my face is like an open book and
everyone knows exactly where the last person left off.
there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors. no.
all the words and feelings are out there,
on the page and they start screaming at the first contact with the outside world.

I have no covers,
no pdf format,
no index,
no once in a lifetime offer you can’t miss.

I only come with a story, that
some people enjoy reading,
that others hate (and
decide to wait for the movie).
the main character is a guy that’s neither good nor bad,
that lives inside a human head,
but always gets beaten around by a human heart.

I’m curious about that specific moment when
it was decided that we love with our heart
and not with our brain, or leg, or knee.

you may be the main thing in the menu at one point,
the hottest dish in the restaurant
but you know that
you’ll always gonna be someone else’s sloppy seconds.

today, a kid on the metro asked me
why do we keep saying „may God save us”?
when really, it’s up to us to save HIM?

I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know how to explain to him that
sometimes I’m afraid to believe
in something that doesn’t feel like belief worthy..
that I don’t understand how certain things happen..
that I can hardly save a WORD file after a day’s work,
and he’s proposing me to save S̶A̶N̶T̶A̶ .. GOD.
I didn't have the means to lie, to be wise, to be strong..
I couldn’t let go of the iron bar and my smile had no teeth to show, no lips to uncover.

but I guess he knew all of that.
my face is like an open book. not the holy one!
with me there’s no reading between the lines, no built-in metaphors.
no..
Let's NOT forget how fragile we are,
with all our fears and problems,
staring at a delicate image of us,
while others gaze at the sky.

we used to leave our homes thinking
that we’re going to change the world,
but all we do now is close the door behind us
thinking that we’re going to change two metros and three buses on our way
to work.

Fake fears.
False problems.
Unreal image.
The only thing that’s fragile in the room is the mirror.

our vulnerability is one of our main strengths,
our ugliness is, actually, the beauty that others seek for,
our “shower/grower”, “pear/apple”, “spit/swallow”, “oral/normal” abilities are not on anyone’s interest list,
other than the one made-up in our head

stress creates distress.

Let’s NOW forget how fragile we are and start living a little!
I’ve been in the business of
one night stands for a while now.
It involves me being on my own,
alone in a room,
naked
of all my fears and uncertainties.

I usually feel ashamed in the morning
and can't find the door quickly enough
to leave behind this safe place
and get back to the war zone that
my heart seems to be.
I'm waiting for a car that will never come
to take me to a place that doesn't exist.

I'm constantly looking at a world that has nothing to show
but enjoys being watched,
like a voyeur - exhibitionist relationship.
Match made in heaven.
Heaven made in Adobe Photoshop CS 6.

I'm eager to create some art that won't change anyone
but will cost a lot of money.
~ I'm willing to settle for no money and will change at least one~

I'm constantly trying to reach out to people
that get higher up the mountain,
each on his own personal journey.
Untouchable. Distant.
Not having the slightest clue that there's someone
on their trail, on the narrow forest path.

I'm looking for ways to make others happy
but, in the process, I'm becoming sadder
every day.
Even though my state of mind is low,
it's not making me deep. I never said I was deep.

I'm not an ocean of wisdom or anything like this.
Come to think about it, I'm not a huge fan of water,
not being a good swimmer and everything..

I don't think I have anything in common with the sea,
even though I was told
I can easily suffocate others
with my worries, sorrows and disbelief.

I'm working on finding a job that doesn't feel like work
and let's you smile,
beyond an annual cocktail event, in a fancy club,
with drunk
employees of the month
that are trying all night to find ways
to bang each other without their significant others ever finding out,
without knowing what guilt means..
Some of them will end up home,
with a clean shirt and a dirty conscience.
For others, it won't ever feel like home.

I'm playing the game of hating the player
and I think they're gonna award me the MVP title
if I continue to not love myself.

I'm trying to end this poem in style,
but I'm afraid I won't be able to,
'cause I think my car has arrived.


[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gr96A9XG1rs
He suddenly became quiet.

He didn't feel like getting any of his thoughts
out into the world anymore.
He felt that nothing mattered
and that his presence was defined
only by the clothes he wore and
not by the words that wore him out.

He started wearing shirts. Up 'til the last button.
He became numb
and all of his dumb
fears
became brave
in one instance.

No one recognized his face anymore.. for a while now. They were concentrating on other things,
and when he finally recognized the truth
that was staring at him from the mirror,
he decided to hit the "snooze" button.

He couldn't find any reason to get out of bed in the morning,
nor to go to sleep at night.
He was in limbo,
in a purgatorial state of mind,
with one foot set in irrelevance
and the other one stepping in the shit of inadequacy.

He felt weak
and small,
although he was never thin,
nor fit.

He still loved everyone and wanted more from them,
even though nobody wanted more of him.

He often felt like the screaming guy in Munch's painting
- surrounded by color, light and everyone's rear end -
Oh, what a wonderful state of mind!

He stopped setting up his alarm.
It felt useless - everything had already happened, anyhow.
His life started showing the MUTE button in the corner of his internal screen.

He suddenly became very quiet
but despite all the silence that was surrounding him NOW,
there was a lot of noise in his head.
Miss Clofullia Sep 2017
I am a simple man –
I still enjoy the lost art of
washing your hands before and after
using the bathroom,
I find courage in the occasionally tap on the back,
when everything goes dark,
and the back alley looks like a modern piece of art.
I try not to live the same day over and over again, but,
somehow, I end up making the same mistakes,
closing all the doors that are left open
for me.
I’m never early to a party.
I’m never late, either. I just don’t get invited anymore.
When I was little, I was mesmerized
by the choir of voices in my head –
now I’m just irritated by their meaningless noise.
The 4 rooms seem smaller and things are moving like crazy –
it’s like an earthquake inside this heart of mine
that’s behaving from time to time
like a lady with high heels and low standards.

I am a simple man –
I manage to complicate everything
in the simplest way.
Miss Clofullia Sep 2017
It’s one of those nights…

You end up lying in your bed,
making eye contact with the ceiling,
random feelings running through your mind.
You’re thinking that they can easily be part of a great poem –
one that you’ve always wanted to write,
one that will make you proud – probably the only REAL poem that you’ll be able to write in your life.

You start to get cold.
You get up and fetch an extra blanket. And some thicker pajamas.
You get all curled up in your attempt to fall asleep.
You are still cold.
Maybe you’re dying!?!

You take your phone and google sudden death symptoms
Chest Pain.
Breathlessness.
Palpitations.
Dizziness.
Fainting.
Nothing about being cold.
Maybe you’re finally becoming an adult and you’re transforming into this cold blood grown-up that doesn’t give a fuck about anything
anyone has to say.
Yeah! That must be it!

You turn and turn and turn
and end up on your stomach,
smothering an old pillow under your right arm and
your inability to become someone under the other one.
Sleep refuses to penetrate you,
even though you’ve clearly sent him signals across the table all night long.
You even laughed at all his jokes,
you touched his knee,
you’ve certainly made yourself available to him!
Nothing!
You get blue dreams.
Huge, round, wide awake dreams,
Filled up with testosterone and lust.

It’s 3.34 AM.
At this point, you’re in the bathroom,
Eating up the latest Ikea catalogue.
Tomorrow, you will wake up alone in your head,
like a polaroid picture that gets stuck inside the big camera –
you will wake up without falling asleep.
Tomorrow is today.

You get in the shrink’s office without knocking.
What’s wrong? he says.
You don’t answer.
He looks at the quiet version of you for an entire hour
and comes up with a diagnostic for your problem.
He even writes it down so you wouldn’t forget:
Dream Paralysis - Powerlessness of imagining true life. Impossibility of living fake dreams every day.
Am I right?
You don’t answer.

He isn’t right.
You aren’t alright.

You pay up and go.
Poker would have been fairer for you at this point.
Screw it!

You get back home.
You’re tired of trying to fall asleep so you decide to climb.
You’ll try to get on top of your dreams
and sleep won’t try to fuck you in any other position!

Tonight’s gonna be one of those nights...
This is gonna be one of those poems.
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