Lame day | Lame poem

Today is the day
and I’m sure I’m not what I am
and everything that is
today– It’s not me!

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New City!

…I knew that my chance of being okay has passed long time ago, hours ago, days, weeks, months ago.

Thought

There are two kinds of writers: those who write smart, and those who write. I, for myself, like the second kind.

Blind thoughts

Darkness,  a never ending darkness; One, that captivates my sight  whenever I open my eyes,  always there by my side shrouding, touching, comforting me, making me feel safe even though I’m in a constant fear,  a fear so great, so great that wont vanish, nor diminish whether I’m awake or asleep. A fear that would’ve…

Lost in translation

Trying to translate a poem, is like trying to repaint a painting in a completely different style. Like repainting a Gogh’s painting into a Picasso. It’s not that the translated poem will be bad, cause it can often be better than the original. The problem is that it wont give the same emotion, it just…

Metanoia

What lies behind the sun and what stays buried beneath the ground and what the clouds hide or, why the glass reflects our eyes it’s easy to find out, when we become free, change the way we think, when we no longer abide.

Giving up

So I leave now, hoping to never meet you again, except maybe on the stars; With your body and your face and your eyes all painted and spread there waiting for me to come and grab you with my hands, and to hold you and to touch you and to squeeze you until… until, I…