• 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

    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…

  • 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,…

  • Poetry

    Maze

    I guess his mind is a maze spun by silk and thin thread, unlike mine. His concerns and thoughts diminish, they bend and stretch, but they never separate. His desires and apologies, stuck in the throat; wet words burn. And his eyes bleed with love only wanderers feel. He was lost in the maze of his creations; the triumph of humanity and self-destructive hearts. He repeats his wish, never to be separated from me, but the desire is simply a doorknob that looks like home, not the door itself. You can hear the ironing of someone who isn’t himself, devaluation, a mockery of skepticism, acidic laughter through teeth, he laughs…

  • 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…