What It Means To Be Needed.

TRAVEL TO INFINITY

In a obstacle of time

My spirit was rising,

Calling the unknown demons

That caught my own heart.

Captured by the sunlight

I could read the given symbols

Formed as bird clouds in the sky.

In my own world i defined death

As another start through this whole battle in infinity,

Through the land of the missing

Which cracked me and led me

To unforgotten sea of mystery.

There was no such thing as the ability to resist the voices of mermaids catching your breath,

The ability to open up your world

To another face that remains the same difficult pain,

I relive in the ocean,

I breathe when there's no more sorrow to borrow.

Voices who recall my sweet memories,

They tremble in my head,they bring me the essamble,

I stay in troubles to justify them,to change them into something unsaved.

I could see no more demons among my dread,

I could release,break through someone's angle,for helping my distant self.

My heart is not having depths,

My mind's getting overwhelmed with signs,

Conquered thoughts,

Different lights,

Everything flashes

As i travel back in time.

-t.f.s.

Ние сме живи , душата ми трепти

домът е близо , виждам светлини

които водят до стотици звезди ,

аз и ти сме частици от вселената

а дори и не го знаем , не сме способни

защото сме просто бучка пръст ,

пръст която ще съживи дворци, други души ,

ще обиколи всички звезди , всички облаци

за да върне онова което ни принадлежи - вселената , нашият дом , завинаги .

“Find meaning. Distinguish melancholy from sadness. Go out for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk in the park, spring at its most spectacular moment, flowers and smells and outstanding poetical imagery smoothly transferring you into another world. It doesn’t have to be a walk during which you’ll have multiple life epiphanies and discover meanings no other brain ever managed to encounter. Do not be afraid of spending quality time by yourself. Find meaning or don’t find meaning but “steal” some time and give it freely and exclusively to your own self. Opt for privacy and solitude. That doesn’t make you antisocial or cause you to reject the rest of the world. But you need to breathe. And you need to be.”

— Albert Camus, from Notebooks, 1951-1959

Депресията е разтопен асфалт - мирише упойващо, лепне, прави краката ти тежки.

Muse.

the color of your tiptoes are underlined in pain

wearing

same mistakes again

and again

and

again .

questions are answers you barely know

slipping outside of your window ,

truth escapes your roots

and it hurts to press it

while it still blows .

oh , what a foolish and pretending man you are ,

like a cover of a résumé ,

distinguished , yet afraid

to touch the tip of my lips

without letting my grip slip ,

tone out of reach ,

with a husky , voice deep ,

haunting , inspiring and neat

like a pleasing feeling

tickling me , kissing my fingers

- you're art , unavoidable , breathtaking

tearing everything apart , a daydreamer .

-t.f.s.

Senryū X

Your heart is wounded

in an empty hole all the

way back into soul .

-t.f.s.

The Poet Beyond

I’m sorry I’m not a poet

Though I masquerade; I flow it

My pen moves too often when it is not my hand.

Indeed it is my fingers, but those lines were not my land.

There is a writer, beyond my view.

And they supply me with poems that are new.

I wish to pen, wish to spill

But my mind sits empty, despite my will.

And in moments as such, when I have the need, but not the ink

The Poet beyond my eyes offers me his drink.

And so he lets me steal from him a rhyme or two

In hopes it unlocks one of mine, in time, or a few.

But often I walk away with the whole work, and he knows it.

Because though I may want to be, I’m sorry, I’m not a poet.

Henry James, from The Portrait of a Lady

The tip of your fingers led me to beautiful places- like the beauty in your eyes,

but in my dreams they were slowly fading

when you rushed our kiss to end.

-t.f.s.

Poet is a storm.

I am writing in directions hoping to find the answer,

losing myself in a spiral of unworthiness,

my crazy mind recreated loneliness.

I needed to release the chaos with word,

moulding them into power coming

through a heart of glass that's glowing.

Formed a shape that only words

could come through a mind,

shaving the mud from my arms

to distract the miserable feeling

that caught me off guard.

I myself am not the best writer,

but if my poetry was made of gold,

If my soul burns in fire (motivation),

then i'm proud to be a storm.

-t.f.s.