• Poetry

    As long as our hearts are paper, and our hands are ink, the poetry will exist

    As long as our hearts are paper, and our hands are ink, the poetry will exist. For the Poetry, A man is the Word. A word that has escaped from the paper, waiting to feel alive again, to go back where it belongs- on the paper. The moment we inhale Life, we exhale Poetry, along with all the thoughts and words buried inside us for a long time. For the Man, Poetry exists under the skin, in the arteries through which every word passes. It belongs to everyone, everyone feels it. It rules over our emotions, it transforms into endless lines of words. Poetry is the inevitable shadow of every…

  • Self-knowledge through words

    I’m not defined by what I said, but by what I did to prove myself

    My character isn’t determined by my past, nor by labels that you pin on me so easily. I’m not defined by what I said, but by what I did to prove myself. Only I can define me. I overcame and survived all your punches, all your attacks, passed the tests and went through all of that until the point when I could say with certainty that I’m proud of that person within me, of everything that she has done to drain the last drop of strength to survive and stay alive. On my feet, steady. Alone. I myself accomplished my achievements. I myself have overcome every obstacle. I had to…

  • Poetry

    You’ll have bitterness left on your tongue whenever you mention me

    I’m swallowing dumplings, full of unspoken words, which persistently roast my throat while they’re slipping, waiting for you to look at me as prey. The urge in me and the stomach-turning tells me to vomit all the secrets on the table before you, for you to eat all the rest of me. You will love everything I can’t tell you, You will laugh at my obsolete thoughts in which only you are always constant news. You will fall in love with my taste, you will fall in love with yourself. You will welcome the way my emotions are crunching when you sink your teeth that are starting to crack because…

  • Poetry

    Did she know that I’m a word that can’t be pronounced?

    Yesterday I saw the reflection of my smile as I was cutting the wire between what I am and what she sees in me. I never wanted her to walk upon it with legs built of glass. That smile cut me, full of her pain. Already sufficiently diminished to match the size of my hand, my fingers overload her body, before my pride. Even I have a conscience, no matter how filthy it is. I felt that I became only a look, disappointing, destructive, merciless, penetrating through her shell, outgrowing what she gave me, letting go of what I couldn’t give her. I will always be a representative of realism,…

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