Not lying when eating in bed.

I watch as the wind stirs my black curtain,
it’s 20:09.
I’m cooling my green tea.

Today, I’ll probably plan nothing,
sudden decisions unsettle me.

But as Kafka would say, perhaps once, by our actions, we should surprise ourselves and others, even if it’s just an impulsive stroll…

From the windows of the building across, silhouettes can be seen in the light,
it’s the loveliest stretch of summer.

You entered my kitchen,
a magnificent, radiant light.
I wanted to say magical words,
but I couldn’t dare.
I loved you,
You said nothing,
but made me feel
that you understood my pain.

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.

I place my slippers by the bed,
Hoping I’ll wake up to find them where I left them,
I do this over and over, feeling the same.

Habits, feelings are ours—
Our manners when we open a beer can or simply glance at something, someone.
No one can change our behaviors,
Though we might imitate another's manner for a while,
Like the weather, never repeated,
We can't become someone else.

An actor brought a book character to life,
But in my mind, they remained different.

As the years pass, we betray our habits,
Just as our altered bodies betray us,
Yet mannerism still dwells within us.

Google Assistant is reminding me that my birthday is coming up, I'm turning 34, and this age doesn't make me happy anymore. It especially annoys me when people call once a year just for this and don't think of me the rest of the time.

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!

You wear a long black coat,
your hair falls over your shoulders,
You  have  Chloe perfume.
Your life simply isn’t like anyone else’s,
you never wanted to be someone else.
You drink white semi-dry wine.
You have everything,
maybe that’s why you’re alone.
You read Agota Kristof,
you don’t smoke and you work out.
You are sad,
and everyone like you is sad.

Life will destroy us if we surrender, if we let people deeply into our hearts, they will hurt us. Let us turn our backs on all the arrogant!

It’s a cold day, sunless,
I took a walk outside,
The chill reaches down to the bones,
People move swiftly by.
Markets are bustling,
Prices on products
Are already high.

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...

Fly away black bird,
perhaps you’ll encounter a carcass
or someone kind
will offer it to you.
You’ll hide in the dry bushes with food,
Your black feathers will flutter in the wind,
satisfied and full,
your body
will heavily descend again to the ground.

The wind stirs my black curtain.
I hear the sound of branches,
The wind sweeps the dry grass on the fields,
Like waves on the sea.
Cold hearts,
Like the black curtain.
If you go to heaven without me,
Or even to hell,
My heart will fall asleep.
Love is as dark
As a moonless night
In an impenetrable forest.
Bats must long for such nights.
The black curtain rustles—
The night is not so long for me.
I am like a fallen angel
Whose paradise is taken away,
Yet Cupid strikes me
With an arrow of love.
The black curtain rustles,
For me, the nights aren’t so long.

Our bodies
Real,
Painful,
Beautiful,
Sometimes beautifully ugly,
We wither,
Age,
Shrink,
What matters is to accept them as they are
Or fight for how
We want them to be,
Our souls merge with each other,
While our bodies, intertwined like branches,
Bodies seek love.

Somewhere far away
meadows,
a small spring,
the sound of a lyre,
smiling people.

In cornfields,
peasants working.

I searched for a medicinal herb.

Madness, like a human's mark,
It claims that everything is fine,
It plays, as for it, God has changed,
Faith is either exalted or diminished.
Signs are everywhere,
It has become the center of the universe,
It has absorbed every book,
This treacherous ailment
Has added uncontrollable power.
It plays with colorful thoughts.

Clergymen live in luxury, I wrote to them, asking what they think about the idea that Satan might punish them for it if God doesn't have time. They blocked me.

The president drinks Coca-Cola, just like we do, says marketing. Oh, what a privilege.

The wind flutters your black cloak,
You smoke a cigarette
With a hand frozen from the cold,
The red fragments of your heart
Are piled beneath your feet,
You’re going nowhere
Because of your love’s hold.

Do not turn on the light, for you will scare away
the evil forces that have entered your home,
forces that sing.
And perhaps Satan does not exist,
if evil itself does not exist.
Then there will be no God to protect us,
and perhaps God has abandoned us
because there is evil in this world.
We have angered them all together,
nourishing the soil with human flesh and blood.
I must drink wine
to forget my rotten life.

I want to live in a house where silence reigns,
to hear the echo of sounds drifting in from the yard.
To live like the beautiful tales written on the pages of a book,
to love like Juliet,
and to be able to die with her.
He will come in the evening, open the door,
we'll talk simply.
Our desires are the same,
don’t we all long for peace.

I used to write by hand, but I don't anymore because I kept losing my diaries. I lost my first diary back in school, my teacher told me, 'I'll read your poems,' and then the diary disappeared. I was too shy to say, 'Please give me my diary.' Now I have a tablet, and I always leave it at home.

We die when we are no longer respected; at that moment, we simply wither like a flower left without water.

Black dreams

Never scared me.

Kubin's mystical dreams mean nothing.

Once, I used to gaze at the dark moon,
I wandered through the abyss,
I saw the snake’s skin,
My heart was not this dark,
I felt more love,
I read Beddoes,
Everything has grown colder.

Food is a pleasure if the flavor is like the ingredients.

I always wanted to have a white dress like Emily Dickinson's, and if I could, I would never leave my room.

I wear black clothes.
The world is dark for me,
I notice bloodstains on the snow,
Someone has been sacrificed to death again,
The gate of evil does not close.
My heart is as dark as a black cloud,
Perhaps one day I will no longer wake up,
I will vanish into eternity.

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.

You stand on an ice-covered road,
Feeling the cold beneath your feet—
Your black, grotesque car is warm
But you don’t get in,
You simply don’t want to go anywhere, not to any house.
The driver who was taking you watches,
He can’t find the right words, he’s confused.
You’re like the hero from Camus’ The Stranger, but it’s cold with you,
Pain torments you because you’ve seen so much,
What hurt you, how much more will hurt you, senseless hatred, too much love, pain, pain, even more pain.
Wrong people, out of place.
You kick the ice,
You feel nothing!
A wrong feeling.
"Wrong" by Depeche Mode is the right song
For this moment.
Wrong from the start,
The wrong people by your side, misplaced.
Where do you stop?
You dissolve into the road, the driver continues in your place.
You’re sleepy, you simply fall asleep.

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?"

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.

He entered a filthy room,
placed a black *** on the fire,
satisfied his hunger,
lit a cigarette,
took off his rubber boots,
lay down on a mattress spread on planks,
turned on the radio,
opened a newspaper,
and felt helpless,
Tears welled up.

A black heart full of pain,
cold as white stone
in winter,
like a swan’s sorrowful song
at life’s end,
turns to ashes within its shell,
and perhaps, gripped by similar sorrow,
this part of the body forever seeks
another like itself.

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

I still love you.
You loved my body,
The dark side of my heart.
I lost you,
My tear-streaked glasses.
I still love you.

In the poem, I spoke of:
I wanted to go to Japan,
But I lost my wallet.

In the homeland of  "Thousand Cranes,"
My first touch
With that remarkable
Book, I felt.

I wanted to go to Japan,
To see the rustling of kimonos.

But I lost my wallet.

I was going in the spring, to
Feel the scent of sakura.

the sparrows to stay with us,
winter is coming
I want to be real
this winter,
Love me,
The snow is resting on the roof.
the fall of ice sheets.
Shine in me
like a lighthouse in the night.

I want to listen to the playlist I used to play before, when I would carelessly throw thousands of music tracks into love, connecting with another world, traveling through it, finding the people I had lost, and telling them what I couldn’t say back then.

I would reread Mauriac, Hesse, and every book I’ve ever read.

I would relive those feelings, the initial emotions when I first discovered Francesca Woodman’s photography.

I would go back to that café I used to frequent, where I would sink into sadness, have something to drink—even though I neither drank nor smoked back then.

I would find a small dimension for myself, just as I wanted, to escape sorrow. I would shelter myself there for a few years and return with a clear mind—free.

When we lie, our hands sweat, and we can't dry them until we touch someone else.

Cows that get lost without a trace In dense forests, Among sprawling leaves, between green trees, Where there seems to be no end, and if it ends, another identical forest begins...
The fruitless search has its own result
An attempt.
I don't know these feelings, for I haven't lost anything I wonder if perhaps I've lost Something important
I try to remember But in vain,
Nothing like that has happened.
Farmers who lose cows, Talk to other farmers About how they lost, Simply put, money.
"I tried but couldn't find it," they say, While extinguishing tobacco in an oddly deformed shape.

Concrete trees,
buildings and houses.
A world covered by concrete,
it became a barren, empty place.

When do we come alive? When love, true and everlasting, comes to us. It's like rain arriving in the desert. If you feel the sickness of love, it means you're alive...

I have buried my love again,
I dug it out from the earth,
I said, "God, I still love you!"
I hugged the cold wall,
I wanted to feel something.
Often, I betray myself,
Our problems vary in their weight.
You turned into a sharp spasmodic pain.
Maybe Aphrodite would have understood me!
Love is beauty, most people say,
But it doesn’t concern me, nor my love,
For I live in darkness,
I glorify the feelings of affection.

You talk to everyone, everyone in your heart,
But you’re not a god,
You’re just a woman sitting in a subway car, talking to herself.
You talk to Dionysus, asking him for a drink.
You go to the tobacco field, smoking a hookah there,
Because you like the smell of tobacco leaves.

You walk down the street, feeling the scent of lilacs,
Though it’s not spring.
People look at you, and you think you know them all.
You feel somatic touches,
It seems like the one you love has come to you and touched you.

You listen to the music, The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
You feel an extreme, your taste receptors sharpen.
You feel love, elevated.

We are as moral
as we are able to be,
just never forget the principles.

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.

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.

"Plant a tree,"
says Mother,
"If you can't find a friend like yourself,
a book will be your friend."
But that is not enough.