I got cold.
This cold, as always, caused sleep paralysis,
Being in complete darkness.
Today I was thinking, as on other days,
About you.
Thinking of you causes white pain.
I would probably compare myself to Orpheus,
Who sings to Eurydice,
I would look back never to see you again.
sleep paralysis,
Evil that unfolds within us.

Is every book really a book? Some authors are at such a low point, yet someone will come along and say, "This is great," and that’s how even such an author gets motivation...

I woke up early today. I have a lot to do: handwritten texts to type up on the computer. But I’m feeling lazy even the thought of lifting a finger for this work feels like a chore, even though it’s paid.

In one sentence, I came across a thought on realism it said, “How real are we?” I think we might actually have a chance to be real.

Oh, how you really want to sit in your village yard,
where you can smell the scent of walnut leaves,
in a wooden chair.
Without a word,
in the contemplation of silence,
as the last autumn sun warms your body.

If three idiots gather and start talking about politics, we'll soon see a political party!

You stand by your black grotesque Mercedes, it's hot, your skin burns in the sun.
You're calling me.
Today I must leave you -
I know I'll go home, write a long letter, say goodbye to you.
Summer for me is a period of solitude.
I love being in the shadow of scorching summer trees, in the cold walls of a room.

Silence deepens within me like a black rock,
when scientists discovered that even plants speak in their own language.
My silence remains silent, like a thorned rose untouched by anyone.
Only I know the depths of that rock, the breath of the rose’s silence.
And my black heart,
my breath of stone,
which is terrifying like the portrait of  Gray, weighed down by its gravity.
my hands that cross in sleep, protecting me from loneliness.
Oh, my silence,
my silence,
silence,
dark silence,
shrouded in mystery,
you, yourself, within your own being.

I feel how you touch your body,
like the gentle melting of ice in spring.
I'll tell you the story of Scheherazade,
and together we'll listen to Antar.

When you read a poem from another era,
where certain themes were forbidden,
it feels as though the author died in that moment,
unable to express the words exactly as they wanted.

Newton was the name of the garden where I sat,
My knees were tired,
My hands rested on my tired knees.
After much walking, I wandered into this quiet garden.
I can think of nothing but fatigue,
With two kilometers left to reach home.
A breeze blows,
I almost want to lie beneath the trees and sleep,
Even if an unholy dream comes to me,
I probably can’t risk sleeping here,
I simply don’t want to lose my credit card again.
I count and feel every step that leads me home,
Fatigue turns us into people
Stuck in crisis, in dead ends.

I’ve been listening to trash techno since morning, I need energy.   the last month of autumn, So enjoy this damp warmth, those who love it.
I bought a very warm coat for winter,
I’ll probably only wear it at a resort.

Black dreams

Never scared me.

Kubin's mystical dreams mean nothing.

Not much thing makes me happy,
often just a connection with nature suffices.
I watch the trees on a windy day,
I see your photo.
Not much thing makes me happy,
just the thought of your existence
is enough, yet you are never enough.
You sow so many feelings within me,
sometimes I even hate you.
A dim light fills my room,
but my heart never dims.
Not much thing makes me happy,
I think you know this too.

For some reason, very wealthy people think they’ll impress us. I remember when I was eighteen, a member of the middle class. A wealthy person invited my friend and me to see their home.

Everything seemed revolting: leather furniture, glossy floors, brown tones everywhere, dark crimson velvet curtains, and that standard coffin-like smell of oak. We talked, but I didn’t eat anything I didn’t even feel like it. In general, I can’t eat around people, filling my stomach without the desire to feels absurd, and I can’t eat in a crowd.

We went outside to smoke, and the host said, “Come on, let me show you the second floor.” But we refused. He was so surprised that he couldn’t hide his reaction his face practically asked, “Who do you think you are?” His expression didn’t surprise me at all.

He drove us home in his huge Land Rover, speaking to us harshly. I still run into him sometimes on the street. Now, it’s me who’s surprised he has little left to show.

I remember my mother’s tears,
when I had a cruel illness.
If I hadn’t seen her tears,
I probably wouldn’t have recovered.

I think I'll go somewhere,
Freezing in winter I'll settle alone.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

No matter how dark my thoughts are on the essence of the universe,
I love the piercing Cold so much.

Even God grows evil.

I pondered on the fallen angel.

Poetry is not prose!

I'll settle in Alaska.
Black branches, Naked branches.

With anarchist behaviors We turn our backs on all the proud ones - I thought about virtue, forgiveness - But no, Even God grows evil.
I love winter, Black branches.

Poetry is not prose!

We often strive to create something great, but end up with garbage!
We feel disappointed in ourselves because we fail to astonish ourselves and others.
That's why we must not stop trying and practicing patience we should fight and improve the quality of our goal-setting.
In the end, something will come out of it, we just mustn't give up.
But also know this: someone will always appear and say disparagingly, "Whose trash is this?"