secrets, secrets, secrets
one must not tell,
upon the horizon lies a mysterious girl,
seraphic.
or angelic i must say,
for what i’d do to make you come my way.

Freedom from rhyme, to hell with the beat,
Forgetting the meaning, the soul's in deceit.
Deceived by the crowd, now a slave to it all,
The Lyre abandoned, few poets stand tall.
A world of hack writers — fools' joy, they will thrive.
"What’s Sense for sheeps?" — to serve Vile and contrive.
And for distraction, petty verse is the deal.
A world in decay, where Reason grows still.


In Russian:

Упадок поэзии

Свобода от рифмы
И к чёрту все ритмы,
Забвение смысла —
Душа в эго влипла,

Толпою обманута.
Рабынею стала.
Так Лира покинута —
Пиитов уж мало:

Мирок графоманов —
Дебилам услада.
— В чём смысл для баранов?
— Служение гадам.

И для отвлеченья
Ничтожные вирши.
Мирок РАЗЛОЖЕНЬЯ —
В нём Разум всё тише.

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived

The mirror fogs up in the room with the heat

I fall to floor, I can’t breathe.


I claw at the tub of a bath half full

The walls rain down, it’s a gravitational pull.


I scream and I cry, for someone to hear me

But the pressure of the water drowns out my pleads.


At last I’m alone, as the blood drains through

At last I’m alone with a razor or two.