@DeDal N. - Thank you thank you thank you. You got it just right. Si ma bucura nespus. I'm a feminist myself, no worries. Stiu ca multi incurca conotatiile cuvantului si se tem de el teribil dar hei, that's why we're here: to educate. Ma bucur mult ca ti-a placut.
Am un writer's block de milioane, n-am mai scris nimic care sa nu fie eseu pentru vreun curs de vreo trei luni deja, partial din lipsa de timp, partial din lipsa de inspiratie. Too bad happiness isn't quite as inspiring, ca as fi umplut paginile. Pana atunci, mai postez aici niste lamentari putin mai de demult, da-de mi-or folosi ca imbold pentru creativitatea-mi adormita. Enjoy si sunt absolut recunoscatoare pentru orice parere ^_^
open letter to the oblivious
Dear world,
you always blame it
on the dark fog lurking between the cracks,
on the gravy clogging my arteries,
on the menacing figure
from the shadows past moments clothed me in,
the universal antagonist
dreadfully feared
before even coming into being;
you always tell me
to tend the graveyard between my lungs
and pull out the poisonous weeds
nestling behind a broken ribcage -
yet
it seems as if
in your judicious desire to appoint blame
your senses have been comfortably numbed
by this vaguely sweet scent
because oh, dear world,
dear crumbling giant,
you failed to notice
how it's never really the weeds which do one in,
but those tiny, delicate flowers
blooming just under the surface,
roots reaching into the decaying wounds
of your mind,
longing for a gentle rain to shower them with life
as if they wouldn't know
how long a drought can be.
for once, my dear,
be frank.
the murderer wears the kindest of masks.
it's always the hope.
the lies we tell ourselves
"She's such a bitch"
my friend murmurs with a faint yet mischievous smile
dancing at the corners of her lips,
while fleetingly reassuring me
of all the flowers crowning my being
and all the weeds suffocating hers.
She's such a bitch and yet she isn't
and I can't help but marvel
when did we start
hating on blurry silhouettes passing by
simply because their margins scratched our bruised skin
while our fast-paced journeys
intersected
for a split second;
when did we start
blaming oblivious figures
for the chances we missed
or the hearts we failed to touch
simply because their fingertips burned brighter
than ours,
leaving marks
that were easier to trace back;
when did we start
justifying fate's morbid games
by burying unknown souls
into the negligently dug graves
of our own
insecurities
simply because their branches reached for birds
ours had already scared away;
"why did we start"
I whisper
as I wipe my hands on the corners of my shirt
in a nervous attempt to erase
thoughts I never dared to voice
because I don't want the spite clenched around my heart
or the dirt stuck under my fingernails
or the pieces of her I once wished to rip apart
which now stain my perpetual trembling hands
because she's not a bitch
isn't she?
and I hope she makes you happy
Am un writer's block de milioane, n-am mai scris nimic care sa nu fie eseu pentru vreun curs de vreo trei luni deja, partial din lipsa de timp, partial din lipsa de inspiratie. Too bad happiness isn't quite as inspiring, ca as fi umplut paginile. Pana atunci, mai postez aici niste lamentari putin mai de demult, da-de mi-or folosi ca imbold pentru creativitatea-mi adormita. Enjoy si sunt absolut recunoscatoare pentru orice parere ^_^
open letter to the oblivious
Dear world,
you always blame it
on the dark fog lurking between the cracks,
on the gravy clogging my arteries,
on the menacing figure
from the shadows past moments clothed me in,
the universal antagonist
dreadfully feared
before even coming into being;
you always tell me
to tend the graveyard between my lungs
and pull out the poisonous weeds
nestling behind a broken ribcage -
yet
it seems as if
in your judicious desire to appoint blame
your senses have been comfortably numbed
by this vaguely sweet scent
because oh, dear world,
dear crumbling giant,
you failed to notice
how it's never really the weeds which do one in,
but those tiny, delicate flowers
blooming just under the surface,
roots reaching into the decaying wounds
of your mind,
longing for a gentle rain to shower them with life
as if they wouldn't know
how long a drought can be.
for once, my dear,
be frank.
the murderer wears the kindest of masks.
it's always the hope.
the lies we tell ourselves
"She's such a bitch"
my friend murmurs with a faint yet mischievous smile
dancing at the corners of her lips,
while fleetingly reassuring me
of all the flowers crowning my being
and all the weeds suffocating hers.
She's such a bitch and yet she isn't
and I can't help but marvel
when did we start
hating on blurry silhouettes passing by
simply because their margins scratched our bruised skin
while our fast-paced journeys
intersected
for a split second;
when did we start
blaming oblivious figures
for the chances we missed
or the hearts we failed to touch
simply because their fingertips burned brighter
than ours,
leaving marks
that were easier to trace back;
when did we start
justifying fate's morbid games
by burying unknown souls
into the negligently dug graves
of our own
insecurities
simply because their branches reached for birds
ours had already scared away;
"why did we start"
I whisper
as I wipe my hands on the corners of my shirt
in a nervous attempt to erase
thoughts I never dared to voice
because I don't want the spite clenched around my heart
or the dirt stuck under my fingernails
or the pieces of her I once wished to rip apart
which now stain my perpetual trembling hands
because she's not a bitch
isn't she?
and I hope she makes you happy
![[Imagine: 1CGzWYg.png?1]](http://i.imgur.com/1CGzWYg.png?1)
Thank you, Geesushi! ^-^
"these are the days that must happen to you"