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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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…
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the clouds seemed
to be holding
the sun back
like a slave
with chains of lead
After a night
of heavy snow
the day tried to make
a comeback
and failed
It was 11:00 AM
and dark as evening
and since it was
also cold as hell
they concluded they
were in hell
“But hell is not
forever, mother,” he
said. “I’ll make it outside
of hell. In a place where
every soul has a home
and no one freezes in the
streets like us.”
It was a childish promise
that came from
a child
Unlike his mother and her
purple lips
and faded eyes that looked
towards his face
but not at it,
he was blazing with life
and with rage
He shook his tiny fist
at life’s own
cruelty
and cursed the coldness
of the gods
It was still pathetic
in comparison
with the coldness
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New poem featured in the illustrious SPILLWORDS PRESS! TITLE: a king David of our times ( ⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃ Give it a read HERE Thanks!
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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
( ＾◡＾)っ ♡ English version HERE!
de Bogdan Dragoș
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
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At 1 AM she screamed
for daddy to
come quick, quick
and look under the bed
There were noises
and growls there,
she told him
Daddy turned the light on
sighed
dropped to his knees
and crawled to the edge of
her bed
Lifted the sheets
looked under
and felt the knife plunge
into his nape
His body dropped to
the floor and
struggled a bit before
giving a final breath
She threw the blanket
over him
and climbed off
dropped to her knees
and looked under the bed
with a grin
“It’s all right,” she said, “you
can come out now.”
But there was
no one
and nothing to
come out
that fucker lied
again!
Just like with the hamster
and then the dog
now it was
her father
What or who
will be next?
She lay down
on her belly
and knocked the butt
of…
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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…
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there is one supreme
blissful presence
here
it’s night time
I’m in my element
Freshly awakened
after a day
of sleep
I’m not a vampire
I only used to wish I
were when
I first started living like
this. What can I say, I
was young and playful
Now I know I’m
something
worse than a vampire
My grandmother calls
me a blasphemer
because
God has left day and night
upon this Earth
for work and rest
and I laugh in his face
and piss on his blessing
by using it in
reverse
I sleep in the day
and use the time of
night to
wonder and to ask
why he had created me
the beauty of seeking
answers in the
night is
that you don’t have
to use your voice
writing
will do
You won’t get the
answers, at least I didn’t,
but it feels good…
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>‿‿◕ English translation HERE!
de Bogdan Dragoș
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
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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
Daydreaming as a profession 