Ciresul

...E o radacina uscata, 

Ca o cruce, 

De cires. 

Atat a mai ramas, 

Din copilarie, 

Si din umbra cu sclipiri navalnice, 

Ca niste cirese de mai, 

Ce ma ispitesc, 

Sa ma imbat cu amintirea lor 

Sau cu aroma poeziilor nescrise.

                                    Amurg

...De liniste cuprins, murit-am deci, sau mi se pare / Ca simt miasma ierbii, suav ramiros de floare / Pamant intins in zare....in palcuri curg ciulinii / Se-nchide ochiul apei pe urmele luminii / Trec pasari. Mai sus ca sufletu- mi de ceara / La marginea padurii, cu umbre, ma-mpresoara / Amurg, incet, coboara, cu aripi moi si reci / De liniste cuprins, murit-am deci...

                                               Depression      

You are the literal universe
Not the center either
but the whole thing

Your blood is a galaxy
While your heart is a star
fuming with love and lust

But on your darkest days
Your eyes turn into black holes
Your soul turns into an empty void
destroying everything and anything you ever loved

Your bones that once structured your whole world
will crumble and turn into a dust of dullness

The scientist will diagnosis you with a word
that will be meaningless to you but still makes your heart skip a beat

But know that you're not broken
Your body of the universe is just expanding and growing
in this rather cruel world where we all have to call home

                                      

                                     Melancholy

                                       Smoke Melancholy       

In that period of time he began pouring his trust into a half a pint cups of local beer and cheap cigarettes, local as well, which he could afford, who would have guessed?...
He used to gaze at girls with a curious and contemplative look that was also full with sadness and despair, instantly advocating for the holy mission and function of the prostitutes and the escort ladies and he already a abandoned the idea of having a pet except the turtle.
From time to time he use to scribble incomprehensible prose and poetry and couldn't find any condolence even in Hemingway or Cobain.
His only consolation was with the pen and watching the sunset off the sandy sea shore, for he could be sure that the same sun isn't dying buy only moving to a better place.
It seemed like he will leave after him numerous beginnings for stories and a lot of middles as well...
Sometimes, it would have seems to him that the first end he's going to write is going to be his own.
Leaving behind communities of characters that all their world is nothing but a few words, that seems like they are going to prosper and blossom but they were faded and gone like the sole of the candle's flame on top of a birthday cake, which was blown off while giggling her childhood laughter, leaving behind a delicate and curly thread of smoke, that is gone in a blink of an eye.
At the age of twenty-two he began writing his own eulogy, like this miserable old woman, preparing her own shrouds, but from that too he was finely despaired.

                                   Malancholy      

Again I hide in the empty shadows
like a lumbering beast
felled by the pain of an ancient wound

A familiar suffocating grief
flows along salty streams
that carry me to sleep's warm embrace

I am gone, lost, fading day by endless day
hearing only the hum of the living world
and the endless ticking of the clock

Blindly I've stumbled upon
the well worn pathways of self rebuke
so strangely reassuring to me now

The ghosts smell blood in the water
already they are circling
sleep, sleep, blessed black velvet sleep