Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

I have a dysfunctional relationship with Time Sometimes I like to play hide and seek with Time Time hides, and I try to find it I see it peeking from behind the curtains But I treat Time like a child, and I say 'Time, oh Time! Where are you?' Time just stands still, trying not to be seen And with Time frozen, I have all the time I can dream of At other times, I wish Time would move along I look at the clock as it mocks me with its tick tock As I'm stuck in a store folding socks And I dream of a day when I will be a somebody A businesswoman with a brief case and a somebody at her side And one day I can create another somebody Alas, it takes time to get promoted from being a nobody Sometimes I wish Time would turn back Because in retrospect everything seems serene What was once a heart ache is now petty What was at one time a death note is now a joke How I wish Time would comfort the poor younger me Time would say, 'Time moves on! Time heals all scar...

A hermit crab dances solo on the seashore. It is desperate and confused, and it has grown out of its feeble shell, which lies in fragments underneath its claws. The crab, not knowing what to cling on to, reaches out for anything that passes by. Any breathing creatures becomes its friend and any tin can or roadside trash becomes its home. This is the danger of desperation. Alas, this confusion is a weakness of human emotion. We keep falling and falling, as in a trance, like in those dreams where one falls and then wakes up coated with sweat. But we never really rise from this continuous fall. As we fall in love- with faith or hope or passion or agony- we pray to keep falling and never reach the pits. Never static, always confused, always dumb, homeless hermit crabs without a purpose. This is human emotion; a desperate search to make sense of things that are beyond our control.

There was something about the way he talked. He made anyone who was near him feel a sudden sense of unease. The way his words shot from his mouth like hot bullets, maiming all those who were in his proximity. There was this peculiar way he squinted his eyes so you weren’t sure if he was falling asleep or straining his eyelids to keep himself focused on evildoing.             He was the type of man who didn’t believe in God. He was cynical about absolutely everything, from the long line up at the coffee shop to the very meaning of existence. In fact, he told me that he killed God. We were sitting out on the front porch one nigh staring at the stars. What do you see up there? he asked me. The heavens, I said. He smirked and told me that he killed God long ago. I thought the idea was impossible. And then he said in a suddenly stern voice: I have something to tell you. Because I’m wiser than you. I’m a man. I’ve been through more tha...

Feeling just a bit desperate (Like those people on the subway who feel the need to check their phones the second the train goes above ground for 3.5 milliseconds and they receive 200 new texts and 20 missed calls) Desperate for a wholeness that I can't seem to reach (But even when a nail is hammered into a wooden door, they are not whole but merely co existing until the wood rots or someone hangs a picture frame that's slightly tilted and the nail is taken out, away, far away from the door) Desperate because I want you around me, on me, beneath me and in me (simultaneously, continuously, and precariously) but at the same time I want you to forget, regret, fret, and direct your whole being to anything but me Because I wish I were a mellow melon instead of a melodramatic drama lemon, sour and cold and bitter, a lemon that stings open wounds when taken out of the refrigerator and rots on the table and is left alone in the fruit bowl as everyone takes the bananas and gra...

The walls around him are crumbling to ashes Grit clinging like disease to his eyelashes Sprawled on cement with his eyes fixated Drooling grimly, his pupils dilated The ceiling is beginning to cave But he has accepted that this is his grave For he traded his life for a bottle of rum, And this is the man that he has become. His breath so stagnant, it leads rats away At his sight, even the worms go astray All he longs for is a genuine kiss For he has never experienced divine bliss But as the venom wraps itself around his tongue He recalls the days when he was carefree and young And he washes it down with a poisonous sap As if it were pure water drizzling from an ethereal tap Never has he been so alone Never has he been off the throne Never has he it been so clear Never has he been in fear Never has he cared about anyone dear Never Never Never For he traded his life for a bottle of rum, And this is the man that he has become.