contou.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-7949173297035248747?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722475828268518122.post-67005511408399550332007-11-22T16:00:00.000-02:002007-11-22T16:08:15.841-02:00<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XFgeBXZVI/AAAAAAAAAAM/68UfEdeaN-k/s1600-h/20010723.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5135728111691195730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_IsBaEE7vzv8/R0XFgeBXZVI/AAAAAAAAAAM/68UfEdeaN-k/s320/20010723.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>A<span style="color:#993399;"> POESIA BROTA NO CAMPO DAS IDÉIAS</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">COMO UMA MISTURA DO MEU EU</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">E DA MINHA RACIONALIDADE</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">ELA CHEGA DE MANSINHO</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">TÃO DEVAGAR...</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">QUE QUANDO PERCEBO JÁ FUI POSSUIDA PELA ESSÊNCIA</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">A POESIA VEM CHEGANDO COM UMA GINGA DE MALANDRO</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">QUE SÓ O BRASILEIRO TEM</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">CANTANDO SUAVE...</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">NUMA MISTURA DE SAMBA E </span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">BOSSA DE TOM JOBIM</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">ELA REUNE VÁRIAS RAÇAS,</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">CRENÇAS,</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">UTOPIAS DO ARTISTA</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">ELA CHEGA ESPERTA E RISONHA</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">SE FAZ CIRCO E, </span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">É O PALHAÇO DO ESPETÁCULO</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">É O BANDIDO DOS FILMES DE FAROESTE</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">É O REVÓLVER NA MÃO DO MARGINAL</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">A POESIA É ASSIM...</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">UM PASSAR DE DÉCADAS</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">UM CRONOMETRAR DE MOMENTOS</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">O SUSPIRAR DE ALGUÉM</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">POESIA É FOME</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">DE SACIAR A ALMA</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">QUE INQUIETA CLAMA ARTE</span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#993399;">JULIANA PACHECO EM 17/11/03</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5722475828268518122-6700551140839955033?l=espectrosdapoesia.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Juhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08426068532883822759noreply@blogger.com0