Only the *******
of the vilest of muses.

Made of clay,
sculpted by pain and grief.
Hope paints faint strokes
of colour here and there.

Made of mud,
moulded by fear and memories.
Love draws childish details
no one else could see.

Only the *******
of a crooked muse.

Made of dry sand,
we are destined to be destroyed
by our own very essence.

Only the *******
of a sadistic muse.

Like the breeze that begins
in a butterfly’s wings,
turns into zephyrs.
The absent words of yesterday
turn into clay.

Only the *******
of a cruel muse,
and the foolishest of poets.

With souls craving water,
love drowns us in an oasis—
yet pain forgot to sculpt a throat.

With hearts craving answers,
hope drowns us in a crowd—
yet fear forgot to mould ears.

Only the *******
of the evilest muse,
and a poet too much in love.


[Another recurrence of The Unwritten—spilled as art.
Raw expressions from an overwhelmed mind, and a trickster heart.]

It’s the poem I carry inside,
Here, by my heart, where it’s always stayed,
And even I cannot decide
If I’ll ever write what it’s begged to be made

I feel its soft pulse, its quiet hum,
Yet, why am I scared to give it a name?
Or is it that, though its fire may come,
Heavy words would shatter its delicate flame?

*
(original poem, Romanian)

Despre poezia nescrisă

E poezia pe care o port cu mine,
Aici, în piept, în dreptul inimii era
Şi chiar nici eu nu ştiu prea bine
Dacă am s-o mai scriu cândva.

Îi simt vibraţiile moi, i-aud bătaia mică,
Însă de ce nu *** s-o scriu, de ce s-o scriu mi-e frică?.
Ori, deşi arde focul ei şi pieptul mi-l străbate,
Grele cuvintele-ar strivi făptura-i fină, poate?

Words they dance on paper, as my body loses strength.

My mind it races onwards, as my soul feels it may fade.

This pen keeps on writing, as my heart forgets to beat.

Every time I open up, another piece of me is ripped from my story.

My binding is bent and worn, with every page torn.

Once I was a fantasy, a story they could not wait to see.

As they read right through me, skimming every page-
the words for volume two, slowly came to view.

Drafts are left unfinished, the story more diminished.

Lonely ink spots, point out the unraveling plots.

I can write all on my own but I wanted to collaborate,
each new character felt like a twist of fate.

I studied every line, every single quote.
Looking for deeper meaning, but in the end it's all they wrote.

No after word, no biography-
not a single explanation as to why they never chose me.

Here's my dedication, I should always put myself first.
I am the author and the story, never unversed.

As long as my words are still written, this light inside could never be fully hidden.

Bring me home, if you want to write in permanent ink, if you won't leave me to myself.
Those that cannot understand and truly love the novel I am, then please I ask all you borrowers, just leave me on the shelf.

𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒 ,
𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒'𝑠 𝑡𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒?
.
.
𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑚 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛...