Blog

on my way up

This is the excerpt for your very first post.

not that many years ago i was learning how to take care of myself.  among other things i did that made me feel, i’ve started writing what one may call a poetry.

i’ve done so for about two years and it actually worked surprisingly well, in making me feel, that is.

on some point, i recon it was enough of feeling already,  i’ve stopped and all these lengthy words were just sitting on my computer, pretty forgotten and well, useless.

recently i felt this sudden and unexplained urge to touch them again, and may be to take them out so that they can breathe a little bit of virtual air.

so this is going to be a retrospective look on my way up.

rabbit burglar beast- 19.07.17

inspirations.cgrecord.net-SilviaPelissero-6

*artwork- by Silvia Pelissero (a.k.a Agnes-Cecile) via inspirations.cgrecord.net

 

Anxiety is swift

Is a rabbit hiding in a high grass

Jumping on the path in front of you

Shuffling your thoughts in a second

Is a skillful burglar

That bursts into your walls

Robs you of the ever thinning peace and

quiet.

Is a ghostly beast, it smiles in your face

While watching you fail.

After being tamed for too long

It wants its freedom

Back and big.

So I have no choice

But to submit and surrender.

I’m letting it feed on plentiful of my fears

Primarily on the one that flickers in my head

In  massive neon-red letters:

“Am I able to bring and sustain life?”

the trial-19.06.17

*artwork- via miscellaneoushi.com

יער מפחיד

 

Tiny seed of longing

Was planted in me when I was two.

I’ve never been asked for a permission

But nevertheless

I’ve taken care of it relentlessly

Fostering it into monstrosity

Letting it

Weave its branches into every supple cell of mine

To keep me buried under

An unrestrainable jungle of thoughts

To sentence me to an infinite

Trial

fir trees of my years-30.06.15

*artwork- via pintrest.com

e563d08e51ac6640de3bad953507cf9b

 

I’ve gone astray

Amongst the fir trees of my years

Under cold snows

Relived

During sweaty summer evenings.

I’ve failed to tie a string

Or  leave a bread crumbs trail

So I can find my way back

(36 years ago)

When I slipped into this world

And maybe then was happy.

 

Invariably, i am

( a sad little girl- an angsty adolescent-an all accepting woman)

Just looking for a place,

One guarded and secure,

To keep my hopes.

 

foreigner -30.06.15

7._reflection

*artwork- “reflection” by belle yang via themuseum.org

 

Every time I open my mouth

To let my words out

I witness the strangeness

Staring at me in the eyes of the beholder.

 

Will I ever be a foreigner to all the languages I’ve learnt to love?

 

My elusive place in this universe

Is concealed, hiding behind

The (un)dyeing hope to belong.

 

The walls that I’ve never built,

Neither real nor ones inside

Built themselves anyway and

Even translucent

They separate me from myself

And I can’t reach

The threshold of where I begin

And where the world ends.

 

The lines I’ve written upon the bitterness of my sixteen years

On the blue wall of my youth

Have they come true?

 

Two decades after, now

Am I able to distinguish

Between the secondary and the essence?

 

Am I able?

To take care?

To caress?

To enclose?

To embrace?

To accept

As a fact, as an undisputed given,

Every written mistake

Every word that will ever be left mispronounced?

Everything that I’ve had to forget

And suppress into the deepest

Every hazy image

Nostalgic

Refined

And loathed?

 

I will throw it all up onto the surface

And will investigate, thoroughly

Under magnifying glass

That is molten from chunks of my life

Scattered between here and there.

 

picking a scab-14.01.15

AB6EKAAA6QAWSAIAAAAAB5ABNEA7777774AAAAAALABLCAIA

*artwork- “wound” by pejac via artcollectorz.com

 

When I pick a scab,

Tiny echo of ache,

What do I wish to feel?

Quite simple.

To feel.

It’s yearning for yearning.

An infinite plowing through barren fields

Of terrain so hard and  frozen.

Burnt.

Forsaken.

Orphaned.

No woman’s land.

My enslavement to pain

Never loosens its grip.

Devout hostage to sour lump in my throat, I am.

Won’t ever spit out

Won’t ever push in.

That’s right.  For

Being tormented is of rarest value.

gratitude-29.03.16

*artwork- “sun dance” via artfinder.com/paigecastile

tumblr_n4wh58IFKF1qlvsdpo1_500

when i step into my room,

after a long day of waiting for things

to happen,

i am about to have two hours of

witnessing the sun hitting my space lovingly

caressing my face like my grandma never would.

right there and then my day starts to unfold

and right there and then my heart is full with

Gratitude

for all the little and great things that i can feel

and touch and see and experience

nothing is taken for granted

for every slippery moment is precious.

so this light that consumes the rooms

for about two hours, daily

is a tenacious reminder of appreciation

for whatever virtues i was granted.

such a cute couple-20.07.12

*artwork- via mulfingered.tumblr.com

c2edeaa462c7dbe3636a52b326a23398

and.
does my silence hints i am serene at last?
knowing that i use words only to describe the absent.
reality check time has come
what an eye opening,
i laugh and tear
all together.

such a cute couple we are
we manage to fool them all
so eager this time it works
we are using blindfolds day and night
to keep the doubts of despair out
and in – these shallow lights
of hope and trust and warmth.

the pattern-02.12.11

*artwork-“dark matter” by luca l. via studentartguide.com

dark-matter-charcoal

all the colors of mine
are not enough
to block the blackness
all the words i used to know
are wiped clean
by the persistence of your silence

so i get pulled, again
into turbulence of my dreads
fueled by vigor of your own

the story repeats itself
again and again
and again
vicious
cruel void
we are so powerless
in this love
love

you can not bear the most of me
and i want out so bad
but then you drop
the magic words
they work unfailingly
and i give in
give up
smiling
charmed, blinded by the sweetness of promise
and mute for some more
because there’s touch
it feels so god damn right
to get lost in our dizzy childish truths
and lies, so white, transparent almost
they help us through another day
of pretending

a prayer for ariel-24.08.11

*artwork-“unlocking nine locks” by laura simms via touchdrawing.com

<a style="color: #666666; text-decoration: none;" onclick="window.open('http://touchdrawing.com/conferenceprints-order/','Conference Fine Art Prints','scrollbars=yes,resizable=yes,width=850,height=650,left=100,top='+(screen.availHeight/2-325)+'');return false;" href="http://touchdrawing.com/conferenceprints-order/">UNLOCKING NINE LOCKS Transforming Trauma through Story - Laura Simms 
CTT-17 — ORDER FINE ART PRINTS</a>

 

frozen hand of mercy
squeezes my throat mercilessly
every time he is near.
——-
i failed
he is down
so i am screaming soundlessly
so he won’t hear
so he falls
slowly-er
so he falls
on the soft ground
on the green grass
on someone else’s hands

35 years old child
he did cry twice
when i hugged him close
and he let me touch,
then for the briefest moment,
he showed
and i’ve panicked
and now he is
a tiny shadow of the man he used to be
when he was 20.

i pray for ariel to be back