• Poetry

    Between our pendulums of fear, we were swinging…

    We held hands. Across all spaces, over hypothetical dimensions, colliding without touch. An unusual occurrence, the expressionism of two people, as a contrast to the sophisticated individualistic art. You and I, cut off, but together, hitting each other, always so close, always so imminent. Between our pendulums of fear, we were swinging on our own. Side by side, body to body. And between us these metal universes instead of human souls. We oscillated, from misunderstanding to complete alienation, proportionate balance, like those who have wavered dividing us into wrong and different, trying to calculate the acceleration by which they separated us. You left me a dream catcher on a pillow…

  • Poetry

    And this is us, the plagiarism of all heroes before and after us

    This life, wasted like a wreath of flowers on a coffin. Acidic soil, if it boils long enough, it makes an earthquake. Trust me, this war has nothing to do with hope that someone will save us. This life. Can it affect heroes with sharpened teeth and cut thighs, heroes who are dancing on glass, and falling through it? I know the answer because I live it. This life. The waves never reach the shore. There are only screams and bulges left on it, and somewhere under the waves, a slaughterhouse of people in flames. It was supposed to be theirs, but I can’t say I’m not glad it’s mine…

  • Poetry

    Ice cube

    You let me go. With trembling hands, you ease the grip. I slide between your fingers. I kiss the air, ecstatically. My ignorance sublimates to nothingness. Death looks beautiful and latent. I’ve collapsed with one touch. Everything I see around me, only myself… I’m dead, right? “It’s a glass,” the reflection says. I breathed with relief. Did I need to do that? I’m watching paradise. I see your infinite look. Flushed with anger, flooded with tears. Am I not worth forgiving? Am I worthy of your suffering? You pour the best champagne, I’m fighting your ice structure. As you melt, I choke more and more. I am drowning in glittering…

  • Poetry

    And you are still you, a string that I must not tune

    Yes, I admit, I’m not well. Forgotten: consumed by the flames of authority, fading flaws in the past, I know, I wasn’t a master of my dynamics. A broken piano whose keys no one wants to touch. Dust under the nails when they try to scratch my heart. My mind- I love the stories you tell me, terrified by your indifference, but I don’t influence the way my inner beast reacts when the fire scares it. But don’t be afraid of evil when it’s only around me, the problem is when they make it in me, unstable, imitated, a primate circus, where everyone plays their part, and no content is…

  • Poetry

    Days like these

    There are days when my memories slip under my skin. I feel them moving through my body, take forms of different people and feelings, I feel them watching me as I look at myself. I feel my memories wink at me, as if they were living beings inside me, not moments left a long time ago. It took me a long time to wake up, it took me a long time to encourage them to appear when I never expected them. Days like these come, when I watch how my memories, by accident throw things in front of me again, things I’ve never faced, but I convinced myself that I…

  • Poetry

    I could fly over the entire world crashing with my wings at people

    Through all limitations and restrictions, like a bird with a ring around my neck, somewhat insidious, it seems, I flew through the gates of the pupils of people without eyes, recording every place I went to, carrying metal wires around my thighs. I took pictures with my eyes, of every moment that was a little more special than the previous one, and I found out that I could fly over the entire world crashing with my wings at people and barriers just to lure them into my lap. But, another discovery, another barrier in front of me, last stop, last place, pleasant to the lenses of my eyes. A place…

  • Poetry

    Don’t mince your words

    The nuisance I cause with my tongue out, in the form of sadism, to them is the nudity of unattractive looks. When bitter words cling to their minds like leeches, sucking their blood, seemingly pure because they always say what they think. Of course. Where are they now, those hollow throats, piled like garbage, with crumpled morale, overdosed on imagination, swallowing only lies to feel worthy? One degree higher on the truth ladder. One step closer to the tongue extraction in front of them, overtaking of everything I have to be. I’m targeting a circle similar to the identical ones. No, it’s not an arrow I adore, it’s not a…

  • 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…