Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

Let’s go round on that carousel I’ll put you underneath my spell We can fight the dark all night We’ll paint ourselves in black and white Our lips will touch on the Ferris wheel My cold skin perched upon the steel If you retreat, I’ll give you pie I’ll let the chocolate spill on my thigh When the acrobats slice the air I’ll lead you to the dancing bear If you’re lost and about to slip I’ll tame the tiger with a bullwhip I’ll waste some cash and play horseshoe And win a stuffed monkey just for you We’ll eat candy apples beneath the moon And pretend it’s a lazy night in June There’s no escape from this parade But there’s no need to be afraid Climb on the horse and ride with me You will like the clowns, you’ll see ‘Cause life is just a carnival of joy I’m just a girl, you’re just a boy

I’d say That I’m doing okay If okay means having A heart led astray I’m not okay, okay? Because okay is a term That describes a full-time Teacher or office worker Who is content with life Who is the past the mid-life blues Who is actually doing Okay. I’d say I’m not okay because I want to take a piece of sodden cloth and shove it down a rusted pipeline, clog it and watch the thick grey water leak through the edges then rush over the bolts and I want to take a sledgehammer and crack the kitchen sink in two, let the water flood the tiled floor, the cat running for life, the half washed dishes sinking to the bottom, the plastic mugs rising to the top like buoys on a river of madness. Then I want the water to rush through the entire apartment and stain the carpets and seep through the floor so that the neighbours downstairs get disgusting little drops of kitchen water on their heads, and complain to the manager that I should be terminated. I want the...

A vulture once mistook me, For a slice of drying meat. His yellow talons shook me, As he dragged me down the street. I never knew the vulture, Was my own self in disguise. ‘Cause in our riddled culture, We’re all perfect in our eyes. Maybe one day I’ll grow wings, And drag others down along With all my dysfunctional things, Stacked where they don’t belong. The wings, they will be black, They will span the length of Earth. They will split right out my back Like a mutant giving birth. Though winged, I will not fly, ‘Cause I won’t know what I’m doing. I’ll have splinters in my eye, Too blind for love pursuing. I’ll mistake innocent dwellers, For chunks of deceased deer. I’ll rip open healthy fellers, And then bite them on the ear. That’s the vulture that is in me, His beak is slicing through my chest. I just hope that you’ll forgive me, For being a bitter, ruthless mess.

Sartre is an existentialist philosopher. Meaning that he believed that our lives are comprised solely of the choices that we make. Although external factors have the ability to influence our actions, we are ultimately responsible for the decisions that we make. He argues that life is a “line segment.” We are all afraid of the end, because this is when we will cease to exist, and we will have no hopes or worries for the future (which is such a unique human ability). Although death is a well-known fact that lingers in our minds, it is not felt until we experience the “cliff of death”- the death of a loved one, or if we see someone die... this is when we peer down the cliff of nothingness. This is the moment when we realize that death is a fact of life, that we are just fragmented line segments in a big sea of nothingness. Even though we are fully aware that we can die tomorrow or next week, we still do boring mundane things like study for tests and go grocery shopping. Wh...

There is the old age question about what women find more desirable on a man: bearded or clean shaven. Well, maybe it’s not an old age question. Maybe I’m one of the few strange women in the world who believe that facial hair is the most important indicator of attractiveness in a man. I think the best thing about a beard is that it is so unique to the male species. It is something that [most] women can’t grow. This makes it a mysterious entity. And, if sculpted right, it is a remarkably handsome addition to any man’s face. Pros A well-sculpted beard is a symbol of good hygiene. I imagine that a beard must be trimmed every few days and washed in some way (using water? Liquid conditioner? It is an enigma to the female brain). Being clean-shaven is also hygienic, but those razor cuts look painful. Having facial hair makes a man look like a fisherman or a lumberjack or some other manly profession. A scrawny guy without a beard- he looks like he can kill those homework q...