Daydreaming and then, maybe, writing a poem about it. And that's my life.
Here it is. THE MUSE'S BAD TOUCH A collection of dark poems highlighting the toxic and deadly relationship between poet and muse. DISCLAIMER: suitable only for a mature audience. D' you like the cover? I designed it myself ∩(・ω・)∩ Check out the free sample poems (and maybe leave a review). Thanks! I don't wanna say that the poems contained in this book are dark. It would sound pretentious right off the bat. But, yeah, between dark and light, you know already where they stand.
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This morning as she appeared at the foot of his bed, in the light of the covered window, she sucked at her lips and said, “Ah, to spend one's life ever thinking about the girl one thinks one's not good enough for. Pathetic. I so pity the loser who lives life so. You know why?” In response he sighed and turned around and dragged the blanket over his head he was used to breathing the carbon dioxide from underneath the covers rather than fresh air from above But she would not go away this time. Small hands on sharp hips, she said, “What would you do if you found out that the girl you're so obsessed with... is secretly twice as obsessed with you as you are with her? What would you do, eh? If I told you that she's praying night and day to known and unknown gods, begging…
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dreaming of being
tied to some boulder
with chains
then the face gets covered
by a heavy mask
and
iron nails get
hammered through the
thing’s eyeholes
and into the
bearer’s eyes
they’ve got hooks
at the other
ends
to make sure
the mask doesn’t
slide off
It holds together
so well
it’s perfect
when everything gets painted
red
it’s time to wake up
into yet
another day in which
nobody gives a damn
about your soul
If you’re late for work,
they’ll ask where
you are, sure. But as long
as you’re there,
they’d never ask
how you are.
How did you sleep last
night
Are you eating well
are you
ever
having fun
Is your existence ever
just a bit
different
from
perfect, gray monotony
You still carrying that
faded
suicide note
in your pocket
You gonna do anything
about your
mental health
You…
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It's late 23:58 not many buildings around and even less people a few trees and bushes and a mostly empty parking lot I walk towards my car when she comes out from behind the yellow dumpster approaching me holding a clinking piggy-bank in her pale outstretched hands “No thanks,” I said and resumed my walking, checking my pockets for the car key “But,” she said, “if you don't take it I won't be able to haunt you tonight.” I stopped Turned around Walked back a few steps to face her again I pulled out a coin and tossed it into the small opening of the piggy-bank There is a middle way, apparently If you have an infinite amount of coin tosses you have a possibility of landing it on neither heads nor tails Eventually, it'll land on its edge and stay so I think it did on that night I'm…
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those were some
seriously
tired eyes
Some people are just
born
with them
It’s not a matter of
getting enough
sleep
The tiredness
is in the soul itself
He looked forty
though he was
twenty-two
and as she told her
friends
(with the family she
didn’t talk)
she found him in a bar,
passed out
under the table
“I kicked the fool in
the side, lightly,
and the next thing I know
he’s humping my leg
and calling me ‘mommy’.
How can you
not take a boy like him home
and fuck him?
Well, admittedly I was
pretty drunk.” she laughed.
“Anyway, I’m still holding
on to him
to this day. Did you
know that he writes poetry?
Of all things, hah! He writes
these honeyed love poems
and reads them to me
and I pay him with some liquor
and a good fuck.
We’re pretty…
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(▔▀ ‿ ▀ )ლ ▂▂⌇ English version HERE
vecinul de deasupra susține că Dumnezeu îi lipește notițe pe frigider în timpul nopții L-am întrebat desigur ce scria pe ele, însă el îmi răspunse că trebuie să-l urmez la biserică dacă vreau să aflu În general nu sunt un tip curios așa c-am refuzat. Și ce să vezi, câteva zile mai tărziu văd o grămadă de oameni urmându-l pe vecinu’ la biserică Se uitară cu toții în cealaltă parte când am trecut pe lângă ei și-am salutat Adevărul e că nici nu mă-ndoiesc că Dumnezeu i-a vorbit vecinului prin notițe și a dat astfel speranță multor oameni Doar că, pur și simplu, îmi place mie să fiu pe din afara oricărui grup mai mult decât îmi place s-am speranță.
https://bogdandragos.comVolume publicate:
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the best part about her is that she can never use the element of surprise No, she's always writing with thick carpenter crayons on the walls and details all her plans A STRAND OF HIS HAIR, she writes this evening. AS HE FALLS ASLEEP, I'M GOING TO CLIP A STRAND OF HIS HAIR AND HIDE IT BEHIND MY EYEBALLS. I'LL PUSH IT DEEP He reads the words as he puts on pajamas and goes to bed and pretends to be asleep when his wife comes to cut his hair with the scissors He smiles to himself thinking, or rather knowing for sure, that he'd found true love in life Mental illness is not something to get in the way on the contrary... there is a middle way, apparently It's late 23:58 not many buildings around and even less people a few trees and bushes and a mostly empty parking lot…
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“Yeah,” she said, “my father was
not the friendliest
drunk in the
neighborhood
and he’s
definitely not missed
now that he no longer
troubles anyone. But
you know, I did learn something
from him, alright.”
Listening to
her words, he poured another
glass for himself
and then
one for her. “What could
you learn from a
man like him, darling?”
She took her glass
and smiled
and licked her lips, biting
the lower one
as she stared at him
before she drank. “See, this
is what I like
about you. You’re the opposite
of my father. You’re
the friendly type of drunk. The
type that betters the
party rather than ruining it.
I can love a man
like that to death, I
really can.”
She drank and made kissing
motions with her
red lips
at him
“Anyway, about my father. From
him I learned that
dreams
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there is something about walls and man's inborn need to be surrounded by them It's those who grew up not surrounded by them that know best Last night was for him the first night spent alone between four walls in a long, long time and it wasn't even a jail cell It was a rented room in the basement of a building Small, narrow, yet big with emptiness Just a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a chair and nothing else was needed to feel fulfilled and to dream of something so warm and wholesome as a woman sitting on a pillow on the floor, holding a cotton swab in one hand and inviting with the other, pointing to her lap Heaven Four walls, man. Only four walls and a break from the madness outside and there you have it Heaven
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She was one pretty woman,
alright,
but her hands and fingers
and palms were horribly
messed up
“It’s from drinking,” they said,
and she
didn’t deny
It was from drinking
She would drink
distilled drinks only
and preach about the evils
of brewed drinks
while doing it
Then,
somewhere along the way
she would
remember
how her ex lover got rich
from writing and publishing a
book
about their relationship
It was one hell of a funny
story
and she got no
slice of the royalties from it
Not that she wanted any
What she wanted
was to
have that story erased from
the world forever,
and it was incredibly difficult since
everyone was talking about
it these days
So she would
lock herself in the house
and drink
and when she was done
she’d
hurl the bottles against
the walls
and then start collecting
the…
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the old man wrote about miracles and wrote that it takes a miracle to know a miracle They found him dead over his writings on the day before Christmas and declared that he had been dead for weeks But of course that couldn't have been true His daughter was home but days ago and found him alive He smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat and rotting flesh, but he was moving just like any other living man Hunched over his small desk and typing on the keyboard dead men can't do that “Must've been a miracle then,” said the doctors. “According to the expertise, and the expertise is not wrong, this man has been dead for at least a week and a half.” But of course the doctors were men of science and men of science knew nothing about miracles The writer was alive. Even without a beating heart and…
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Daydreaming as a profession 