A Fi Artă

Este Artă.Așa cum stă, așteptându-și sfârșitulȘtiind 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 urmăDoar o gaură neagră,O transformă în Artă. Părul blond, înroșit

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

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

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

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 howTo write something so fantastic. If only I could play with

Undress Me Carefully

Undress me carefully. You might wonder what I mean.You may be bold, tenaciousAnd rush to uncover my skin. You might be daringAnd grab me by the hem of my blouse. Drag me over, Pull me against your bodyAnd kiss me:Passionately, Fiercely,Needing meAnd craving me. Or You might be softAnd trace your fingers along my face,And

Feedback spot :)

Poll

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

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

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