It feels so strange—
as if I’m out at sea.

No land in sight,
only blue waves
rolling back and forth.

Sometimes
they bring me calm.
Other times
they bring despair.

Once there was a square ball.
Wait—what?
Do square ***** even exist?

She didn’t like being square.
All her friends were round—
free to roll anywhere,
kicked, tossed,
thrown into the air,
feeling that rush in their hollow bellies.

Why couldn’t she be round too?

People left her in some corner,
stuffing her with all kinds of things.
She hated it.

One day,
a round ball saw her sad face.

Why so sad?

I wish I were round like you,
she said,
and burst into tears.

The round ***** laughed.
Since when does a box want to be a ball?
And they rolled away with their laughter.

A box?

The round ball explained:
If you became a ball,
people would kick you,
throw you,
use you until you were worn.
But a box—
a box keeps things safe.
Important things.
Have you looked inside yourself?

Yes, said the square ball.
Just a bunch of old stuff.

The round ball laughed again.
Old stuff? Those are memories.
Letters, photos, little gifts—
pieces of love and longing.
When people miss someone,
they open you,
and you give them back their heart.

The square ball looked inside.
She remembered tears—
both joy and sadness—
whenever her memories were touched.

So I’m a box? she asked.
Born to hold important things?

Of course.
You’re an incredible box.
I wish I were you.

And the round ball rolled away.

The square ball looked inside herself once more—
and no longer wished to be anything
but a box.

I read something the other day—
what if I want to be a mediocre person?
I felt I wasn’t alone
I felt relief
Because with two degrees
and unemployed
you start to feel useless
For so long I listened
to the voices of my parents
and other people
telling me I should do this
or that
Yet I never asked myself
what I actually wanted
I was always in some spotlight
a little popular
somewhat known
It’s exhausting, really
But for some reason
I kept chasing it
when everything in me
was screaming
to be nobody
to disappear
to be a stranger
in this world
to be mediocre
to have no riches
no extraordinary career
no mansion
but to be simple
insignificant
just another face in the crowd
just myself
That life, with no sparkle or luxury
seemed far better
than any life
I could choose to live

Sometimes I look toward the horizon
and there is nothing—
only a line.

And it scares me.

Because nothing
can be just nothing,
or it can be everything.

And the line
can be just a line,
or it can be the beginning
of a journey—
not the arrival.

They told me
that the more time passes
after a breakup
the more we tend to think
poorly of our ex-partners
I don’t want to think badly of you
But with each of our misencounters
I find more reasons to believe
I was married to a madman

I’m tired of romances.
Maybe I’m just tired of myself.

From now on, I’ll write
free, light,
and unchained.

I’ve spent too long
reading,
rereading,
thinking I needed more time.
Fool.
Idiot.

Pleased to meet you.

As a woman,
I can be as many as I choose.
I can tell as many stories as I want.
And God help those
who don’t want to listen—
it won’t be easy to stop me now.

Light.
Darkness.
Prose.
And poetry.
All in one body.
Amen.

But I’m tired of romances—
or maybe
of happy endings.

It’s never been like that.
It never will be.

Stop fooling yourselves—
the bad boy doesn’t end up
with the good girl.
We like the contrast,
that’s why we read those stories.

The truth?
The bad boy ends up with the foolish girl—
and she’s not just foolish,
she’s twisted enough
to crave his filthy mouth
and his alpha swagger.

I climbed out of a well
and swore
I’d never go back.

But this one is different—
it carries
the bitter taste
of suffering.

How come
you want ***?
Where is your sensitivity?
Don’t you see the only thing I want to do
is **** myself?
I want to cut every part of me
and cease to exist.
But you don’t look at me
not the way I want.
You only look at that head
between your legs
and the fact that it’s been so long
since we last did it…

I don’t want money!
How many times do I have to say it?
I know my verses will lead to nothing
But at least I’m whole
Isn’t that what we needed?
A purpose
I’ve found mine: writing cheap poetry
that only sells to crazy hearts longing to understand
Understand what?
I have no idea
I only know that art is this—being ecstatic
Not trapped in some rule because someone said so
Do it differently
Put that dot outside the curve and
Tada! Art!
Only there does the magic make sense
Sorry, babe, you tried so hard to make me rich
But I found my wealth elsewhere
I know, you’ll tell me that money can’t buy happiness
But it can buy many other things
Still, without it
I found peace

I’ve been thinking lately—
I don’t understand how it can be:
literature so full of ornate words,
classical music tangled in
odd notes and fractured rhythms,
bitter wine too dry for
an untrained palate,

and a forest—
dense with trees and shrubs,
all intertwined,
chaotic yet each in its own place.

At first, there is no beauty in these things.
You must train for it—
breathe deeply—
to see that in all this bitterness,
this strangeness,
this confusion,
there lies beauty.

Not beauty in itself,
but in the knowing—
that you must live through it
to move past the first impressions,
and reach that moment of enchantment
that steals your breath,
when your heart beats differently
because it has caught a treasure
most eyes would miss.

The bad wine turns good
once you swallow it.
The forest becomes a clearing
when you walk through it.
The symphony becomes melody
once you learn to respect
the time of things.

Yes—appreciation is
respecting the time of things.

Sometimes you must read a text
and let it settle into you.
Sometimes you must listen to music
and let the notes caress you
until your eyes fill with tears.
Sometimes you must taste
the “bad” wine
to dismantle your own walls.

There were many times
I cried
beside you
lying in bed
wrapped in blankets
I don’t know if you heard
I only know you did nothing
I’m still waiting
for you to do something

I will take all this pain
anxiety
nervousness
and turn it into poetry
Sometimes it will come out beautiful
Sometimes it will come out raw
Both
are deeply spiritual

It’s not about the money itself—
it’s about being happy
with the choices
I’ve chosen for myself.

But this,
I already knew.

So why did someone from outside
have to tell me
this truth
that was already here?

Because I still don’t know
how to validate
the ideas
of my own voice.

My greatest fear
is telling someone
all the pain I’ve been through
how many times I cried
and hearing them say
it was all in my head

Your kisses
are dry across my body.
They don’t excite me anymore—
they’re like a lullaby.

I don’t feel desire,
I’m sorry.
I don’t know what happened to us—
if love cooled,
or froze completely.

I don’t want you to touch me.
My toes used to curl
every time
your hands
moved across my skin.

Now
there’s nothing.

The pain
that tears through my chest,
from top to bottom—
there are no words
to truly describe it.

It is only
pain.

Poetry was an accident in my life.
I wasn’t looking
for this way to express myself.

I admit I like it.
I don’t write every day—
only when I’m truly inspired.
I should write more often;
it’s good for me.

It’s just hard…
Sometimes living passively
feels more pleasurable
than actually doing something with life.

When I write,
I want to be honest.
I want people to feel uncomfortable
when they read my words—
because reading all this
is too much.

Because standing so close
to someone else’s vulnerability
feels strange.

I want to be sincere
in every, every
single word,
because I feel I’m too big
for anyone to hold.
I can’t even hold myself.

And I want, in the future,
to read my own words
and feel uncomfortable
with myself—
because by then,
I’ll be someone new.

Wholeness
That must be the word
If it’s not, that’s fine
I couldn’t care less
I know what I feel, and I can’t deny it
My verses are not for you
They’re for me
Period.
If you understand, congratulations
If not, I’m sorry
Go find a book—one with over a thousand words
Even better if it’s self-help
I need only a few words to say what I want
My therapy is in the verses
I owe nothing to anyone
Liberating
That could be the word too
Doesn’t matter to me
I simply cross my legs in the hammock
and spot a new world of possibilities
waiting for me

What if you’ve truly changed?
What if you’re really ready
to love me the way I deserve?

I miss you so, so, so—
so much
that it feels like a hole
is opening from my throat
down to my belly.

I almost wish I were pregnant—
an unforgivable excuse
to come back to you.

It feels like everything that’s happened
has been telling me
I should never have left.

And God?
And the church?
And our friends?

Ugh—
will you text me again?

some people seem to carry heaven
in the way they walk—
effortless, luminous,
as though their purpose
is to remind us of grace

i have not known such ease
my lessons came
through breaking bones of the spirit
through the heavy silence
of unsaid words
through desires that cut too deep

and still—
i do not curse the falling
i do not despise the storm

because what it left in me
wasn’t bitterness
but the stubborn clarity
that love,
even when it burns down,
remains the only treasure
worth guarding

Because you never ask
or say anything
Can’t you see I’m suffering?
I’m a nobody to you
Well, at least in the end
I’m feeling something—
anger

I think I saw a ghost today.
I’ve moved away,
but there you were,
standing on the corner,
waiting to cross the street.

I thought you were dead —
but unfortunately,
you’re healthy and well.
I thought you’d fall apart
after I left.

In the end,
I think you were just afraid
of my intensity.
You said you’d love me forever,
and the next day
you didn’t love me at all.
A one-night love.

Just know —
every night,
I stand on my balcony
As Juliet
and whisper things
to the moonlit night,
to the city wind,
so it can carry those caresses
back to you.

I’ll be the ghost
haunting you.

Separation is not an option—
just as they say
that giving up isn’t either.

Why do we have this tendency to end,
to not go on?

Why can’t we talk,
swallow our egos,
and try one more time?

The new is good—
but the renewed is even better.

The renewed has history,
a feeling of triumph
and resilience.

What do I do
with this conflicting feeling?

I want to go back home—
to safety,
to comfort.

But I also want to live,
to explore.

I want to be married,
to care for a home,
for a family.
I found meaning there.
I found purpose.

And who am I
without that skin?

Have I given
the other versions of me
a chance to appear?

One day,
I asked you to save me.

And I realized
It was I who would save myself.
But I got lost—
It was only words,
Empty from my lips.

Now,
I have truly saved myself.
I’m still learning
To save myself every day.

And now I ask you:
Walk beside me,
As my partner,
As someone who will share this life with me—
Not as someone
Who must save me from myself.

I no longer need
A rescue.

I quit my job
because I wanted to invest in my dreams
but depression made everything blurry
distorted
confusing
What were my dreams after all
I asked myself on the fourth day
lying in bed

One day I went to a very rich man’s house for dinner
He told me:
“You write cheap poetry”
I replied:
“Yes—because if it were expensive,
even your heart couldn’t afford it”

Today is a portal day—
a day to close cycles,
to remember,
to say enough.

And who messages me?
You.
Like confirmation
from the universe.

I saw the photos online—
you with her,
traveling,
smiling.

But always behind sunglasses,
so no one notices
how bored you are.

My sister says
she’s just a filler,
a stand-in.
There’s no glow in your eyes.

All that’s left
is to laugh at the scene,
because deep down,
it feels almost comical.

So I wish you happiness—
though my heart is stormy,
angry, torn.

If I wish you harm,
I create bad karma.
So—
many felicities.

I like when you say
you love me—
but tell me, too,
that you like being near me.

Say it clearly.

It seems to hit me harder
than a simple
“I love you.”

Calm now—
the waters are still.

Until one day
they will stir again.

I need to hold myself gently,
to know for sure
it’s okay to return,
it’s okay to leave—

as long as I’m aligned
with what I want.

Crying is part of it.
So is regret.
And yes—if it could ****,
I’d already be dead.
But by my own hand,
not because he destroyed me.
(I wouldn’t give him
that pleasure.)

I think I need to wash my soul
All the water I drink every day
makes no difference
I’m not sure if I’m writing poetry or music
I guess it doesn’t matter
Right now I just need to let it out
I read the other day that it takes maturity to be happy
So please
don’t give me happiness
give me maturity
Because I don’t know how to be happy
I’m still a child
I need to grow

Sometimes I think my verses are bare and raw.
The same way I believe I have a way with words,
I feel I don’t.

Sometimes I wish I could shape them,
so they wouldn’t be so direct—
that I could mold them
like water atoms between my fingers.

I don’t know.
Strange.

I just don’t want to be
so dry,
sometimes.

There is a goddess in me—
long asleep.

She woke.
I fed her.
I listened to her voice.
She sang the most beautiful songs to me.

But then I put her back to sleep
and forgot her.

Now she has awakened again,
and she sees—
if it were up to me,
nothing would change.

I believe this goddess
is the lost child within me,
braver than I am,
pushing me toward the choices
I was so afraid to make.

Living
was one of them.