• 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…

  • 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

    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

    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

    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…

  • 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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