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.
it's been 28 minutes of sitting on his hand and watching outside the window the hand went numb On better days he's use that hand to please himself, imagining it belonged to somebody else, some cute woman but as it was today he used it to grab the bottle and pour himself another glass of vodka "Thank you," he said after the glass was full. "I'll get my whole body numb tonight. Not only my hand." Already the hand was slowly beginning to recover feeling He didn't like that. Felt like the imaginary friend was being stolen away He gently touched the hand to his face and decided there was too much feeling in it. "No," he said, "don't leave so early." And then placed the hand back under him "I can't stand having you for such short periods of time. I'm so alone. I swear, I will kill my…
her words awakened
physical pain
in him
the mere sound of them
was like
claws scratching against
his brain
When she's old enough,
a mother can
hurt her son
like she never could in
her youth
Listening to her
now,
he felt like crying
And she wasn't even
cursing him
She just looked around
and then finally set
her eyes on him
and repeated the
same question
"When is he
coming home?"
"But mother, I am home,"
he cried. "It's me!"
But in reply
she would only make a
confused face
and start looking around
again
and ask the same
question again
She was
only 62
and aside from her
mind
everything was healthy
about her
which only meant that
they'll both be
stuck in
this hell
for longer
Years that will
feel like decades
nu-mi amintesc care a fost cel mai
bun sfat
pe care l-am primit de la tatăl meu,
dar cel mai bun sfat pe care
l-am primit de la un
om care nu era tatăl meu
zice așa:
Împrietenește-te cu singurătatea.
Dacă tu și singurătatea sunteți
dușmani
atunci o să te simți singur
Dar atunci când tu și singurătatea
sunteți prieteni,
o să fii solitar
Diferența dintre singurătate și
solitudine
este diferența dintre
un copil naiv care crede că fericirea
lui depinde de alții
și bătrânul înțelept care înțelege că
fericirea depinde numai
și numai
de sine
by the time she was done rolling that cigarette it looked like a broken, gnarly twig regardless, she put it between her lips, lit a piece of nacho on fire and used that to light the cigarette and then just watched the nacho burn until the flames reached her fingers “Do you remember when dreams used to have colors?” she asked “Color?” he said, and thought about it. “Yeah, it was back in the days when I was a kid and movies were black and white.” She watched him through a veil of smoke that she thickened by blowing some more. “Wow, you’re, like, old as fuck then.” “Old enough to know there were better times, dear. Way better times. When dreams had color and sound…” “Listen,” she said, “is this a rant on technology and how it fucks our minds an’ all that?” “What? Not at all. I mean…
tu nu exiști când
ochii-mi sunt deschiși,
nu exiști când
sângele nu-mi e otrăvit,
când sufletul mi-e împăciuit,
când stomacul mi-e plin
și când am companie
deci exiști în majoritatea
timpului,
dragă muză
this was needed
One more
strong coffee
one more
poem
and then he
would go to
sleep
it was
almost morning
he would sleep
during the day
and
return the next
night
to write
more poems
His lower back
was hurting
It was either the
kidney stones
or
the hemorrhoids
or both
or something entirely
new
Well,
it was all right
A writer writes
and a sick man
suffers
and they are quite
the same
At 44
his wife was 22
years younger than him
She would still
make him coffee
and cook his meals
and even read his poems
The ones that weren’t
about torturing
and murdering women and
children
even got published online
About eleven
of them
He was on
the right path
Success will reach him
earlier than
death will
It was a matter of
days for
both