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One in a million Feb 2014
Where am i ?
                 What i'm doing here ?
I'm looking through my shadow
                 But what do i see ?
Black soul , maniac thoughts
                 How am i still living ?
I'm "almost" destroyed mentally
                  Physically strong as rock
Why can't i control myself ?
                  I'm so insecure , immature
I'm having Schizophrenia
                  Dementia praecox
Fundamental derangement of my mind
                  Probably caused by an emotional disorder
Emotional illness affecting in my personality
                  I'm Neurosis , Neurasthenic
Nerve dysfunction  


                 I'm walking away
To forget all this pain
                 To walk and never get back
Part of my body already dead
                 I don't know if i'm going to survive
From this midlife crisis
                This is nothing that elapsed
I'm sure it's just the beginning of hell
                 Half spent
Not much left
                 That's how it used to be
That's how it going to be
                Struggling with desease
Smiling is hard but easy
                As much as slutty
Psychotic confession
                Irritability
I hope you like this poem ! it has alot of cold and ****** emotions ! if you look deeply inside you'll see the meaning of this poem ! it's depressing and most of it is true except for being psychopath , neurosis , .... It's just my imagination
rolanda Jan 2014
translation from russian by rolanda


                                                   E.К
I write you from ex-colonia
grounded twenty centuries ago
by romans-sounds like a symphony
for hyperborean ear, hundred time
increased distance till addressee.
Looks like Agrippa knew what she did
the sister, worth by her madness of her brother.
Further cinematograph-**** body
bent and etc..accordingly screenplay
maid lapping in marble bathtube
horns leads triumphal aria
with a long sound. On the backstage
usual complaining on the fate,
tangent glance to the east,
muscle of cease  walk
the female wolf her concrete ******,
snapping, moving back to the building of arsenale
lost fatten twins.
I recollect what you didnt finish to say me
closing second door on the bolt,
on same spot there is a snow, cover up Prachechnij bridge
panorama of river, filled up by ice,
something with tear through two thousand miles
or old age with saged belly.
In our age, verticals are
soaring unreachable, slipping to result
of life, just right to dress on sandals
but hardly happens to slip into toga.
Invariable law of falling drops
down, no matter- fontain, rain, ******.
Harbour of postscript...rats storm the ship.
Funeral office offers moire
from spring collection for upholstery of
coffins, grief on the faces of personals,
just in time served coffee with cream
soften disaster of final account.
I write you, for what? - after victory
of foreign football team
from the closeness of prosperous summer,
connected Alps and Andes
by wave of psychose from tv,
inflicted by joy of superiority
above..(not clear what of), and their poses
of victors is sign of ugliness
from point of view of observer-
old neurasthenic and misantrope.
Contemplating fly of pterodactyl
by eye of stamped cyclop,
gilded **** on short spike of chirch
scream by voice of Luter:
"Be blessed folks cars!",
and  morning flow down by sunrise on wood

by Dmitrij Poparev

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