Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

I used to be afraid of many things, Of snakes and spiders and rejection. To me, compliments were like bee stings, I used to be desperate for affection. I used to be afraid of thoughts, Of people talking behind my back. I didn’t realize that they forgot About me, so they cut me some slack. I used to be afraid of rotten words, What a bitch, they all would say. Each sliver of gossip that I overheard, Would haunt me day by day. I used to hate myself for making mistakes, I was angry at the naïve stupid me. I used to bend so far I would break, I wished to be perfect and free. Anxiety wrapped itself around my neck, I would choke on the teasing and hate. I used to think of myself as a wreck, I used to think that it was too late. Humans are faulty, it’s the way we are, We make choices of which we’re ashamed. Without trial and error we wouldn’t go far, ‘Cause it’s our delusions that make us the same. Should’ve said this and

I had an interesting dream last night. One that is recurring. I don't really know what it means, but Yahoo answers told me that I'm "shedding a past." To be honest this dream just scares the shit out of me and I wish it would stop. Maybe writing about it will make it go away. Let me remember how it starts... I'm sitting at some sort of diner but not eating anything. There is faint rock and roll music in the background. I have a phone with a cord (this is how I know that I am dreaming). I dial a number and a man's voice answers. "Hello?" "Hi. This is me." "What can I do for you today?" "I would like to book a funeral, please." (The man sighs and shuffles some papers, presumably looking down some sort of list). "How is Monday at two o'clock?" "I have a show to attend that day. Can it be on Tuesday?" "Very well. Who is the funeral for?" "For myself." "

I've been thinking about my history lecture last Thursday. We were learning about the history of America's encounters with the Natives. The professor put up a slide explaining The Wild West Weekly , a "Cowboys and Indians" magazine with stories and sketches of western life. This weekly subscription from early 20th century America would usually not spark my interest, but what intrigued me were its characters, namely Arietta Murdock. She and Young Wild West (a handsome youth with the body of Apollo, as he is described) go on adventures and kick ass, basically. I'm proud of this Arietta character, who is a golden haired heroine in a time when women weren't even allowed to vote. The reasons why Arietta Murdock is badass: - She is a highly skilled horseback rider and rides vicious broncs - She saves Young Wild West's ass when he's tied up and about to get killed by the Sioux - She is also really good with weaponry - She is considered physically st

Today is special because it is certain Tomorrow is behind a black curtain Yesterday exists only in my mind, it seems Memories are exclusive to my dreams One day the romance and the lust Will shrink into a speck of dust And all the hatred that I had felt Will hiss and boil over and melt One day the remorse and the pain Will go down the bathroom drain My skin will be moth's food, I'll smile 'Cause I survived on earth this whole while You and I hate each other we do But I have a pulse and so do you One day when we're wrinkled you'll see Just how special you were to me And by you I mean everyone I know I look into heaven and I don't wanna go Can I love everyone at one time? I want to hug you all, is that a crime? One day I'll forgive you and I I'll meet God up there in the sky I'll be a number, anon deceased Remember me, a moth's feast One day my destinations will be done I'd have vis

Well, it's that time of the year again. The snow is a distasteful blend of wet rain and melancholy. It's February. It's Valentine's Day. Sorry for sounding so miserable, but I've had a rough... life and I'm not ready to be bombarded by pink hearts and teddy bears and couples seated all around this damn cafeteria (and I'm here slurping my carrot orange juice yum). What is the point of this day, anyway. It's all about the consumerism. Think about Christmas- Santa Claus and presents. And what about Easter? That's all about bunnies and eggs of course. The first words that should come into mind are Jesus Christ but our capitalist society has moulded us into this consumer way of thinking. Valentine's Day? Chocolate hearts and red roses (so original). Today just gives us an excuse to wear an irritable amount of pink clothing and stupidly confess our "love" to crushes. We should show love to each other everyday. Seriously. And "love"

You are my sweetheart, you are my core You are what I crawl out of bed for You melt my heart, you calm my nerve You give me the love that I deserve Baby, play the piano on my skin I love the way that I make you grin Together we will live forever We will find our love wherever Cause we are both half-circles, hun Together we can become one I’ll be a lady and you’ll be my man You’re meant for me, it was God’s plan So draw these circles on my neck I’ll give your lips a loving peck We’ll waltz in circles through the night We’ll see the grass dew in the sunlight Darling, you are too damn fine Will you be my Valentine?

Last week was just mildly depressing, with the storm and all, but for some reason I had a huge "It's a woooonderful world" feeling today when I walked out into the world. I stepped into a foot of snow that made my socks wet. Then I looked at the park beside my building, which was completely covered in pure white glistening beauty that twinkled in the sunlight like Edward and I was like holy shit, only God could've blessed me with such a sight today. So although I could barely make my way through the half-plowed sidewalks, I realized that today I was much happier than I had been in a very, very long time. If only briefly. See, my main problem is that I have an extremist view on things. I screw something up and I think damn, I've screwed it so bad this time that I might as well quit trying. For example, in grade 10 I got a 60% on one of my math tests and I bawled my eyes out because I thought I wouldn't get into university. I barely skip classes and I feel l

Did you know that all your bad thoughts are crushed into pulp bits and then stored in your pocket? And when they become too heavy you feel them weighing you down and you want to scream, because those bad thoughts are quite...intense. I was outside and there was a storm blowing, there was snow snowing and the pulp bits in my pocket grew hands and feet and turned into little ash monsters. They climbed onto my shoulders (one on each side). The gust disassembled them into a million bits and they got blown away with the snow. All those bad thoughts, they sang in the sky: I USED TO THINK THAT SWEET LOVE WAS LIKE APPLE PIE YOU DIDN'T KNOW HOW GOOD IT WAS UNTIL YOU'VE TRIED THEN YOU STUFFED YOUR FACE WITH IT AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW WHY THE CRUMBS STUCK TO YOUR CHIN AND YOU SAID GOOD-BYE I USED TO THINK THAT HAPPINESS WAS THE BIG OH OH NOW I'M TERRIFIED OF THE DEMONS THAT LINGER BELOW CAUSE EVERYTHING I FELT WAS LESS THAN SO SO NOW I WANT TO DISAPPEAR INTO THE ROLLING WET

When I looked into your eyes, I saw blue dragon's feet on a platter, I saw raw hatred, killing batter, I saw a rabbit roasting over a fire, I saw a sunken-faced orphanage choir. When I looked into your eyes, Sharpened arrows ripped my flesh, The wound hollowed, open and fresh, (Like a coconut that's been cracked in two, The juice sweet and mellow just like you). When I looked into your eyes, I was reminded of a time of despair, Of your grin and my bottle blonde hair, Of a swig of courage that caused much pain, Of a wintry day, below zero, all rain. When I looked into your eyes, I knew that you were the nectar of misery, I knew that you did not deserve my sympathy, Because you killed me underneath clear skies, Whilst looking into my broken eyes.

What does society want? For women to achieve impossible standards (and, by the way, it is NOT possible to achieve something that is impossible). Society wants us to be living contradictions...cabbage heads on stilts... airhead rocket scientists. Society wants us to be things that don't even exist in fiction, but only in the glossy pages of a Cosmopolitan magazine (look at me! I'm so skinny! So happy! Sexy all the time!). As I heard said many times before, "even Victoria's Secret models don't look like Victoria's Secret models." The way the proportions are warped, each pimple bleached, each hair trimmed down to pre-pubescence, toes and fingers without a scar, and the face angelic and so happy... it makes me sick. It makes me sick because of the contradictions, because women are expected to: Be sexy but not slutty Be innocent but not prude Be virgins but also fantastic lovers Be independent but submissive Be good mothers but maintain careers Be