Seeing the life differently!


Death captures us 
Like an octopus,
Wrapping around our arms
With the suckers closely attached
To our uncovered skin.
Death tugs us 
With a rope tided to the neck,
Is rolling us into the mud
And with bleeding knees 
We let ourselves carried away
In a plain dark terrain
Without even fighting,
Without even feeling the mud 
encapsulating us.
Death spreads like a virus
Changing its shape
Silently provoking mutations,
Invading every corner of silence,
Contaminating the facets of reality,
Disturbing the real mechanisms 
Until becoming one.
Death is a greedy spider 
Not enough hungry 
But in search of provisions.
Death is a hallucinogenic cure
At the border between courage 
And faithfulnes.
We are conditioned to live a life 
Without meaning
In search of urgency,
Of transitory satisfaction.
Avoiding eye contact 
We have become savage machines
With the tendency to punish,
Sucking the blood out of others
Like a leech enjoying its pray
Until saturation,
But without being satisfied.
Greediness is the new death,
A harsh reality
Locked in a buried corner of our conscience
Becoming a passive aggressive device.



1C275417-35E1-41FB-8719-1AC2665DE7A5 Photo source: Pinterest

You bite out of my carotid
You’re ripping my flesh out.
The blood spouts into a powerful jet
You’re spitting the meat on the floor
And ruthlessly you bite me again.
Blood jets draw frenetic
Forbearance dissimulated in bravery,
Atrocious restrained pain.
I can hear sizzling of the salt on the open wound,
I can feel the clenching of the muscles,
But I do not feel pain.
You’re ripping my flesh out until you get to the bone.
With my fingernails I draw symbols on the scorched walls,
Witnesses of impotence and shattered dreams.
I’m screeching with my broken nails on the bare brick.
I’m breaking a piece of my hanging flesh
And limping in the dark I’m heading
To the dusty mirror.
What do I see?
You’re biting and I’m biting.
You’re ripping my flesh out and I’m ripping my flesh out.
With the latest powers I broke the mirror,
In the splinters
I see fragments of what would it have been…
Tired spider’s webs hang on my face.
I’m hugging my knees next to the chest
And I’m crooning a song known just by myself.
Where do the arrows poisoned with hatred lead?
You’re biting and I’m biting.
You’re ripping my flesh out and I’m ripping my flesh out.
Like a boomerang.


The mirror


Photo source: Pinterest

How can you step over dead bodies
In order to raise yourself
Even in your own eyes?
How can you say that you smile
When you stick your teeth in my carotid?
How can you feed yourself
With the sap of crushed flowers
Stepping on them until exhaustion?
How can you sleep soundly
When you disturb everything around you?
What you’re seeing in the mirror
Every morning, when you’re waking up?


The death of words

Picture by Sarlota Bán Photo source: Pinterest

Picture by Sarlota Bán
Photo source: Pinterest

“Face of sand
and hands of sand
and the tongue in my mouth also sand
I cannot say anything to my defense
in this court of sand
with lights of sand
clerks of sand
memories of sand
and someone to turn over the hour clock.
Everything I ever loved has turned to sand
everything I ever did wrong has turned to sand
and judges of sand
are trialling me
and sentencing me to death
on a scaffold of sand”

by Octavian Paler



We have time


The persistence of memory (detail) by Salvador Dali Photo source: Pinterest

The persistence of memory (detail) by Salvador Dali
Photo source: Pinterest

“We have time for everything:
to sleep, to run from one place to another,
to regret having mistaken and to mistake again,
to judge the others and to forgive
we have time for reading and writing,
for making corrections to our texts, to regret ever having
we have time to make projects and never
respect them,
we have time to make illusions and gamble
through their ashes later on.
We have time for ambitions and illnesses,
to blame it all on ambitions and details,
we have time to watch the clouds, advertisements or
some ordinary accident,
we have time to chase our wonders away
and to postpone the answers,
we have time to break a dream to pieces and then
to reinvent it,
we have time to make friends, lose them,
we have time to learn our lessons and then
forget them quickly afterwards,
we have time to be given gifts and not understand them.
We have time for them all.
But there is no time for just a drop of tenderness.
When we are about to get to that too – we die.”

by Octavian Paler


The potion of immortality

Photo source: Pinterest

Photo source: Pinterest

Undraped souls
Swirled in the morning’s vortex
Gushing hands donating everything –
The equivalent of nothing
For the dormant eye.
Unfettered souls
Inebriated from empty cups
The potion of immortality is hope.


The whirlpool of silence

Artist: Vincent van Gogh
Photo source: Pinterest

Unspoken words
Cram into the whirlpool of silence
Murmuring fragments of thoughts;
Sculpting the sorrow in stones, so smoothly
That only the skillful eye of time
Can discern the undisclosed.



Artist: Clara Lieu
Photo source: Pinterest

Did you ever smelled the despair?
Putrid flowers in old water, decomposing
Contaminating the air without awareness.
Seeing through the wrong filter
Forgetting that anything can be fixed
And surrendering to the herd of convictions
Which cut through your lucidity
The same as very sharp blades
In search of resistance…



Prison window
Photo source: Pinterest

Did you ever felt incarcerated by your own mind?
Looking at the world through a small window
Seeing just small parts of pseudo everything…
Maybe we are trapped in a cave
Seeing just the shadows of what should be seen…
Where is the truth?
Between my prison and your prison?
Between your window and my window?
Liberty of choice can, sometimes, be frightening.
There is no destiny, no fate
And that’s what makes us feel more lonely!


All or nothing

Passion by Rola Chang
Photo source: Pinterest

Sometimes the triumph
Is build upon sleepless nights.
The compelling smile rises
After the cumulus of tears.
The conflicts are ceased
By the warmest hugs.
Is it wrong to want
All or nothing?

Sometimes passion
Is devouring us mercilessly.
We try to climb with the nails
On a slippery terrain
And we still enjoy
Every second of it,
Because if it doesn’t burn
Is not real…

Do we need to face the agony
So we can prove the reality?
Or we just get addicted
To the burning in our souls?
If it doesn’t burn
Is not real…
Is it wrong to want
All or nothing?