L C Vieira

Rookie - 21 Points (Lisbon, Portugal)

L C Vieira Poems

41. If Men Could Think Like Women 3/15/2012
42. Internet Ghosts 3/15/2012
43. Is She Really? 3/15/2012
44. Is That A White Hair On Your Head? 4/28/2013
45. It's121212 12/12/2012
46. Just Outside My Reach 3/15/2012
47. Lake Muskoka 3/15/2012
48. Lessons Learned And Relearned 3/17/2012
49. Letters 8/13/2013
50. Life Is Not Random 8/13/2013
51. Life Is Not Random (First Version) 8/28/2013
52. Little Lyla Juniper 12/25/2012
53. Magic Scarves 3/15/2012
54. Magic Words 3/15/2012
55. Mama Is A Crazy Girl 4/27/2012
56. Men Who Bruise 3/15/2012
57. Mental Health Awareness Week 5/10/2012
58. More Of You 12/2/2015
59. Morning Gifts 4/1/2013
60. My Father's Best 4/28/2013
61. My Father's Chocolate 3/31/2012
62. My Leg Around Yours 3/15/2012
63. My Nose Awakes First 9/1/2013
64. No Backup Plan 3/15/2012
65. No Magic Wand 5/19/2012
66. No One Wiser Than A Child? 4/1/2013
67. Non-Gawker 3/15/2012
68. Nothing At All 3/15/2012
69. Omnipotence 4/7/2012
70. One 3/15/2012
71. One Brief Moment Of Insanity 3/15/2012
72. One More Chance 4/7/2012
73. Perfect Timing 3/15/2012
74. Phantom 3/15/2012
75. Rainbow Child 7/27/2012
76. 'Round The Pond 11/10/2012
77. Sailor Cook 3/15/2012
78. Saturday Morning 3/15/2012
79. Savior Man 4/7/2012
80. Scattered Bits 3/15/2012
Best Poem of L C Vieira

Mental Health Awareness Week

Oh, I'm aware. Too aware.

I wore my bright colors, my orange and golds,
the big yellow hat, closet greens unrolled.
I walked as a billboard to questions and stares,
promoting the week in the way that I dared.

I dared, but soon noticed that not all yet believe
the idea of ‘mental ‘ should be loud or be seen.
Loud or allowed, or improperly bold,
outside of the box, escaping the mold.

Is it mental when it cannot be contained,
the idea controlled or conventionally sane?
Must we still plan to hide it somewhere back at home
and speak in the ...

Read the full of Mental Health Awareness Week

Three Thirty Nine A.M.

Three thirty-nine a.m.
A growing madness drowns the quiet,
heat humming through the vents,
the cold night mocking its attempt,
and I awake, still awake,
pound my pen to you.

Where does my practiced peace go in the night,
and all that contentment you talk about?

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