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

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

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