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Or Something

The noises I've been making are not to disguise the silence,
they're just to put some color on it.
The words I've been writing are not only to ornament the pain,
they're a way to deal with all I've been hit.

But you pretend you don't even hear.
You don't believe in the monster I fear.
If I close my eyes, it doesn't disappear.
You don't believe, but I'm being sincere.

So I'm still here facing the same absurd,
charming ache with air, and agony with words...

The moans I've been cryin' out are not to ask your attention,
they relieve the pressure you don't see.
The pain I'm complainin' is not, and never was, an invention,
it is so real as you and me.

I didn't make up anything.
I didn't make up any monster in my head.
The monster is there, but you don't care.
The monster is there,
but you don't care when the gun is not pointed at you.

Everyone can master a grief,
but he that has it.

(Júlio B.)