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MY NEW BOOK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53105481-pour-the-whiskey-over-my-heart-and-set-it-on-fire #WEBSITE: bogdandragos.com #INSTAGRAM: bogdan_1_dragos
54/M
I am a van driver from Essex, where I live with my wife and three grown up children. I write and take photographs for my ...
Canada
Strung and stitched entirely from impulsive emotions.
Poems
Poetemkin Mar 2019
Gnͤsͤʸs 1:1-5
Poetemkin
Mar 2019
ʸN ðͧ b̓gʸnn̓ŋͥ Gdͦ cʴͥͤtd̛ ðͧ hͤvͪn̓ nͣd ðͧ rͤÞ.
2. Nͣd ðͧ rͤÞ wͣs wʸÞt̆ frͦm, nͣd vͦdͥ; nͣd drͣkn̓ßͤ wͣs pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ dpͥ. Nͣd ðͧ Spʸrʸt vͧ Gdͦ mv̐d pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ wtͣrͤs.
3. Nͣd Gdͦ sͤdͪ, Lͪtͤ ðͤʸr bͥ lʸght: nͣd ðͤʸr wͣs lʸght.
4. Nͣd Gdͦ swͦ ðͧ lʸght, ðtͣ ʸt wͣs gd̑: nͣd Gdͦ dv̓ͣdͥd̓ ðͧ lʸght frmͧ ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ.
5. Nͣd Gdͦ cͦlld ðͧ lʸght D, nͣd ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ hͥ cͦlld Nʸght. Nͣd ðͧ vͥn̓ŋͥ nͣd ðͧ mrͦn̓ŋͥ wrͤ ðͧ frͤst dͤʸ.
2. Nͣd ðͧ rͤÞ wͣs wʸÞt̆ frͦm, nͣd vͦdͥ; nͣd drͣkn̓ßͤ wͣs pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ dpͥ. Nͣd ðͧ Spʸrʸt vͧ Gdͦ mv̐d pͧnͦ ðͧ fͤcͥ vͧ ðͧ wtͣrͤs.
3. Nͣd Gdͦ sͤdͪ, Lͪtͤ ðͤʸr bͥ lʸght: nͣd ðͤʸr wͣs lʸght.
4. Nͣd Gdͦ swͦ ðͧ lʸght, ðtͣ ʸt wͣs gd̑: nͣd Gdͦ dv̓ͣdͥd̓ ðͧ lʸght frmͧ ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ.
5. Nͣd Gdͦ cͦlld ðͧ lʸght D, nͣd ðͧ drͣkn̓ßͤ hͥ cͦlld Nʸght. Nͣd ðͧ vͥn̓ŋͥ nͣd ðͧ mrͦn̓ŋͥ wrͤ ðͧ frͤst dͤʸ.
gd Mar 2014
Hockey skates.
gd
Mar 2014
He held my hand today in the most delicate way,
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd