Izbucniri

“Cu câte iluzii trebuie să mă fi născut ca să pot pierde câte una în fiecare zi!…” – Emil Cioran

Tag: poetry

You are my everything

I look at you and see a queen
I look around and see nothin’
I look at you and see the world
You are my shield, you are my sword

I look inside, deep in your eyes
And then, my soul begins to rise
You are my one and only flower
You are the main source of my power

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Daily Prompt: Childhood Revisited | And I was just 3 years old

“That’s right, we’re introducing weekend prompts — let no day go uninspired!

What is your earliest memory? Describe it in detail, and tell us why you think that experience was the one to stick with you.”

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Well, my earliest memory is from 94′, when I was just 3 years old. I’ve even seen a tape with the “young me” recently, so the memory is very fresh.

So, I was staying with my aunt Daniela in the living room and she was putting me lots of questions about me, about mom or about dad and, at one moment, I even started reciting poetry with her. I was playing with my toy motorcycle and I was very lisping, so I was funny as hell 🙂 Now, when I look back at how I was then, I laugh and think that I was a very sweet kid 😛

Oh, and not to forget, my uncle was a very fanatic fan of Steaua Bucharest (he even tought me to be a Steaua fan) and Romania. At one moment, he came in the living room and put me to behave like the sports commentator from tv. I was having Romania’s games in my memory and I started to yell that Ilie Dumitrescu scored from Hagi’s pass :)) You can see a little bit of those moments here, where I have a video recording with the “commentator”.

Yep, as I said, I was funny as hell :))

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Thank you Daily Prompt, for the very good idea that you gave me.

The portrait of a poet

A poet is not just a person. He is a mix of two persons – him and his ego. A poet doesn’t beg for mercy or attention, doesn’t ask for love or admiration and doesn’t expect nothing from the others. A poet is quiet on the outside, no matter what kind of war his soul is battling in. A poet respects the nature, a poet loves the environment’s simplicity, a poet can hear the shouts of the souls surrounding him.
A poet’s face is burnt by the shadow of the tears he allowed to drain from his eyes. A poet’s face is full of wrinkles, because of the turmoil inside his soul.
And still, his soul remains pure. A poet can not make any harm to anybody, he can not blame no one for his own feelings, he doesn’t even ask for compensations. He remains there, stuck in his own world, with his only friends – his hand, the pen and the paper. A poet accepts his doom. A poet is more than just a single person.

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