Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

The present is all that exists The candle does not rise as it burns It collapses onto itself The bird does not stop singing because, two weeks ago, it got its feelings hurt It sings now because this morning is all that exists History has brought us monuments, Mozart, and star-cross'd lovers Which haunt and awe us today, but cease to exist in tact They are just relics Like an empty wine glass with lipstick stains Or crumpled petals and flower remains Like old movie tickets hidden in a drawer Or a stolen sweater that smells like cologne Yet the present is all that is real That is tangible, that is whole The heart beat, the hum of the fridge, mango hair spray An itch in the neck, a twitch of the nose, a cat's meow Is all of reality Mundane and sublime The aged fruit of old time Rotten berries on the window sill will keep on rotting Good old pals will continue being forgotten The past should not be disturbed The birds, the squirrels, the r

Before I went to university, I thought the whole four-year experience would look something like this: And on the odd occasion, there would be a little bit of studying involved, like this: (Seriously, why are university students always smiling in the grass in all university pamphlets!?) But, my university experience pretty much looked like this: When I first started university, I was striving to be the best, and I was thriving after repeated failures, visits to the writing centre, visits to professor office hours, and countless hours spent studying. Now, I'm just surviving university. The eager motivation I had as a freshman, second year, and even third year student has now worn off. The illusion is gone: of endless partying, drinking, carefree nonsense... well sure, I did some of that too, but I always felt a perpetual guilt when I wasn't studying. I didn't settle for Cs, I aimed for Bs. Then I stopped settling for Bs and only accepted As. I pus

At ten at night a fair lady releases her flowing hair And opens her window to let in fresh air Not knowing that a fairy has come in with the breeze Who will describe all that he senses and sees The fairy, hid behind a bucket of salts Watches her as she exposes her faults The chipped red paint on the nail of her toe Revolts the poor fairy, but he refuses to go For she starts to unzip her speckled blue top And her two heaving breasts break out and drop Never a more putrid sight did he see Than nipples the size of mulberry trees She then removes her lashes, her eyebrows, her lips Then, yawning, into her bed she sleepily slips The fairy, wanting to take a closer look at the doll Flutters up to her ear and begins to crawl He travels right into her big, waxy ear And discovers great galaxies there In her head she has worlds so vast and sublime That make him forget the odiousness of her slime She has novels and poetry stored to the roof of her skull Mathematics, biology, a