• Poetry

    To please me, you have to be intellectually high

    To please me, you have to be intellectually high. You must not be limited, you must not look like anything that already has been seen before. I don’t need another deja vu in a row. I’m satisfied with the waves of infinity, a state of mind in ecstasy. If you want to come closer, be sure you are well-defined. Your viewpoints must be beyond the visible, your mind must collide with my thoughts. Sapiosexuality is my orientation. It’s my choice to physically not experience, and I dare you to come closer, with what you own. To please me, you have to believe in yourself. If I believe in you, if…

  • Poetry

    Don’t make my words get out

    Don’t make my words get out, because I won’t tell you what you want to hear. Don’t think you have that power to overtake me when I’m weak and use it for your purposes. You won’t be able to win me over, you won’t hear what you need – I will not boost your ego using words, but with silence, I will kill it. The rope with which you hold my words because of the fear that I’m going to align them in front of you will cut you, because you won’t be able to get over them. Don’t make my words get out, because my tolerance threshold will disappear.…

  • Poetry

    Rubik’s Cube

    A mystery that hardly anyone can solve. A game hardly anyone can play. A problem that barely anyone can solve. A subject that hardly anyone can manage for a long time. She was created for intelligent playing, selfish keeping and skillful observation. Her other name is Magic Cube. She’s made of undiscovered magic and unveiling. Her goal is to provoke and create problems. She wants to cause a serious loss of concentration. She can drive crazy anyone who is not consistent. Laughing treacherously at everyone, but nobody laughs at her. She was created for intelligent minds, most of them don’t dare to get closer to her. They show their true…

  • Poetry

    There’s nothing more dangerous than a woman which is well-read

    There’s nothing more dangerous than a woman which is well-read. She knows the depths in which you would immediately drown. She swims in different genres with tears in her eyes, creating unique worlds and emotions, unfamiliar to you. When she talks, she makes love with words you’ve never heard of. You and she aren’t on the same level. She doesn’t know about the rumors around her, but she’s always part of them. Laughing and proud, she has everything a man only desires. Worlds and characters arise of her which are contradicting her personality, but they fascinate her. Many novels write precisely about her, about her walk as if the whole…

  • Poetry

    Man is shaped by what everyone wants, but never into what he wants to be

    Man is appalled by another man, when exposed to the disgust of his existence. Where there is no parable and we’re all just dots at an intangible distance, too close to each other, touching, but we don’t make a difference, we only impede vision. Too similar to each other, dark and small, we don’t belong to ourselves, we don’t belong to others. But a man could never have guessed that this body would be such a burden, though it’s only a sign of punctuation, the subject of many tragedies and the inevitable part of hyperbole. The body’s being taxidermied every time it surrenders to an animal inside, to the sin,…

  • Self-knowledge through words

    What is memory?

    We reconstruct memories, one by one. We recognize the smell, the touch, the colors, the way everything made us feel, and then we realize that one memory cannot be only one. There are countless others in it, all those fragments of short film frames in our head where the brain, with its fascinating ability, collects, connects, and creates mosaics of long impressions that appear in milliseconds. And they are the basis of one memory. By default, they are the basis of ourselves. And this isn’t just a metaphysical kind of poetics. It cannot be. Thinking about it, we can conclude that every experience coming from the sensors of our mind…

  • 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…