My old poems: It’s nice to sit outside at the end of the day

 

It’s nice to sit outside at the end of the day

It’s nice to sit outside

Listening to the birds singing

Dreaming of my future life

Looking at the pink clouds

Trying to figure out

What tomorrow will bring…

 

It’s nice to sit outside

In the silence of my own

Listening to the wind’s whispers

Smelling the new born flowers

Thinking about the night that will come…

 

It’s nice to sit outside

Looking at the last rays of light

Learning from my mistakes

Thinking about my day…

 

It’s nice to sit outside

Looking at the velvet sky, covered in stars

Thinking about my past…

 

It’s nice to sit outside

Slowly falling asleep: dreaming about life…

 

It’s nice to sit outside

My old poems: A piercing cry of my soul

A piercing cry of my soul

                          Silence

                          Searching for  the unknown

                          Looking for something new

                          Beneath my own skin

                          It feels like I am in a dark

                          Hot tropical rain forest

                          Trying to find the ray of light

                          Sweat’s is rolling down my cheeks

                          Salty tears reflect the horror

                          Of being lonely, not understood

                          The borders are around me

                          Like trees in the tropical forest

                          Magnificent walls surround me   

                          I can not reach the top

                          No one wishes to put down the trees

                          No one wishes to share the light

                          I am all by myself searching

                          Looking for something new

                          Beneath my own skin

                          Hearing the piercing cry of my soul

                          Silence  

My old poems: Under the umbrella of my love

Under the umbrella of my love

He hides himself on the hot day

Under the umbrella of my hot love

He collects the drops of the cold rain

Under the umbrella of my sweet love

He finds the sweetest thing in the world

Under the umbrella of my pleasing love

He finds every pleasure on the planet Earth

Under the umbrella of my silent love

He knows what I mean if I look at him

Under the umbrella of my wild love

He knows how to turn tigress into a cat

 Under the umbrella of my daring love

He knows that I’ll follow him anywhere he goes

Under the umbrella of my protective love

He will not burn his skin under the burning sun

Under the umbrella of my delicate love

He will never be wounded or lonely

Under the umbrella of my daydream love

He will sleep like a baby in mother’s hands

Under the umbrella of my perfect love

He will always love me no matter how

Under the umbrella of my playful love

He knows that I am not playing a game

Under the umbrella of my sleepless love

He will give me kisses of burning sand

 Under the umbrella of my strange love

He knows I love him but he doesn’t know why

Under the umbrella of my love

When the blog stood still…

I have to accept that my real journal will never be replaced by this or any other blog. My journal sits on the table, under the bed, in a hot car and waits for me like a good old friend. It is not judgemental, it does not care if I write in it right away or if I leave it alone for years. My journal is a friend. It has no opinions of its own and no audience. This blog, on the other hand, has no patience  and will take no excuses from me. I can’t feel like I am in control of it, because even after a few months I can tell that it wants to be written, changed… it wants to be used. There is no limit to its pages.

It is flexible and ever changing.

It is unique.

This blog knew that it was being ignored. I can tell you, it did not like that. I tried to resist it, but it haunted me in my dreams. I dreamt of ideas, stories to write and posts to edit. Every morning I woke up this computer and this blog gave me its electric stare that it is impossible to shake off. I can not resist it. Today, I’ve decided that I just need to write- anything, words, stories, a post after a post, day in and day out. It has to be done.

If my blog stands still that means that I also stand still. I am empty. I am not interesting. I have nothing to say and even less to share. I cannot experiment and thus I cannot evolve. It will evolve into something else.

An empty blog with broken promises.

If I decided to start this- I should continue and so should you. It is after all same as going to the gym, eating healthy, staying on track, and succeeding… Once you start you can not stop. If you got the gym once a year, what is the point?

This blog is not a journal, it is an exploration. It doesn’t let me go if I am not interested. It mocks me with its calender that counts the days that I have not used for writing. It keeps the score. 

Rain: it only rains when I am in it.

What is it with me an the rain? We have no common understanding of each other. We try to live our separate lives but we still run into each other on the streets and on the parking lots. Rain’s touch is a blessing and a curse. I think it doesn’t like me. It violates my private space, it hits me in the face, it blinds me, and leaves me cold. Rain kills the beast I travel on; my metal horse gets paralized as if it was stung. This happens every time it rains. I should be used to it, but I always find a reason to get out and be a part of it.

It hates me, it tricks me, it makes me sad. It’s a creature that can stay around for days or vanish in seconds. I am always involved with it. If I watch it from a distance I enjoy it; when it touches me I dislike it. What is with the hate and the love.

Why is there so much duality?