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Miss Clofullia Oct 2018
mistakes were made,
and things were said,
and none of us knew how to love life properly.

we used to say that we're unhappy
and that we tried and tried and tried
but lied.
that we did our best to change our state of misery,
to become better people for the people in our homes,
but we know now that wasn't true.

I never grabbed your arm while sinking in my dreams,
I never screamed while I was awake, but only in my sleep,
I was in pain my entire life. I never knew how to handle pain.
I never called it out. I carried it with me. the pain was sharp.
I wasn't. my edges got torn. there were fingerprints all over my face and body. my house was left empty. clean. not a soul inside. not a tear. I always dreamt of drowning. the sea was dreaming of dying inside me, being hyper ventilated. being choked with air and dryness.

you never told me that I was draining all the joy from your life
you never brought wine, nor cookies, nor take-away.
the only thing you carried around in a doggie bag, after a dinner out at the restaurant, was you soul. or, what was left of it after
both of us fed from it.
you never cried in your sleep, but only while you were awake,
you tried to warn me you were thunder, but I never got to hear the end of your words.
you never left,
you never came,
you were always in my heart.

we didn't make each other unhappier,
but we didn't manage to do it the other way, either.

we were never sorry. we never got to regret the ride.
we were in this together. all in. all ice.
we are the ones that cannot be forgiven,
we are the east and the west,
the Nile and the Amazon, each on his own continent,
together on our own Earth,
none of us in danger of ever becoming wadi,

we were music.
beautiful classical music that sounds great on its own
but is awful if you play it all at once..
if you push through the speakers with Bach,
add up Vivaldi, then Brahms, then Debussy, then throw in a little bit of Grieg, then Enescu, then salt things up with Puccini and, to spice things up, add just a pinch of Kennedy.

what happens to people like us?
the same thing that happens when people like us. we get lost.
in a room full of people, we become invisible
- like air.
the only thing that proves that we still exist
is all the dust
that travels through us.
we never liked them parties,
we never really wanted to be there,
yet we kept coming back, hoping
to get it right this time.
wishing to be a little more wiser this time around,
wearing our best clothes and
the lowest self-esteem.

we are just so ******* happy to be alive.
sorry. what I meant to say was
"we are just so ******* less unhappy to be alive!"

things were made,
and mistakes were said,
and none of us knew how to live love properly.
Miss Clofullia Aug 2018
we're gonna die at some point
and all that we're gonna leave behind us is a bunch of
bad reviews and 2 star ratings
for restaurants that didn't treat us right,
for uber drivers that were too quiet or too loud,
and airline companies that were responsible for 16 long hours
in an airport with too much light and no air.

the day will come and none of us will be ready,
even though some might lie about it, with a cold smile on their face.
there will be no bargaining then,
all the money in the world will be as useless as a pair of flip-flops to a legless person.
for sure, we'll regret using the expression "no regrets!" too often,
instead of accepting our vulnerabilities and our imperfections.

we're gonna die seeing our mother's smile
and hearing our father laughter,
from the day we were born.
just like then, we won't know for sure whether
this is the beginning or the end
whether we are leaving a world or coming into another.

we're gonna hope to use our last breath for something memorable,
something that won't make us not get a good death's sleep,
keeping us awake in a homemade YouTube video.
we're gonna wish that someone finds all of our passwords
and breaks into our emails and social media accounts to realize that
we were geniuses, or something like that and we're gonna look forward
to not being successful and
not seeing anyone cry over something that we said while we were drunk or, worse..

there's nothing more annoying than a come-back to an argument
that comes too late,
the one great idea that could shut down anyone if it would appear in the middle of a fight,
and not afterwards. always afterwards.
when the quarrel initiators are already tucked up in bed, covered in wet dreams and solitude.
nothing for you to do. no hour is decent enough for you to call them in the middle of the night,
shouting your retort, then hanging up the phone and laughing like a crazy person.
that's how after-death must feel like.
a smart answer that comes too late and that no one gets to hear.

our bodies start dying from the day we are born,
little by little,
small chunks of tissue getting rid of our existence,
making us less appealing, less ripe.
our bodies become dumber and dumber every day and start
throwing emotional **** everywhere, hoping to make others mad,
and not care as much about us, near the end.
in a way, it's a form of protection.

we're gonna live through other people's deaths,
we're gonna be "survivors" and "carriers of their memory"
we're gonna try and appear strong for their closest ones,
even though we will forever be broken on the inside after they
become cool, underground.

as we grow older, we believe that death is more about us than the one leaving.
It's possible that we didn't even get to meet him personally,
but he "left a great impression on us", from his real friends' stories.
it's possible that we randomly cross paths with a funeral cortege of some unlucky stranger
and we would still believe that it's about us.
every time we stumble upon it from an observer's point of view, we cannot stop
thinking that it could have been us in that box,
forceless, incapable of protesting against the tie
or the flowers that we are/were so allergic to.
we get lost in our mind, near the coffin and our eyes start to glow
and lose liquid.
every time someone dies, it's always about us. at least, for a couple of seconds or days.

when we die, or are about to die, we find out that death is not at all about us.
it's about those that are left behind, the above mentioned "survivors".
we begin to worry about them,
to fear that there's no fresh milk in the fridge, no gas in the car tank,
that no one took out the garbage, nor fed the cat,
we are about to leave life under the impression that we forgot the fire on.
every time we die, it's never about us. at least, up until the last seconds.

there's no chance in hell that heaven's gonna accept this kind of language!
maybe the subtitle won't work for this part and I'll get off the hook.
I was thinking that one of the greatest penalties
God could give to a feeble-minded person like me
would be the possibility to choose between the infernal region and paradise.
I would end up in a very familiar situation, experiencing the purgatory of my afterlife,
in the same way I did in my entire earthly existence, not being able to pick a side,
make a decision, take a left or a right.. without overthinking it too much.

we're gonna die crying.
we're gonna die hoping that we closed the door.
we're gonna die tasting coffee.

we're gonna die when we least expect it.
we're gonna die in 3, 2..

we're gonna die trying to live.

Miss Clofullia Jun 2018
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.
Miss Clofullia Jun 2018
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!
Miss Clofullia May 2018
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,
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.
Miss Clofullia May 2018
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 ****** - 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 ***** 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.

Miss Clofullia Apr 2018
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
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 **** 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.
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