A Fi Artă

“Murder in The House, Detail”
by Jakub Schikaneder

Este Artă.
Așa cum stă, așteptându-și sfârșitul
Știind că nu mai e nimic ce ar putea să facă.
Dar este Artă.

Vopseaua roșie ce îi curgea prin vene,
Acum împrăștiată pe întreg corpul ei,
Ca pe o pânză,
Ce o transformă în Artă.

Ochii, de culoarea cerului de vară,
Ce-au lăsat în urmă
Doar o gaură neagră,
O transformă în Artă.

Părul blond, înroșit de vopseaua amară,
Ce curge în mici izvoare din fiecare rană,
E doar o pată de culoare
Ce o transformă în Artă.

Linia lungă, roșie, de pe gâtul său
Și obrajii palizi
Și trupul înghețat.
Toate astea o transformă în Artă!
Vânătaia de pe coapsă,
Zgârietura de pe braț
Și buzele mușcate
Cu atât mai mult o transformă în Artă!

Și pasiunea artistului,
Iubirea ce i-o poartă,
Destinul ce îi leagă.
Și asta o transformă în Artă!

Zâmbetul lui ca de ceară,
Chipul ei inexpresiv,
Cuvintele nerostite la timp…
Și amândoi sunt Artă.

Capătul metalic al lamei de cuțit
Îmbibat în sângele ei…
El zâmbește.
A transformat-o în Artă.


This, too, shall pass

“Hi there! Long time, no see, right? But that doesn’t matter anymore. I’m here now. And, truth to be told, I’ve never been so happy to see you, dear friend. I have so many things to tell you, so much to get off my chest. I truly missed the freedom of our conversations. Oh, sorry! Maybe you want to say something, too, and here I am, just rambling endlessly. You can interrupt me at any point if you’d like to speak to me.”

He falls silent, waiting for his conversational partner to say something. He awaits in silence, nervously fidgeting with his hands. Good minutes pass by without any answer. So he proceeds.

“I appreciate you letting me finish what I had to say first. Thanks! For real. Nobody else… Dude, they all just never listen. Like, truly listen. No… everyone only cares about themselves, the selfish bastards! But you are not like them, my friend. You listen. You get me every bloody time! I owe you the world for this!

“Back to what I was about to tell you… You see, she’s become a total monster. Impossible to stay around. She’s supposed to be the best thing in my life. But she’s transforming my life into a living hell. In fact, the only good thing she’s done this week was bringing me back here, to you. Other than that… she keeps hating on my friends, who just want to help me cope with her, she keeps hating on me for the smallest reasons ever- like not wiping her floors correctly– and she keeps kicking and shouting and yelling and what-not.

“She’s quite a paradox, this woman. I remember she taught me to avoid bad people, people who hurt me. But then, she becomes the bad people and trust me, old pal, if there was something in my power to do, to avoid her, I would oh-so-gladly do it!! But there’s nothing, you see? Ab-so-lu-te-ly no-thing!!”, said the boy, while softly kicking the wall in front of him. He was desperate and hurt and scared and panicked… and lonely. He couldn’t name these emotions, though. He simply felt like crying. Only, he never cried in front of his friends. He wouldn’t really enjoy beginning his career as a professional mourner now, of course. He was a big boy. And big boys never cry. Or… do they?

“They do”, he heard his friend whisper. “So you can, too.”

The boy smiled, mouthed a warm “Thank you!” to his friend and, not being able to hold back his river of tears any longer, he gave in and let it overwhelm him. He was not feeling safe in his own house… but he knew from all the fairytales that he had read, that “this, too, shall pass”.


“ANDY! Get the FUCK out of there and let’s discuss like two responsible, fully grown adults!”

“NO! GO AWAY! I’ve nothing to tell you!”, he screamed back at her through the door, his throat sore from the tears that he was trying not to shed. He knew he was angry. He was almost a grown man now. When he was younger, he would keep telling himself that “this, too, shall pass”. But if anything’s changed, it’s changed for the worse.

“Andy! Don’t do this to me, you ASSHOLE!! You know that any minute I could… I could leave this world… my… my heart problems… ANDY! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!!”

But Andy was trying to block out her voice. He was replaying songs in his mind, movie lines, unintelligible sounds. Nothing was working, however. That creature simply wouldn’t shut the hell up and leave him alone.

“H-hey, old pal!”, he whispered desperately. “D-do b-big boys c-cry?”

“Of course they do, Andy”, the well-known voice in the dark told him. “So you can, too.”

Andy let himself slide along the wall behind him, hugged his knees to his chest just the way he used to, when he was a child, hid his face in his palms and let the rage inside him unleash in tiny springs of salty tears down his face.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He had always known something was wrong with his mother, but was never able to put his finger on the exact problem. He had, however, a feeling that he would never get to know the answer to this question. Nor to any other question related to his so-called maternal model. He would, or rather could never understand why his mother used to lock him up in their dark, smelly and scary basement when he was a kid. He could never understand why, instead of protecting him, she was the very person who was destroying him.

“Hey there, old freind. I’ve missed you. I don’t think you’ve missed me, though… Nobody ever seemed to be missing me. Anyways. I have to tell someone. So I chose you, because you have always kept my secrets. I have a secret now, too. You see, I borrowed something from a classmate of mine. Here, I’ll show you.”

And he proceeds to search frantically through his pockets, until he finds it: a callibre 9 Beretta.

“ANDY! Can you tell me what the ACTUAL FUCK are you doing in that basement?”

Andy smirks and thinks “Oh, mother, but I’ve been a bad, bad boy and here’s where the bad, bad boys go in order to consider what they have done… right?

“The thing is, old friend, should I use it?I heard that strong men use them. What do you say, dear Darkness?”, he asks, manically laughing through his tears.

“Yes, Andy. They do.”, Darkness replies. “And you can do it, too.”

“Thank you for being here for me when I needed a friend. And thank you for understanding. I was thinking to use it on her. But then I couldn’t live knowing I did this. I also thought I could use it on myself. But I heard that you’re going straight to Hell for this. And you know what? The prospect of an eternity in the company of the Devil still sounds less scarier than God knows how many more years with her.”

He loads the gun, points it to his head and smiles.

“This, too, has passed.”

A Lesson To Learn

Perhaps one of the toughest things in my life at the moment is learning a lesson that I suppose we all have to learn at some point: letting go. Letting go of people, unleashing emotions, relieving bonds that no longer can be kept (or even if you can keep them, bear in mind that it is against your nature.)

You can’t keep forcing something if it wasn’t meant for you in the first place. And most of the times, you feel it. It’s that gut feeling that is constantly reminding you of the awful situation you’re finding yourself in; and no matter how much, or hard you try, it’ll stay there, until you decide to make use of your intuition and simply cut the cords that are toxic to you.

“But what if it haunts me? What if this person, this emotion, this bond seems to be continously chasing me? Waiting to eat up my whole, entire being? How do I get out? Where THE HELL is the exit?”

I’m in that point now, myself. I’m stuck here. And I see no way out, because I can’t think clearly. My mind feels blurred by the idea that, as I try to unlock an exit door, it slams shut in my face, harder than the previous time. I just feel trapped. In my own mind, in my own body, even in my own soul. I don’t know what I am anymore, except for misunderstood, broken, questioning everything and really knowing nothing.

Some Thoughts on Poetry

“We are afraid of the power that poetry holds”, I once heard a wise woman say. And I do believe that with every piece of my soul. I felt it myself. I was afraid to write poetry because I thought I wasn’t going to do it the right way. I was afraid to recite poetry because I thought I wasn’t going to do it the right way. I was afraid to read poetry because I thought I wasn’t going to understand it in the right way.

Truth to be told, I feel relieved to have discovered that there is no right way to write, recite, read, understand poetry. Everything about it, about the way it is percieved… is completely and utterly subjective.

Some people define the concept of poetry as a confession of the writer. I am of the belief that it is also a confession of the reader, as well as a confession of anyone who recites it. Each individual may percieve differently a piece of poetry, reason why… we are afraid of it. We are afraid that, by writing poetry, we offer the wrong people a sneak peek into our souls. We are afraid that, by reciting poetry, we put too much of ourselves in it. And we are afraid that, by reading poetry, we might feel it too much; it would make us seem sensitive, or even weak.

People are weird creatures when it comes to showing their feelings. They would let everyone see their happiness, their success, they would talk proudly about the positives in their lives, of course post about this on the internet, for the whole world to see. But they would rarely let anyone see through this window of happiness and see the sorrow behind achieving something they are proud of. They think that basically showing that they have feelings is making them seem… weak. The truth that I see, however, is that hiding your feelings does only make you less human, while owning up to them, embracing them, talking about them (especially when it comes to the negative feelings) only makes you appear stronger, braver.

And most of the last category is filled with poets. We do put our feelings down on paper and then out for the world to see. The best part is that almost everyone will relate. The worst part is that only a few will admit to this.

It is sad, isn’t it? To see how many of us are just afraid of poetry…

But I don’t know how to bleed

And when I bleed,
I wish I could bleed into art.
But I don’t know how, or where to start.

I can’t simply regurgitate my pain on a piece of paper.

It has to be seen as poetic,
To be felt as romantic.
But I don’t know how
To write something so fantastic.
If only I could play with the words…

It has to be interpreted as dramatic
And to be felt as frightening.
But I don’t know how
To paint something so ecstatic.
If only I could play with the colours…

It has to be heard as stunning,
To make you feel like dying.
But I don’t know how
To sing something so exciting.
If only I could play with the notes…

It has to be known that it’s my pencil’s blood,
The tool with which I design my art.
But when I bleed,
I’ll never truly know how to bleed into art.

Undress Me Carefully

Undress me carefully.

You might wonder what I mean.
You may be bold, tenacious
And rush to uncover my skin.

You might be daring
And grab me by the hem of my blouse.
Drag me over,
Pull me against your body
And kiss me:
Needing me
And craving me.


You might be soft
And trace your fingers along my face,
And down my neck,
And going down…
Or up my legs,
And up my thighs,
And going up…


You might be rough
And picture me screaming your name,
And breathing heavily near your ear.


You could be The One
Who grabs me by the dark strings of my soul,
Dragging it over,
Pulling it against your own,
And loving it:
Needing it
And craving it.


You could be The One
To trace your fingers along my memories,
And down my passions,
And going down…

Or up my darkness,
And up my feelings,
And going up…


You could be The One
To picture my heart screaming your name
While you are far away.

Undress me carefully,
As if I would break at a wrong touch.
But don’t do it like the others.
Do it from the inside out…

Undress me carefully.

I wish there was someone
Who understood this sentence

Am I Really Real?

Breathing. Starring into the void. Looking right at me– through me. Perhaps you really don’t see me. Screaming. Crying. Trying to make you see me. But you don’t. Everything on your face is just blank. Your eyes only move to blink. Your lips will keep caged in all the words your mind would want to let out. Your smile, that wide, sincere smile you had mere moments before, had vanished completely and without leaving a trace. Your cheeks have been drained of all their color. What is on your mind? What do you want to say, but are afraid to? Did I scare you? Do my feelings scare you?

Go on already! Scream at me! Shout! Yell! Tell me to go to Hell! And I will. Tell me to get the fuck out of your life! And I will. Tell me to disappear! And I will. But please, for the love of God, don’t pretend I already did disappear! Because I’m still here, whether or not you want to notice me. I’m still screaming. I’m still crying. I’m still trying to make you see me.

The silence is torturing. I can hear the sound of our breaths, of our heartbeats. And every heartbeat I hear, every breath I hear, they are nothing but needles shoved into my veins one by one by one by one… meaning to drain me, meaning to break me. But you don’t want to destroy me. At least I have read that in your eyes. You want to be soft with me. You want to take me easy. Yet, you haven’t spoken a word to me in what feels like centuries. You simply stare into the void. And breathe. And exist.

My insecure footsteps begin to move my ghostly body closer to you. Until we’re almost face to face. You’re not moving, you seem to be paralysed in that spot. Standing and looking at me- through me. I can hear your heartbeat louder and clearer now. The mere sound of it is damaging to my eardrum.

That’s what happens when you only crave toxicity.
I say. To myself. Or maybe to you. Or maybe to the both of us.

You finally decide that I exist and look at me- but not into my eyes. My soul still frightens you. You don’t want to take a peak into it. You look at my hands, that are trembling with emotion. I look at them, too. They are clasping each other, in an effort to hide the trembling. But you see it. And I don’t know what you’re thinking, but your hands reach out and grab mine.

Through my tears and my confusion, I still manage to smile at you. I want to hug you, kiss you, feel you, tell you that you deserve more than you ever had and I’m the one who can be what you deserve. I’m the one who can truly make you feel loved and safe and maybe even happy. I’m not perfect, and I definitely wouldn’t make a perfect girlfriend. But I would never, not in a lifetime, not in a thousand years, treat you the way you have been treated before. I’d never be toxic for you. I might be toxic for my own fucking self, alright. But not for you. Because I do care for you, which I can’t really say I do for myself. And I wouldn’t be capable of hurting someone I care for.

I raise my eyes, searching for yours. You stare at the ground. You feel my eyes burning through your body, like lit cigarettes through paper. And I feel a sudden urge to wrap my arms tightly around you and never let you go.

I want you to look into my eyes. Aren’t you brave enough to do it? Say something. Do something. Don’t pretend nothing ever happened. Don’t make me question again if I’m dreaming…

Am I really real, though? Am I really here?

I’m afraid to let your hands get off mine and take a look at my fingers, so I begin to mentally count them.

1.   2.    3.    4.   5.  6.  7.  8.  9… and?

Oh, 9. Well, this explains a lot. A wide smile takes over my face. This means that now I am 100% in control of what goes on around me. And it also means that I’m 100% in control of your projection in my mind.
A faint voice in my head keeps telling me that I should wake up. It’s going to hurt more if I keep on playing this sick game. But do I listen? Seriously though, who ever listens and pays attention to those cautious voices? Even though I am totally aware of the fact that I’m only deepening the wound and besides, add some salt to it, I still don’t care.

You smile back at me— and this time, you look into my eyes.

Playfully, I punch you in the arm.
C’mon, now, say something! Don’t leave me hanging like that!’

‘I could say whatever the hell you want, but are you sure you want to do this again? You see how much it hurts, yet you keep on going with these vivid dreams and…’

‘I don’t think you’re here to give me advice, thank you very much.’, I say politely.

You roll your eyes. It amuses me, I don’t think I ever saw you do that in real life and it’s more of a signature gesture of myself.

Honey, I told you! How many times do I have to repeat myself? It hurts more than it would normally, if you add all these types of scenarios!‘, I hear a smooth, high pitched voice coming from behind me. I quickly turn around and see this blonde girl, one of my friends, standing there, arms crossed, looking at me in her specific judgemental way.

Who the hell even brought you here?

That’s one of the problems you get when you’re so undecided, I guess. Projections of rational people showing up in your dreams, to make up for the actually smart 50% of your brain’ she says, shrugging.

Trying to ignore her, I turn back at you and take a deep breath in.
Nevermind that.’

You know damn well you can’t ignore your feelings, bro.’
This voice comes from behind you, this time. I peak in that direction and see a tall, long-haired figure. My best friend.

Seriously? Bringing in the whole circus now?”, I think to myself.

Look, it was all pretty and sweet when you confessed, but you have to stop ruining your life with things like this’, the newcomer says while, out of the blue, taking out a gun and pointing it at you. This is insane! Where the fuck did that 100% control (I was supposed to have) go to?

If… if you do that…’, I hear my own distant voice.

Uuuhhh! Stop being such a drama queen, bitch! You tried to shoot your shot, but it can’t possibly work, so let us save you… from yourself‘, the first girl says, already getting annoyed by the show.

Yeah, unnecessary words. He’s nothing more than a projection of your subconscious mind, so you can say goodbye now. At least for today.’

I hear a loud bang. And you suddenly disappear. So do the girls. I’m left alone in the blankness of my mind space, with no more energy to create any other human projection. So I decide to let my mind roam free and take me somewhere else.

I often said that and I will say it again: people should stop trusting their own minds. The damn fuckers will always create a chance to destroy us.

I find myself in the lowest spot I’ve ever been. Literal rock bottom. I watch my collapsed body among alcohol bottles, shattered pieces of glass and spilled pills. I’m in my living room. In front of the couch, on the glass table, there is the second or maybe third suicide note I wrote that week.

I don’t want to see this again. I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go through it all again. I need to go somewhere else. I need a happy place…

And there I go. Another failure. I know this scene word by word. Why am I here? In a classroom, in an idiotic situation… but a situation that hurt more than anything at that time.

I don’t know how I manage to see myself so clearly from the outside, but I hate having to do it right now.

I close my eyes, as I already know what’s going to happen. Playfully, or maybe not so, I see myself wrapping a purple ribbon around my neck and pretend it’s a noose.

I. Want. To. Run. Away. I. Can’t. Stand. Watching. This. Hearing. This.

You’d do everyone a great favour if you died’, I hear your amused voice.

And then I hear myself laugh.
See? The confirmation I needed!’, I say to my best friend.

Why the fuck does my mind even bother to play such tricks on me? I mean… isn’t it enough that I’ve been through this ONCE? Why do I have to replay it?

Will it keep getting worse? Let’s try something else and if it doesn’t…


Suddenly, I wake up. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, your words still ring in my ear. And so does my laughter, my shocked response. The laughter that transformed into a long session of crying, that night. And into a lot of possible scenarios played in my mind, fuelled by the fact that I was so certain you were right.

But I’ve gotten over it, it’s fine now. What I still can’t explain to myself is why did my mind do that. Was it to show me what a fool I’ve been to fall (again) in love with you, even though I should have realised how much you hate me? Was it to show me that maybe you could never care for me the way I do for you?

In this equation, there are too many variables, it seems. Apart from you being the obvious, main one. Might also be myself, the way I perceive you and the way I always choose to shove away your negative traits, in an effort to understand you better and to create a positive image of you.

I am literally laughing out loud now, that I have tried to use this dream as a solution, but failed so badly and even after 10 written pages about it, I still have more questions than answers. Which leads me to my initial thought, and that is the fact that you are the only one who can give me the answers I’m looking for.

Remove All Distractions

Sit down and study.
Work for your dream.
Remove all distractions
Which might interfere.

Get the books off of your desk.
Your papers and your notes,
Your clothes and your shoes.

You feel drained of energy,
So you simply throw them on the floor.
But hey! You’ve got an empty desk,
Maybe you can actually start focusing on your work.

What’s that? You just received a text?
Oh, they all begin to care
When you don’t need them to be there.

Disable all your apps’ notifications,
Close your Internet connection.

Now you’re all set and done
For a productive work session.


There are posters on your walls.
And notes, and pictures,
And memories, and words.
You know them by heart.
Yet you feel tempted to re-read them.
It’s alright, you can rip them off the wall
And re-create new ones
Whenever you might need them.

Another distraction out of the way
Now access your timer and then click on “Play”.

You wrote half a page.
They’d say you’re one step off the couch.
But wait, you haven’t gotten rid
Of all the possible distractions.

There are scars on your skin,
And hickeys, and scratches,
And memories and words.
You know them by heart.
Yet you feel tempted to re-live them.
It’s alright, you can cut them off.
And re-create new ones
Whenever you might need them.

That should be enough
To help you finish the page.

You ran out of ink.

It’s alright, you notice you still
Have the blood on your skin.

Go ahead and write,
Don’t let the time pass by.

One more line until the end.
Come on, you can do it!
You say in your head.
But what’s that noise?

A crowd of voices
That you can’t

Rip off the wall,
Cut off the skin.

They’re the voices in your head…
Always so noisy, their greatest skill.

There are songs on your brain,
And images and feelings,
And memories and words.
You know them all by heart.
Yet you want to re-listen to them.
It’s not alright.
You can’t get rid of them.

You throw everything away at once
You scream, you shout,
You beg them to stop.
You need to focus.
There’s one thing left to do.
Point a gun at them
And maybe they’ll fall silent.

You threaten them, yet they don’t shut up.
They should know you have to study, so
Why won’t they stop?
You threaten them but it goes way too far.
You pull the trigger, out of your despair
To be able to fully concentrate.

Back to finishing the last line….

Here’s a mantra

To get yourself motivated:

Sit down and study.
Work for your dream.
Remove all distractions
Which might interfere.

A poem about ghosts

Perhaps it’s just a game they’re playing. Perhaps it’s nothing important.
Perhaps they just want attention.
Perhaps they just want someone to play with.
Perhaps they only need to… socialise.
Perhaps they are bored…

Being dead must be pretty boring sometimes.
Being dead probably feels good sometimes.
Being dead could be fun sometimes.

Being dead… does it mean not feeling?
Does it mean eternal numbness?

Being dead could even be artistic sometimes.
Falsely exciting.

But still
There is one question that remains
And it is stuck inside my brain.

Doesn’t being alive feel the same?

Being alive must be pretty boring sometimes.
Being alive probably feels good sometimes.
Being alive could be fun sometimes.

But here’s the difference, laid down in front of your eyes.
Being alive… it still means feeling.
It certainly doesn’t bring eternal numbness.

Could it be artistic?
Or falsely exciting?

For those who feel. Yes.
For those who don’t…

Being alive could mean being dead.
Only not physically dead.
Not a decomposing body.

Still breathing,
Talking (although not always).

Ghosts can do it, too.
Oh, if only you knew!
How many ghosts you come across…

Or maybe even you are one of ours.