A poem in the writer's shoes

A poem does not write itself
No matter how alive it can seem
No matter what disguise it puts on
The red lipstick, the long copper hair
Or the most arousing smell ever

A poem cannot write itself
Without the senses of the writer
It will wear her lipstick, her hairdo
And her perfume
It will adopt her personality
Walk the way she walks
And be still whenever the writer’s senses
Decide to retreat to the real world

On endless Fridays

Fridays are like being trapped in a purgatory
with one foot in heaven and the other in hell

Yerevan

Part one

The city is sleeping
But I am not
I haven’t downed too much alcohol tonight
To put me straight in Sandman’s Land

The city is sleeping
But how could she sleep?
Can’t she realize what is going on around her?
Can’t she see that the world is changing?
The whole universe is changing…

Doesn’t she feel fear?
Can a city be this cold blooded?
How can she simply close her eyes
And disconnect from everything around her?

This oblivious city
Turning her back on past and present
Turning her back on me

This oblivious city
I envy for her peace of mind


Part two

As the city sleeps
I sit in my bed
Daydreaming about walking in the empty streets
Fantasizing about a breathe of cool air
Stroking my face
Lingering between the thin threads of my hair
While my bare feet are being soaked
Of streets wet of summer rain

As the city sleeps
I feel betrayed
I sit still and wonder
Who will be keeping me company tonight?

Emptiness in a box*

Today I feel the emptiness inside adding up
Soon enough it is going to flood from inside
Float, pour outside my skin, and surround my body
Soon enough I am going to bathe in it

Feeling hollow on the inside is one thing
And swimming in a pool of nothingness is another
I cannot tell which is worst

The old me would say: soon I will color the void around me
Carve it with smiley faces and happy shapes

But I am not feeling this urge anymore

My refuge is grey space, a fragile box I reside in
And a mental trip to a past, altered enough
That I can no longer retrieve memory from imagination

The poem that came to life

The poem was lying there. On the bed, between us
It wasn’t complete yet. It was forming itself
Trying to fill in the blank, created by our silence
The poem had a mind of its own
I am not sure if it was waiting for us to create its story line
Or if it was forming a story on its own
Telling about this couple
Lying on the bed
And watching a poem being formed
Silently

Still Sun*

It is when silence stands as a heavy wall
Between your two bodies

When your faces become expressionless
And your wandering minds
Are constantly seeking an escape
From the reality surrounding you
From the human form, in front of you

It is when colors fade and music becomes noise
When the wind becomes still
No laughs, no tears, not even remorse

This is when you should step back, turn around
And fetch a new start
For no moment is worth wasting
When everything is clear, under the sun

April*

Being part of a system
Is not working for me

I am a free soul
I cannot be contained
I do not need an ID
I do not need to feel belonging

I have my dreams
And they keep me going
Flying
Following them

Craving to touch
A passion I have inside
To materialize it
Hold it between my palms
Blow at it
And spend the next few years
Flying
Following it

Being part of a system
Is not working for me

Spring colors' strike

Emptiness
Long sought
Turned out to be
Unbearable

It all happened this morning
When Red knocked on my window
Informing me that all spring colors
Decided on a sit-in, on the porch of my house

I look outside
Everything is grey
Even White and Black
Are joining the strike

In a world where colors are undermined
What would change if they actually disappear?

The urban feel

This city is draining me
Sucking all energy out of me

Encounters and confrontations
Recurrent spaces of uncertainty

The hybrid, disjointed and unsteady
World that we are living in

The fixation on objects
The overlook on the substance

This city is draining me

I need to vanish into invisible space
I have a nostalgic longing for the unreal

Spiritless existence is as tiring
As walking bare feet from one continent to the other
Bearing all people’s sins in one backpack
Glued to the back of your neck

astray*

She looks to fill the hollow inside
With meaningless events
Serving in helping her escape
The path to which her life has led