Absolut nici o poezie, dar chiar nici una... sa ma ierte Poe, dar nici una nu transmite la fel de mult ca doua randuri scrise de un vechi prieten, pe care le intelegi si le lasi sa te inunde cu orice mic sentiment le simtea. Cand citesti o poezie proasta rau si totusi zambesti, pur si simplu trimite cu plugul capacitate de empatie. Asa ca dragi poeti clasici, sunteti voi ok, dar stati in alt cartier.
Longing amidst linden aroma
No matter what I do or what I tell myself, I long for you. I've been so damn irresponsible, negligent and careless, I couldn't speak or act or come forth with any sort of truth. Such a great length of time I've spent torn between the anxiety of commitment and this damn longing. What kept me back was a stupid sense of overbearing childish immaturity. So many dreams and "could've been" mixed with regret. Washing me over, wave after wave, and me instead of surfing the surface and coming on top with what I truly felt, I let it drown me into nothing. Yet time never fails to roll over any ocean. Waters consume and dissipate. In the wake, my mind left with only one course: leave. Shut up and leave. At least stop causing any more suffering around you. Live with the misery that only a semi-awake mind can impose over itself. Live and let die and let live and die. Yet the smell of linden and the sun-kiss of early summer, time after time, takes me into her arms and ta...