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

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

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

War Inside the Mind Space

“Stop it, you BITCH! Can’t you see that you’re destroying yourself?” , the Rational One screamed at the top of her lungs. She was so tired of this… the old bullshit: the bitch falls in love, gets rejected, she writes a story in which she kills the jerk that made her suffer. It already became

Dear Diary

11th August A knife. A trembling hand. A sweet-scented candle. Vanilla, I think it was. Or was it tropical flowers? Whatever… details. I can’t recall that scent. I feel it, but I can’t quite place my finger on the name of the aroma. Anyway… where was I? Oh, telling you about my day, dear Diary.

Mission accomplished

‘Anthony…’, she whispered his name in the dark. It startled him to hear her say his name like that. It’s been seven years since his wife last called his name so sweetly, so gently… and so husky. He smiled while turning around in bed, being more asleep than awake, to face her side of the

Travel Blog #1: The Bran Castle (A.K.A Dracula’s Castle)

Hello, Bookaholics! I’ve got something different for you today. I’m not going to review a book, or write a short story, or write about a cool author. I’m going to talk about my experience in a place where one of the greatest literary masterpieces took action. I bet you all at least heard about Bram