• Poetry

    Only pain can make a writer to let off its voice

    I checked my conscience, counted my errors, one by one, or what’s left of them, such recklessly corrects by itself. And what I saw was nothing; the bones of a poet long decomposed, ending up lying under a hill from which I pushed my conscience. I guess, at a certain point, it was too heavy to hold. I took my boots and my shovel, the one with whom I also buried the part of myself who once believed he could choose quality, that he has to throw out the quantity of the equation. I started digging up my bones, just enough to upset them. Surely, a lesser crime than to…

  • Abyss of thoughts

    You scrape the surface, and below the surface – even larger one

    You read people like you were born for it, so clear that the surface from which you instinctively run becomes transparent. You’ve always been attracted to everything that’s hidden and never discovered. You never wanted to touch what’s below. And again, people are your bait that stretches your palate, so you have no choice but to swallow them. You read them so well as if you had written their lives long before they wrote their pages themselves. Life never prepared you for it, but in the depths of your soul, you always knew that you were predetermined for a much bigger and deeper mystery of this world and that it’s…

  • Poetry

    An oasis after the desert

    I planted the seeds in your ribs, that will fill the holes in your lungs. But you have to remember one thing: You have to water them yourself, if you want to survive. You have to open your chest, tear it and water your seeds. Because no one is capable to make you what you are, except for nature. Old, colorful and dark at the same time. There’s a labyrinth in you, a forest that evokes a sense of discomfort. All those animals that wander in you, they consider you home and use your beauty and the freedom you give them. But you, you run away from your nature, you…

  • Prose

    Skin old like an oak tree

    Only bark has left of me, old and rough like an oak. A hollow tree that only bothers lush nature. Do you know that, here, in this creepy woods we are all equal? Peeled humans. The moment until the last fall on the earth and until the last leaf fall on the ground… fragile branches that don’t attain even a fraction of the burden. Looks worse than sawing cuts, looks that shred the roots and cut wood. Mutilated in different parts, we seem scary and unnecessary, standing here. I feel like I’m migrating from my own skin, constantly. I’m afraid that my fruits will be visible because they will be…

  • Poetry

    She was burning

    She was burning, like tobacco in the contemporary art gallery, wrapped in the paper between the fingers of a serious lady who never goes anywhere without her silk gloves. Like a dragonfly tearing its wings, screaming under a wolf-shaped totem. Her pulse was creating an earthquake while propped against the cold door of the antique souvenir shops. She was burning like the rain didn’t know about another clever opponent except for the fire. She was burning like she was allergic to moonlight. A million strokes of devastated gods; she fell like a deer flirting with fire, only to realize its mistake later. Her torso was like a pyre, waiting to…

  • Prose

    Scars

    What do you think of scars? What do they truly represent? A war or a curse? Pain or happiness? Are scars attractive? What about those who have unrecognizable faces because of the scars? They put up a mask because you’re afraid of them. Do you see your scars? Many of us are damaged, but we don’t see our bodies next to another, always looking at someone else’s skin. There’s always someone else’s pain easier to handle. It’s easier to see it until the turn comes to yourself. Not only do I write about scars on the skin, but it’s also just a surface because the ocean is also blue until…

  • Prose

    Flames and ashes

    I’m not afraid of fire, I never was. I would stare at it until my eyes were burning and my hands start moving to touch that extravagant phenomenon that I always associated with the metaphorical aspect of just one part of the passion in me that panted behind my neck to let it come out and tear everything it inhaled. I had a burning desire to shred the skin from the bones, blending it with fire, to hurt me, but any wound would please me. And the voices in me would tell me it was a delusion, and of such magnitude that it could haunt me in the paranoia and…

  • Poetry

    Mortal and immortal

    Those deep dark eyes break the illusions of my arrogance. Your penetrating gaze, hard and sharp as flint; pierces my soul and breaks my conscience. Leave me bleeding at the altars of your recklessness. Your love is the antidote to the scratches and scars on my soul, because I fell before cumulative attacks of your eyes. Am I to hold my hand toward eternity or let myself fall into the dungeons of eternal damnation? It’s your privilege to decide. Let me think in the wretchedness of this night which my soul desperately despises. Why? Did I let you reach to the core of my existence? To enter with a forbidden…