It is Dusk and my time has come.
The sky takes a pinkish hue,
The cool breeze begins its departure,
And the trees wave it goodbye.

Dusk has come, My time has come.
With it, it brings the black blanket,
That covers the immense sky,
The sun leaves with tears,
And the moon replaces her,
The stars begin to appear,
And I think of her with me; here.

Dusk has come, My time is now.
The flowers begin to close,
And the clouds cover the sky,
The seas begin to reflect her,
The lonely breeze sings of her,
The crickets cry her name.

Yes, Dusk is now!
Sadness is now
Despair is now
Woe is now
Sorrow is now...

My Dusk has come,
And my soul wants to break out,
And disappear into the night,
Into the dark clouds above,
To run into the rain,
Out of the forests of my pain.

Dusk has come...

I've lost myself.
what hope is there for this tortured soul,
for this toxic mind?
for this heart is as black as coal.

on this onyx coloured night
I lay in my  bed,
filled with fright.
and as the moon sits by my window
I weep, I weep, I weep...

What am I?
Compared to the grand scale of things,
What am I?
For Whom do I exist?

as the crows circle above,
as the flower sulks in gloom,
as sky turns gray,
and as my words begin to decay
I gaze into the abyss of my impending doom .

Adieu, adieu,
I bid thee adieu,
My heart taketh wing and fly.

Adieu, adieu,
I bid thee adieu
Though it pains me to say goodbye.

The time is past
When happiness we found,
All's left for now is the cry.

So adieu, my love,
Adieu, Adieu,
May we meet again by and by.

Me
You
Us

Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familliar hilltops that I call to
Farwell, familliar wood nearby,
Farwell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisey, glittering vanities...
Farewell my freedom that must persih!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?

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To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

I want to disappear into the soul of the earth,
To escape and run away...
Away from the human world
Away from the commotion
Away from the ignorance
Away from the crowded shops
Away from the faces that cry pain
Away from the eyes don't see beyond the surface
Away from the voices that bite at your ears
Away from the deeds that **** your soul
Away from everyone
Away from everything
Away from the shouting,
the weeping,
the toxic positivity,
the shallow conversations.
the hollow humans,
I want to leave.

A romantic would love you,
Someone from the 19th century would too,
A kind old man would love you,
A child's pure heart would love you,
My grandmother would love you,
And I love you too, sometimes...
But please stop chirping so much at 5 am,
I'm trying to sleep.

In all honesty
I have no idea
What to write about

I haven't written for a while,
And I don't think I will soon,
It seems as if my sun has set,
And the night has sealed my doom.

I've lost my pen in the crowds,
In the dark, roaring, and grumpy clouds,
I've lost it somewhere in the damp rooms,
Behind the back doors or the narrow streets,
In that empty alley with worn brick walls...

Perhaps I will write again.
But not here. But not now.
I am enveloped by the night,
It will take me time to find myself.

Perhaps when the morning comes
I'll write again.

I feel like I must confess,
I owe it to my readers...

To tell you the truth,
I never really know what to write about,
I could write about a summer day,
Or autumn and it's dismay,
I could paint the colours of spring,
Or the bride who lost her ring,
I could write about the lovelorn youth
Or the pain that laughs can sooth,
I could tell tales about the moon,
Or the serpent behind the dune,
Perhaps I'd write about the sky,
Or about wanting to cry.

In all honesty I don't know what to write about,
I could write about not knowing what to write about,
But I just close my eyes and let the hand write what it will,
I trust the pen,
I trust the hand,
I trust my readers' taste :)

“But even friendship like our heroes'
Exist no more; for we've outgrown
All sentiments and deem men zeroes-
Except of course ourselves alone.
We all take on Napoleon's features,
And millions of our fellow creatures
Are nothing more to us than tools...
Since feelings are for freaks and fools.
Eugene, of course, had keen perceptions
And on the whole despised mankind,
Yet wasn't, like so many, blind;
And since each rule permits exceptions,
He did respect a noble few,
And, cold himself, gave warmth its due.”

― Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin

the tree sulks
leaves fly in the sky
the world turns grey

Do not love half lovers
Do not entertain half friends
Do not indulge in works of the half talented
Do not live half a life
and do not die a half death
If you choose silence, then be silent
When you speak, do so until you are finished
Do not silence yourself to say something
And do not speak to be silent
If you accept, then express it bluntly
Do not mask it
If you refuse then be clear about it
for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance
Do not accept half a solution
Do not believe half truths
Do not dream half a dream
Do not fantasize about half hopes
Half a drink will not quench your thirst
Half a meal will not satiate your hunger
Half the way will get you no where
Half an idea will bear you no results
Your other half is not the one you love
It is you in another time yet in the same space
It is you when you are not
Half a life is a life you didn't live,
A word you have not said
A smile you postponed
A love you have not had
A friendship you did not know
To reach and not arrive
Work and not work
Attend only to be absent
What makes you a stranger to them closest to you
and they strangers to you
The half is a mere moment of inability
but you are able for you are not half a being
You are a whole that exists to live a life
not half a life

Abyssal clouds, of sunken shade,

Such memories,

A constant fade.

I bellow for it to return to me,

But all I see is a drunken fantasy.

Forever lost, of something meant to be.

Some where in Paris
Empty cobbled street
You look at the river beside the street
There sits a bench under the moonlight
You walk towards it
The street is empty,
The night sky is immense
Even more immense with the blue stars
Flickering in the distance.
Sitting on the wooden bench
Facing the free flowing waters,
Under the vast night sky
You sit alone with the moon
Next to the flowing river
And wish that this feeling would last
Forever...

always remember to love yourself no matter what.

The night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.
Perhaps I would be able to hear the roaring wind
but it is silenced by the tick tock of the clock on the wall.

Maybe, maybe I will write again,
Maybe, maybe I will learn to play a happy tune,
One day I'll forget elegies
And stop making these melacholy effigies

I don't really like rhyming now,
They sound too happy and are sometimes cheap.
I rather write to my poems and say, "Thou
art my biggest mystery, you're too shallow. You're too deep."

So in conclusion,
I don't know why I'm writing.
All I know in this confusion
Is that the night is cloudy and the stars don't shine,
The raindrops on the window are illuminated by the cold street light.

The clock is ticking. Tick. Tock.
The people are hollow,
The people are stuffed
leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw.

Too often do we dance and fool our youth away, too often do we attempt to love without knowing how, too often do we write letters that end up in the hearth, too often do we get agitated by the song of the simple bird, too often do we hate and forget to pity those whom we despise, too often do we cage the blue bird in our heart, too often do we lie, not to the world but to ourselves, too often we ponder, speak, and forget action behind, too often do we ignore ourselves, too often do we ignore each other.  

Too often do the authors try to paint the world with colours of big words and elegant sentences, yet as beautiful it may seem to the eye, the world they paint is far too artificial, far too unnatural, far too normal.

We do it all too often; we hate without reason, we believe without proof, we forget that hate is the work of the unloved, we live our lives as if they’re shows for everyone else, we become bitter wolves with venomous fangs and poisonous tongues, we rip at each other, with words, with thoughts, with deeds of every kind.  

Too often we forget our humanity behind.

"When you don't know what you're living for, you don't care how you live from one day to the next. You're happy the day has passed and the night has come, and in your sleep you bury the tedious question of what you lived for that day and what you're going to live for tomorrow"

- Ivan Goncharov

A little peace
within the last hours of the almost bygone day
a little silence
between the days
so that the nascent yesterday does not get in the past
and tomorrow is lived for today

The world is quiet here...
There is no God to offer salvation,
There is no music to calm the soul,
There is no Love to sooth my suffering,
There is nothing but darkness here...

Shifting shades that lack precision,
eye evading, vaporous vision,
fleeting flickers underexpose
ghostly glimpses that discompose.

Shadows speak in trembling tones,
mumbled murmurs, cackling crones,
bated breath while overcoming
stifled screams but not succumbing.

Befrozen blood stills hammering heart,
senses separate, perceptions part,
lost lucidity brings indecision
face or flee this spectrovision.

Shuddering skin turns pearlest pale,
hairs horripilate, portents prevail,
cold creeps craze a mind affrighted
spooky spectres come uninvited

The air is foggy,
And the sky is grey,
You can not see its blue today,
A suffocating silence fills this place,
And his empty seat's left a space,
So hollow and dim in my heart.

He sat right there next to the lamp,
But that place is cold and damp,
He left us in such a hurry,
Oh how much he made us worry!

I remember him really well,
Stories of fairies he would tell,
He'd tell us where the monsters dwell.
Generation by Generation told,
Stories with the worth of gold,
Stories containing young and old.

But now he's gone,
and I'm in grief,
Why must the world,
be such a thief?

I've lived to bury my desires
and see my dreams corrode with rust
now all that's left are fruitless fires
that burn my empty heart to dust.

Struck by the clouds of cruel fate
My crown of Summer bloom is sere
Alone and sad, I watch and wait
And wonder if the end is near.

As conquered by the last cold air
When Winter whistles in the wind
Alone upon a branch that's bare
A trembling leaf is left behind.

I love you. I am madly in love with you.

With the whole of my being, with my sanity and insanity, with all the stars, with all the moons and all the skies I love you.

I do not know how to tell you that I still love you,
Not with the immensity of the oceans,
Not with the might of the mountains,
Not as much as the constellations and planets,
Not with the beauty of the waterfalls,
Not with the melody of the birds,

But with the immensity of the galaxies,
With the might of nebulae,
With the energy of every sun,
With the beauty of the little stars that glimmer like diamonds in the night sky,
With the smell of rain in the morning,
With the melody of our hearts.

I love you.

Autumn will come,
Autumn and his cold breath,
Autumn and his grey skies,
With his wilted flowers,
And his lifeless trees,
Autumn will come.
Autumn and his empty streets
He'll come with frozen dew on the grass,
He'll come with sundowns at 4 in the afternoon,
He'll slap your sleep ridden face with the morning wind,
Autumn will come.
Autumn will come with the evening rain,
Autumn will come with love-sick pain,
Autumn will rest on the heavy clouds,
Autumn will howl at your window at 6 a.m.
Autumn will come with the look of tired souls,
With the sound of heavy hearts,
With taste of the evening tea,
With the smell of bittersweet melancholy.

eve conversed with a sinuous snake
on a Sunday afternoon
the garden barred its double doors
and sent them to their doom
the sin of she had punished he
who touched no snake in the apple tree
but if lilith with the dawn had gone
how innocent can adam be?

Werther had a love for Charlotte
     Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
     She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
     And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
     Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
     And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
     And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
     Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
     Went on cutting bread and butter.

There resides a monster within my heart
One with daggers instead of teeth
Swords, as nails, without a sheath.
This monster has onyx eyes
Paper skin as white as snow
As cold as ice.
This monster is my subdued rage
My muted anger
What makes me age.
It torments my soul in all sorts of ways
From lonely nights to freezing days.
It's cut off my tongue so I won't scream
For God's sake it won't even let me dream!
Every night it visits my slumbering corpse
It taunts me, it haunts me,
It shakes me, it wakes me
I can not scream, I can not breath.
All of my nights are slumberless
These tormenting notions are numberless.

Dear monster, please go
Leave me alone and take my woe
I can not bear your presence
Your sight, your sence, your smell
Haunts me.
It feels like the devil himself taunts me.
I do not know what else to say,
How else to scream
Or cry for help
I just hope that one day
You'll get bored and go away,
Go! give me some ecstasy,
All I need is a slight feeling of ataraxy.

Red ball (for better quality you should should read it aloud)


And if I said a ball is red,
and all I said was that,

and if you thought,
a ball is round, and on its surface
texture found, and on your finger
round and round it spins,
then off the glass rebounds
to take another shot;

and if you thought,
a ball is red, the colour blazing in my head
of ripe cranberries in a bog, or colour
of a short-hair dog that's trained
to hunt a hog,

I could not say
you understood, for in my mind
the ball was wood, and sitting on a metal shelf,
a toy made by Santa's elf–
its red the plastic kind.

One-hundred and seventy-one thousand,
four-hundred and seventy-six,
the words within our bag of tricks
to try and say what we must say,
and still not be cliché.

It's why I write to please myself,
and maybe with a metaphor,
or simile, hyperbole, or maybe
if personified, it touches deep inside
and amplifies, when it is read,
a human watershed.

You were always painful ,
Your ending was always bad,
Someone didn't love the other,
And someone was attached ,
You gave us sleepless nights
And your promises were empty
But the most woeful thing will be
"We almost had a thing."

Hi, here's a few things I think you should know about a friend whom you haven't met yet:
They have hazel eyes that change colour depending on the lighting,
They like to go on walks and get lost in nature,
They read a lot,
They write sometimes too!
They like to look at the night sky,
They are still lost in life,
They are still searching,
They will not guarantee you happiness everytime you're together but they will always do their best to help you find your right path.
They like to read while sitting on the grass,
They like sitting on grass,
They don't laugh often but when they do it's genuine,
They like the songs sung by birds,
They will not be the "perfect" friend
But I promise you, like almost all other good friends, they will change your life for the better, even if just slightly.

Marvelous, matchless, magical, moonlit midnight,
With a superabundance of sparkly, summery stars,
Peacefully placid, pure and prettily plummy,
Radiantly rich, rhapsody resplendent rapture!
Fragrant flowers frolic freely in your fervence,
Eye-catching and exquisite in their exuberance,
Bouncing blissfully in breezy, blooming ballet.
Inexhaustible and intoxicating and intriguing,
Dazzling and delightful, and doubtlessly dreamy

Sorrow has settled in between your beautiful eyes,
The night's nested in your black hair,
And your glassy eyes shine like blue stars.

Be with me,
Be with me for when we are together the wind carries away my loneliness,
The moon smiles,
The sun shines,
The leaves swirl in the wind,
The birds sing,
The flowers bloom,
The soil smells of morning rain,
Be with me.

Spring fluttered out of my hands and disappeared,
In my room, I burn from loneliness,
Within my heart, an ice flower has sprouted.

"But Lensky, not, of course, intending
To wear the ties of marriage yet,
Looked forward warmly to befriending
Onegin, whom he'd newly met.
Not ice and flame, not stone and water,
Not verse and prose are from eachother
So different as these men were.
At first, since so dissimilar,
They found eachother dull, ill-suited;
Then got to like eachother, then
Could possibly not be separated.
Thus (I'm the first one to confess)
People are friends from idleness."

Who goes there?
Who tries to enter this sepulchre?
How did you make your way inside?
I built my castle on the highest mountains,
I built walls around it so great that no being could pierce them,
I hid my heart in the most complex of vaults,
How did you get here?
Did you fly in with the wind,
Or did the moon bring you in?
Did the stream carry you,
Or did you outshine the sun and he let you enter?
How did you get past the tempest outside?

Who are you?
Why do you wish to tread the world of  shadows?
There's nothing here to see but the weeping souls of the exhausted thought...

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Art is a statement about life's truths.

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is ******, but unbowed.


Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.


It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.