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

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