i cannot know
ahead

when turning
by mistake

away from
dreams

and towards
tears

sliding
on the ice of grieves

for all
that's lost

and all
that's gone

i hold a candle
prepeared to burn

there must be something
we dont know

till we ourselves 
are lost and gone.

may i tell you the thing
that never gets better
no matter how many times
you agree to repeat

no one is meant to walk
with a scorching feather
left in the crown of 
half-broken wing

ground can be heavy
holding you tighter
but soaring above
you can better live.

don't give me hope
for the days
that yet to come

stay with me
on the day
that is here

howling through night
holding so tight
even knowing
tomorrow won't come

more likely
today is all
we were ever destined to have.

you mean to me
what thunder means to ocean

when life on the wave
crushed against ridgy cliff

i try to hold back
my emotions

but there are days
i am chocking

on cold splashes from them.

it feels like home
to suffer

tearing myself
bit after bit

no need
for judging

masochism is
my kink.

there is magic in fog
and darkness
in all that is white

but

there is no warmth
in cold
dont you even dare
to search for that

i know it 
because
i've faced closed doors
too many times
and as a big girl
i had to swear off
to ever come back.

all the sweet
wonderful
sunny
things
are sinister

to the mind
that
sees them
through the curtain
of tears

bitter
taste
of its lips
sowing
seeds
of never ending night

death
makes
us fight
for a suspicious
peace

ironically
it only
exists
in mind.

Writers write, right?!

But what about other things, we, writers, have to deal with daily. Starting with a very primitive task as to find in the load of these mundane responsibilities time to actually sit and spend an hour in a blissful solitude, writing. What about brainstorming, plotting, figuring out ways through dead corners of story? What about sculpting characters from inside and outside, getting the right faces that will come alive on the pages later? What about getting acquainted with them? I can keep on and on for ages, talking about all the tiny details that come along with this pretty simple word as writing. And no one even considers writing, besides the ones who at least once tried to write, as something serious.

Every time I say that I am a writer, w...

who is next?
this heart is such a mess

but i keep sacred place
for hosting someone special

who does not walk this earth
but knows 
how to walk through storms

i throw
like a fevered child in tantrum

decpite all common sense
there is

in hardly ordered world.

this rain
in my heart
is more of a honey water

dripping
this flesh of my insides
like a flood
of celestial event

pure
and
normal

i know how dive
without protecting
mask

and yet

i go
half way
to the bottom.

never
-
too short
for a promise

given
no price
and no order

abolished
in reeling
of notice

distilled
by vangeance

you've
never been
stubborn

enough

to get
where
-
never
-
inhabits

to rake
to the core
your pieces of mind.

my roots
spread wild
in the foreign ground

no place
is allowed
to leave behind

memory's touch
leaves prints
on the trunks

shelled
in a capsule
swallowed from sight

spreading
just wider
till lost in the ground

it grows
into something
alien to life.

if i can't breathe again
i force myself wake up

and walk

where?

does not really matter
i'll figure on the way.