Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

I remember the days when I was scared of ghosts After watching a marathon of poltergeist movies About hauntings in strange homes My juvenile friends and I couldn't get to sleep And we'd squeal at every creak creak  On the floor board I'd sleep with a night light on  The one with Winnie the Pooh reading a story to Piglet Yet I'd still lose sleep I was so scared of the ghosts that were out to get me Now I want the ghosts to get me I don't even understand what I was scared of I want ghosts to haunt my house I want ghosts to transcend their world and show their white faces Hell, I want poltergeists to mess my whole room up Because, see, if ghosts don't exist Then why should anything invisible exist, too? What you see is what you know But I don't see love, so how do I know it's there? What if love is just a ghost?  What if "love" is what we label that chemical reaction in our brains that sparks fondness? And

Nietzsche was an interesting guy. Other than his rampages about God being dead and his morbid existentialist rants, I kind of like him. What struck me most interesting in Beyond Good and Evil was his critique of Christianity. Okay, well, I like to think of myself as a Christian, so I wasn't very much convinced by his longing for complete obliteration of religion. Nietzsche mentions that Christianity has become a religion of resentment, because it started off as a religion of the poor, and its doctrines emphasize the goodness of the meek and the corruption of the rich and powerful. Hence, Christians are jealous of those who flaunt their excess, and wish them to hell (according to him). Christian "anger" hence stems from envy. What he failed to point out was that the rich can also be jealous of the poor...and that in fact the powerful are weaker because they are always afraid of having their goods stolen, while the poor have nothing and so they have nothing to lose. The Chr

The river of 4 am. Flows through my heart and fills my brain I see moonshine in its ripples I see my pain reflected in the moon It is only at 4 am. that I can touch the moon By dipping my foot into the river To pretend that I am living two lives at once One on earth, in its predictable climate And the other in the river, to where we are all sure to return Sometimes I sleep soundly through the river's calling Other times I feel like I'm drowning at 4 am. And I know it's the river being angry at me Causing a shipwreck in my mind All the anxiety sinking to the bottom To be decomposed and eaten by tiny fish Don't be mad, river of 4 am. I always long to sleep through you But sometimes I fall into a state vanity And I just want to touch the moon

No, he didn't treat you like a friend, Because he neither cared for you nor took care of you when your heart bled. He didn't treat you like a lover, Because, like a werewolf, he turned into human form only in the sunlight, and he escaped before you could see, in its entirety, the beast that you had spent the night with. He didn't treat you like a God, Because he neither feared you, nor respected you. He didn't even try to disprove your very being. It was not even worth it. He was the one you called "home," honey I'm home, home sweet home, A home with a welcome mat stained with reminders that you are not his home, but his backyard, an old tire swing just for fun. You love thy neighbour, and forgive thy enemy, and bleed when his heart bleeds, But he does not exist. Opposite to a god, he fears himself, and disrespects himself, He is homeless, for fear of getting caught in the honey at the door, when he says, honey I'm home! Like a poor