Breathe Me In

Sunt multe lucruri pe care le simt, le vreau, le doresc cu intarziere, dar ma bucur de un singur lucru mic si amarat – macar am ajuns in punctul in care sa simt, sa vreau, sa doresc…
A trecut atata timp, aglomerat cu frustrari si neputinta, a trecut atata amar de vreme amara, m-am ofilit si vestejit si n-a fost nimeni sa ma scoata la liman, dar uite ca uneori trebuie doar sa te scoti singur.
Acum, e-adevarat, locul din dreapta mea e gol, dar nu imi plang de mila – ma mir inca de faptul ca pe locul din stanga lui sunt eu, caci anul trecut pe vremea asta asteptam sfarsitul. Singura mea greseala era ca-l asteptam pe-al meu.
Acum trebuie sa ma invat sa-mi pese iar, sa nu mai fiu robotul asta trist din mine si, poate, cu timpul, se vor ivi si alte motive de respirat. I’ll breathe me in for now, and you can do that too.
Everyone welcome to my funeral
Everyone I know better be wasted
You know I would pour one up
Cause the way I lived, it was amazing
Uh-uh-uh
All of my friends are in the room
Uh-uh-uh
Party for me – I’d party too

netoata

incomplete-jpgam cuvinte scrise-n carne,
si sapi in mine nefacute gauri
de suflet si privire verde.
mai stii povestea de demult, ce nu se vede?
am cuvinte care sunt rani adanic,
si zgurmi in mine nestiute drumuri
de-albastru cer de nepatruns.
mai stii cumva ce ti-am ascuns?
am cuvinte amare, goale si prea multe,
si cauti in ele acoperis
de ploaia care tulbura fiinta-mi toata.
mai stii tu la-nceput, cand eram netoata?

pic.

prostie

si-mi plac minciunile cu tine,
ca au aroma aia de dialog fierbinte,
e ca si cum ne-ar pasa de ce ne spunem,
ce simtim,
ce ne-amintim,
iar seara, prinsi sub plapumi, amandoi,
ne dam mesaje cu substanta,
si scriem cuvintele pe care le credem potrivite,
fara sa mai simtim nici frig,
fior, placere,
atingere,
durere,
si niciunul din noi nu mai crede ca vreodata
o sa mai ajungem in punctul ala in care
o sa ne spunem ca iubirea invinge tot.
e doar o prostie de copii, si-o stie lumea toata.

Fifteen, or Maybe Twenty Years

When we are born,
we lose ourselves.
Our parents take us,
nurture us,
or maybe torture us,
stalling our memories of former selves,
keeping us from finding ourselves.
All they seem to do is shaping us in ways they think are best,
or ways they wish they could’ve taken long ago,
but mostly ways that other people told them about.
And all those ways are usually nothing like what we want to become,
and it’s confusing,
and it’s hurtful,
and nothing here seems to work,
because we wait fifteen, or maybe twenty years
to regain that sense of self that was taken from us
long time ago.
We don’t deserve the stalling and the tears,
but thinking about what we could be gets up through all the years
of pain and suffering and not being ourselves.

Maybe you found yourself today.
Go on, talk to yourself, see what you have to say.

Pic.

Undo

Stii cumva cate cuvinte ai luat inapoi, pe tacute, neinteles de linistea din jurul, obosit de furia din tine?

Nici eu nu stiu, si e ca si cum as da drumul unui robinet de amintiri tarzii. Sunt momentele alea in care iti doresti alte drumuri, sa fii singur sau alaturi de altcineva, momentele alea in care ce traiesti acum e infricosator, enervant, momentele alea in care nu rezisti sa nu spui cuvinte care dor.

N-am stiut niciodata cum sa fiu aproape de cineva si sa nu fiu exploziva. De obicei, cand ma cunosti, ai senzatia ca sunt cea mai aroganta fiinta de pe planeta. Bineinteles, nu ma absolv de vina, doar ca la cateva secunde dupa aceea realizezi ca sunt timida si sfioasa, si ca mi-e tot timpul grija ca poate ranesc pe cineva, sau deranjez, sau inoportunez.

introvert-drawingNu prea stiu eu cum sa ma comport in public, si oricum sunt introvertita, asa ca ce rost are sa mai invat la varsta asta?

Si timpul trece, si eu devin relaxata langa tine, si incepi sa vezi ca fac urat la nervi. Adica ma enervezi si te las in drum, sau imi stric ceasul, ca sa nu-ti stric mutra aia enervanta. Arunc cu telefonul pe scari, sau rup toate frunzele dintr-un copac.

Nu stiu sa fiu egala, si oricum mi-e tot timpul grija ca nu sunt mai sus ca tine. E un defect – cand ai fost jos toata viata ta, o sa vrei mereu sa fii mai sus ca ceilalti. Sa ai jobul cel mai misto, iubitul cel mai bun, pantofii cei mai multi. Si e o intreaga competitie intre mine, cea care sunt, si eu, cea care as vrea sa fiu. Si obosesc, pentru ca nu reusesc sa bifez toate lucrurile pe care le-as vrea.

Si cel mai tare ma enervez pe mine, si nu stiu daca ma enervez pentru ca vreau prea multe sau prea putine, sau pentru ca nu am rabdare, sau pentru ca nu sunt organizata.

Oh, doamne, sunt atat de plina de minusuri, si cand ma gandesc ca doar ele ma ajuta sa devin mai buna!…

Pic.

Can You Handle Me?!

Sometimes I feel like I am feeling too much, sometimes I feel like I am thinking too much. There’s never enough of one kind in me, and there’s always something that’s missing deep down inside. I’m not sure if all these feelings and all these thoughts are what I am supposed to live right now, but they are the only thing I have for myself, so I try to get by.

I try to get by past the indifference and past the heartache, past the people that hurt me, past the people that weren’t honest. Past all of those who didn’t have the balls to say things to my face, and past those who had the balls to say something mean and gratuitous, without a real base.

I try to get by past the people who take „please, forgive me” for granted, as they take me for granted. Past the people who think that, if I ever felt something towards them, that feeling will still be here forever and they can play that card anytime they wish.

I try to feel, without feeling too much, and I try to think, without overthinking. But this is all I am good at – overzealous feeling coupled with a big paranoid brain that never sleeps. And I can handle that, but can you handle me?!

Internet Affair

Thank God that this is only an internet affair.
She thought while typing furiously about kisses.
virtual kisses for a virtual man,
While her real man was in bed,
Asleep,
Unaware,
Sincere,
And loving.
Thank God he doesn’t know I know the Wi-Fi password.
She thought as she was imagining all the ways
She should have been kissed,
Or held,
Or loved,
Or whatever.

Thank God she doesn’t know I know.
He thought while reading the words she typed about kisses.
Those virtual kisses for a virtual man,
While he was real
And he was in her bed.
He read all that stuff about sleeping,
And loving,
And caring,
While thinking no one cares,
And no one loves,
And no one sleeps with somebody now.
So why is he sad?
Why is he hurt?
It’s only an internet affair
And she knows the Wi-Fi password.