She is on the right way


Although all seemed right in the years of the near past

she was hardly seeing any happiness as if a curse someone has cast.

It takes a lot of effort to get off the floor when lying all alone

when to having fate in something else but yourself you are not prone.

And in such times a normal human would look up in the hands of his own

he would merge them for a prayer and pray some god on imaginary throne.

She looked up in her hands as well, but she prayed not even a bit

she only promised to her to lift herself up and still not quit.

In times of crowds walking by, needing her to fit in

she was getting determined in her way all fights to win.

It has been quite a time passed, she stands now on her legs still

although sometimes an insignificant fear teases her will.

Yet she walks the road she is making on her own

and this time she does it much more grown.

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Play of the day (off shore)

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The word she didn’t know


Even though often one grabs the chance to say it
the thought of it made her mostly too early to quit
she didn’t know what tone it had when spoken
she have heard of it only when its parts are broken.

A warrior they say mostly runs alone
a warrior doesn’t want to be in any kind owned
a warrior runs first, she wasn’t born to follow
a warrior must learn his bitterness in loneliness to swallow.

Such warrior keeps his fear as a friend
such warrior has no right and time to bend
such warrior – she couldn’t anything else to be
such warrior may never know the sound of ‘we’.

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A poet is a warrior


She got stuck while trying to stay out of the riddle
Her wishes, her hopes, her everything is trapped there in the middle.
To speak out, or write down – she already told all the stories
Yet, she keeps it simple, no glamour, no riches, no glory.
Still, when a loner keeps pace on his road only with his traces left behind
To learn from his lessons, and trust no one he should have in mind.
Life is a hard road to take if you don’t have good shoes on
Once you allow yourself to think you have it all, it could all be gone.
She learned a lot, and yet she still has the will to fight
Only now, she is ready to conquer, she wants this time a bigger bite.
Roulette might be dangerous, but so as chess if you don’t know the rules
But a poet knows those thinking to know a lot are the biggest fools.

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Trust is like a mirror, you can’t fix it if it’s broken!


She putted too much effort in keeping her one and only face

And although restless she fought, she had to give up the race.

People walk around talking about others, caring for things

She sees only self destructive minds, while she the warning alarm rings.

And than she remembered real warriors always get their time to rest

To take care for their needs, since their soul already too long fests.

She took a mirror, set by the window with her coffee and a piece of paper

She saw her reflection and remembered all disappointments that many times raped her.

She looked back for a while and tried to hold on to a name worth enough

She only saw herself walking the road, and no one to hold her in the arms tough.

A warrior gets a title in the end, he becomes hero, but he may be without a friend

And battles have only thought him, a real winner knows when the head not to bend.


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The search


It was long ago and it still is now

to find peace one wants to know how

to set aside all glitters of modern times

get stuck in poetry and medieval rhymes.

Peace is not a matter of how to do

it is something already present within you

just you may need to walk your own pilgrimage

and get the lessons on your own lonely voyage.

Loners know it is not an easy road to take,

but no easy road a warrior out of a man makes.

So if the path is all in glitter and easy to walk

go for your calling and don’t look back with fools to talk.

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My poetry


My poetry

isn’t only verses,

nor some work of art

waiting for aplause…

My poetry

isn’t mostly rhymes

made to form a masterpiece

doomed to be subject of admiration

in the eyes of those

who haven’t lived as poets

not even for a moment…

My poetry is truth.

My poetry is me.

It does not make me more that you

but it certainly makes me enough for him,

the poet.

And so than I do have courage

to question:

‘Shell we dance?’

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Seize the day


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Here is an honest female writing


Since I started this blog, I had the same aim I had long ago, exactly when I was 12 years old. My research was then and now almost equal: to find the meaning of life, why do we live. In the last year of blogging, the more I tried to socialise, the more I was getting back to the prime urge of every female that becomes visible within the growth and the years: the need of male protection, such that is a kind of refugee from the home where a female child has grown up.

Unfortunately, no matter how much woman look like they are pretty on the outside, and think they are successfull, they are aware that 21 century looks more like a beauty competition, a grotesque of beauty dolls, which have only their genitals as weapon.

We have finally learned that all that man want is women, no matter if it is for a day, week or a lifetime, and for women it is clear that all they want is attention. What kind of women and what kind of attention they want is a matter of their past experiences, i.e. their family relations. All in all, all dreamers that tend to find the love of their life, are also in search of their private nest, where they could make their love flourish. The thing is, men and woman have different perspetive on love, but what matters is that love makes us live. That is why there is stil hunger, wars, poverty… People understand love only as a male-female relation. Such view on love creates unfortunately only egos that will consider the physical act of sex as highest form od giving love. Egos are never worried for the poverty, the world’s hunger etc. They anticipate such organisations only because they want to build a name, to become someone, not knowing that they are only dolls in the grotesque called society…

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The mask of the new beginning


When the glitter of the summer morning

becomes lonely

the – Missing thing – comes by

to tickle the wounds of our past

lifting us up

towards the dawn

of the new beginnings

spiced with the truth

of our existance.

Karma then takes the main role

just as a roze with thorns

some smell the flower

others are victimes of the thorns.

Life is a funny ball

always was

always will be

and only true lovers

will learn the dance of its existance.

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