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(Literal Translation from Romanian)

This poem, actually,
it's not even a poem,
just some random text
that
will waste your time
and energy,
will try to hurt you
and rub salt in the wound,
it will mess with you a bit.
That's what happens when you don't read
what you're supposed to.
This text was born
to teach you a lesson:
next time
be more careful
with what you choose to read!

(Alternative translation I)

A Poem Not Meant to Be Read

This poem, in truth,
is no poem at all,
just a simple text,
meant to stall—
to steal your time,
your energy, too,
to wound your soul
and rub in the salt,
mocking you,
it’s your fault.

That’s what happens, don’t you see,
when you read what’s unworthy.

This text was born with a goal in mind:
to set you straight, to make you find
a better path, a wiser way—
be cautious in the books you stray!

(Alternative translation II)

not recommended for reading

this poem truthfully
isn't even poetry,
just some random text
that will steal your time
and drain your energy,
will try to wound you deep
and on that wound will heap
salt, in other words
it's making fun of you.
that's what you get, it's true,
when you don't read what's due.
this text was meant to be
a lesson, you will see:
next time
be more careful
with what you choose to read!

(Original poem)

poezie nerecomandată lecturii

această poezie, de fapt
nici nu e poezie,
ci doar un text oarecare
care
îţi va lua ceva timp
şi ceva energie,
va încerca să te rănească
şi pe rană să-ţi presoare
sare,
adică îsi va bate niţel joc de tine.
aşa-i, când nu citeşti
ceea ce se cuvine.
acestui text i-a fost dat să se nască
pentru a te pune la cale:
altădată
să fii mai precaut
în lecturile tale!
The poem playfully critiques the act of reading indiscriminately, mocking both itself and the reader for engaging with texts of questionable value. It examines the relationship between writer, text, and reader, exploring notions of expectation, disappointment, and self-reflection.

The tone is ironic, self-aware, and lightly admonishing. The poem is a "non-poem," undermining its significance while drawing readers into its trap. Its conversational style, fragmented structure, and casual rhythm reinforce the playful nature, making the critique feel lighthearted rather than harsh.

Mocking its lack of depth, the "poem" provokes the reader to reflect on their choices and consider the value of what they consume. At the same time, it critiques the culture of superficial engagement, urging a more thoughtful approach to literature.
I don't recognize it anymore,
I can't decipher it from the words,
From the letters black as lice.
Its wings are broken,
its body was torn and frayed,
Its face is stretched like a puddle on the asphalt.

It's broken into pieces,
Tangled and knotted,
And ugly.
And it stinks, indeed, it reeks...
Of printer's ink
And yellowed paper,
Moldy
And damp.

It's not mine anymore,
I don't recognize it,
It's a stranger to me,
It's mute.

And it can only cough,
And whimper,
And rattle,
And wheeze,
And howl,
And scream,

That it wants to be read,
That it wants to be seen,
Wants to be heard,
Wants to be known,

Felt, grieved, lived, loved.
Whispered, shouted, but most of all:
Sung,
And reread and recited...

And I think
That it might have remained
A beautiful
Unwritten poem.
The poem reflects on loss and disconnection with creation. The author no longer recognizes the poem, describing it as broken, lifeless, and foreign. It’s portrayed as something that once held potential but is now flawed and decaying, longing desperately to be noticed, understood, and loved.

The final lines express regret, suggesting that it might have been more beautiful if it had never been written, leaving readers with a bittersweet reflection on creativity and the unattainable perfection of unfulfilled ideas.
These words
should scream out loud!
They should howl in pain
and weep with tears.

These words should run,
jump,
bend in half,
spit blood,
grind their teeth
and curse!

These words would kick,
grab throats,
bite,
scratch,
pull hair,
and gouge out eyes.

These words would want to curse
and hate.
These words could die
of venom,
only to rise again
and die once more.

These words would go mad...

...if only they could spring to life!
The poem explores words' raw, unbridled potential—what they could achieve if only they had life. It conveys the speaker's frustration and yearning, who sees words as vehicles of emotion and action bound by their inanimate nature.

The theme revolves around expression, emotional intensity, and limitation, portraying words as powerful and helpless.

Each stanza escalates the emotional weight, starting with screaming and weeping, progressing to physical violence, and culminating in madness and resurrection. This crescendo mirrors the speaker’s rising desperation and frustration.

The closing line, "...if only they could spring to life!" is both a ****** and a resolution. It starkly contrasts with the vivid, animated imagery preceding it, emphasizing the static nature of words. Highlights the ultimate limitation of language: no matter how powerful or evocative, it remains inert without human action.
I Love You -

I have no words
to tell you
how much
I love you

all I can say
is that:

I love you
S o  m u c h
that
all the words in the world
aren't enough
to tell you
how  much

I love you.
2003. This love poem emphasizes love's expansiveness and language's limitations in expressing it.

The fragmented spacing in the title and throughout the poem elongates the sentiment, mirroring the vastness of the speaker’s emotion. The poem captures the ineffability of love, suggesting that words often fall short no matter how much one feels. The structure conveys a palpable longing, conveying both the intensity and the fragility of love.
Words are just carbon duplicates
of intertwined shapes to insinuate a specific instruction

Trying to make sense of it all, intricate complications seem to follow the very next sound

Wrapped in their secular meaning and internal definitions, we don't know the true pieces inside them

Does it mean light, dark, weird, crazy, confused, red, green, or gold?

Left, right, or upside down, who knows.
Its a guessing game of sorts. What do you see? Is it the same as me?

Linguistics interrupting unusual interceptions of crossing patterns within mixed mediums

See Jack Run, Red Fish, Blue Fish or 1,2,3
What does this all mean? Is it all free?

Signs of simple or insane complexities
surrounding mental restraints.
Turning the page, what do we see next?

Oh ok, now I get it !! Letters of different languages placed within the confines of a verbal, visual, or audible prison

"Call me Ishmael"
words words words
words on a page
words in a book
words on the stage
words that you took

                                                           ­   from my mind
                                                            ­  my mouth
                                                           ­   my tounge


making them all be gone


                                                          ­    but where they stay
                                                            ­  is in the heart
                                                           ­   treasured in the deepest part


and not too often
should I find myself in sorrow
I'll know what I have to borrow


                                                        ­   those few words you said to me
                                                           I will keep them close forever
                                                         ­  reading them again and again


as if we are together
It feels like people that leave take something of you with them, but I have found out, that in some cases it's something I never wanted to begin with
My words, they have no meaning
On deaf ears they fall.
Torn straight from my heart, still their nothing, not a thing,
Not a thing at all.
You don't believe my love, my pain, or my rage.
They're all just words, sometimes clever, but still just empty words upon a page.
How do I change your perception?
Become more than just the pusher of a pen.
A thousand times I've tried, through oh so many rhymes still here we are,
Here we are again.
Just words falling upon deaf ears.
I'm afraid my words
Will forever rest on
This mediocrity pillow
And I shall never be
Worthy of the
Muse's kiss
A poem about writer's block is such a bad cliché... but my friend Mariya here at HP was just talking the other day about 'der Kuss der Muse', so I think it's appropriate to write about it.
In the flower fields, the breeze blows,
Setting the rhythm for a song that glows.

Even a flower that forbids company will rest upon the earth.
Just one glance from you,
Just one word from you,
What is a sky without clouds adieu?
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