Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

When I was a little girl, My parents were sacred Each word they uttered was a prophecy Every action was to be replicated They were as close to gods as I could get They fed me, housed me, educated me For that I am forever grateful When you grow older  And have a life of your own How do your parents fit into the picture? A precarious relationship needs to be rewritten Roots dug up from the ground and replanted It is a painful but necessary process For if the parents never let go And keep their adult child rooted too close to home Resentment will fester, grey mushrooms and fungus will grow In place of bone white lilies Parents, strong oak trees, providing shade and shelter Can also cloud over and suffocate their flowers Trying their best to bloom in their shadow When I am a parent, I will know when to let go To let my offspring blossom Into a purple lilac on her own

               I drummed my fingers on the receptionist ’s desk in unease. There was a chemical smell all around me, seeping into my skin. A small brown dog was barking behind me, its owner looking defeated, repeating, “Stop it, Biscuit! Get down!”                “That will be $245.65. How would you like to pay?” the receptionist asked.                I paid the full amount by credit card. I would worry about how I would afford the mounting vet bills later. I looked at my small black cat, Mika, whom I’ve known since I was thirteen years old. She looked up at me innocently with her eerie and beautiful yellow eyes.                “It’s okay, Mika” I petted her and she purred, the tip of her pink tongue lolling out of her lips...

A red cardinal got trapped In a green arboretum Among the lacy fern And blush cacti flowers It flew in a desperation Unique to all animals Who can sense death Then the red cardinal spied A man-made creek With fattened koi A precarious bridge And a cheap Grecian statue So it drank and made  Its prison into a home It learned it can live Off of tiny tangerines Produced in the Asian pavilion And ripened crab apples From North America Soon the cardinal forgot That there was a world it once knew One with sunlight  Dewy earth worms Domestic cats on the prowl The dome glass walls Became its home Is there even a life worth living Outside of them?

I know too many beautiful women who hate themselves. Because they've been taught, from a young age, that their key to success and happiness is in their looks. That their long hair must be cherished, just as men cherish their careers. And not just hair...also nails polished, legs waxed, toes crammed awkwardly into pointy stiletto heels, breasts sweating uncomfortably beneath layers of padding, underwires digging into the skin, leaving pink imprints that stay there long after the bra has been taken off for the night, eyebrows plucked, skin rinsed, face powdered, arms slathered in creams that smell like strawberries. It's hard not to hate oneself when there's so many steps to remember, when walking out of the house is not as simple as walking out of the house, when one must never forget that the world is watching you. Some think that young, beautiful women don't have problems, but I haven't seen a more troubled demographic. We are constantly picking each other apa...

--> Puerto Vallarta, 2018 --> All I want is simple perfection A clean-cut slice without defection A day so smooth that I ride its waves A day when my loud brain behaves All I want is relaxation Without the threat of dark temptation Of a friend, or food, or phone Just the peace of being alone All I want is a rendez-vous A sunset and just me and you I want to jar all the times Where my love was at its prime To capture them like fireflies To see the jolly in my eyes I just want endless vacation No matter where the destination

When the sun hits my face at just the right angle When my hair is combed and smoothed of all tangles When my nails aren’t chipped, and my toes are clean When the creases of my neck smell like nectarine When foundation is poured all over my flaws When I’m wearing just the right blue push up bra When my lips turn from pink to hot red When I feel like coffee, but opt for green tea instead When my legs are shaved and feel like glass When I glance at myself in the mirror when I pass When my skirt flips in the wind, revealing my thigh When there’s a sliver of sun in my eyes When the Instagram filter of the day is just right When my jeans are neither too loose nor too tight That’s when I feel pretty, flawless, in good cheer It happens once every couple of years Image: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/426082814729724093/

I've never been afraid of fear This is why I am still here I love the deep sky way too much And the feeling of your touch So much to see, so much to do Before this mad, short life is through I've never been afraid of tears This is why I am still here My heart's been beat and chopped in two Sometimes I had misplaced the glue I have, however, beat the odds I've accepted that I'm flawed Even though my goal's not clear And the world's a ticking bomb sphere I just know the end's not near I'm still breathing, I'm still here

Hold the stress in the palm of the hand, crush it, and watch it sprinkle to the ground, so fine and pink it looks like it could be crusted on cupcakes. Send the thought "I'm not good enough" into a wooden crate and place it in a freight ship bursting with cargo. Watch the ship slowly drift away, into the ocean, across endless blue. When the throat and face get hot with envy and rage, cool them with a sip of cold chocolate kisses, melting down the throat, coating the mouth in sugary goo, preventing a regretful word from being said. When sadness triggers the eyes, let them be, let the tears flow down the cheeks and dribble from the chin. Let the tears dry on the soft skin and leave a trace of conspicuous emotion, as if the face were bathed in salt water. Grab the fear from the crevices of the diaphragm and exhale it all. Like bad smoke, it only rots the lungs, for fear has no place in the body. Feel it burn a little as it rolls out the nostril, and floats away with the ...

This is how you should act if you want to be a tease Just drop a pen and twirl around 360 degrees Bite your lip and shoot a glance that will make his heart raw And wear a shirt that reveals just a sliver of your bra Ask a question that you definitely know the answer to Then nod and smile and act as if he's a genius to you Compliment his scent and ask if he likes yours Then yawn and sigh, play hard to get, as if he is a bore When your lips are a shade just right When your dress is almost too tight When your smile is fake and bright When you're sad, alone at night This is when it's time to tease To have the men beg at your knees To have them buy you champagne and flowers So that you're occupied at every hour To disguise your loneliness with a mad, feigned power

There's a well known psychological phenomenon known as the "spotlight effect," which claims, basically, that people are selfish, and that no one really cares about our perceived flaws as much as we ourselves do. Every person is in the centre of his or her tiny universe, so of course, any rupture to the tranquility of one's world results in [perceived] chaos. For example, there have been studies that prove that we overestimate how much other people really care about us. In the Thomas Gilovich study, researchers asked participants to walk into a crowded lecture hall wearing an embarrassing shirt. Every participant highly overestimated the amount of people who even noticed their shirt, missing the mark by as much as 500%! What does this mean, and why am I writing about this during my 3 am blogging rambles? I guess I've been highlighted in a lot of photographs recently. As I've written in some previous posts, I'm quite self-conscious of my appearance (as man...