Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

I am obsessed with life, and with finding the meaning of it all. This is why I adore poetry and literature. Certain philosophical quotes stick in my psyche and I can fish them out whenever I feel like I am drowning in my uncertainties. It is also why I love music. Certain songs, lyrics, instruments, and even sounds whisk me back to different places, different people and times in my life. Anytime I want to escape the present, I can turn on the stereo. But poetry, philosophy and music are not the meaning of life. It is just an interpretation. In fact, the older I get foggier the meaning of life becomes. When I was little, I had no critical thinking skills. Most kids do not. We swallow up everything we are told by the authorities towering over us (teachers, parents) like candies. The first time I learned about "heaven" was in the fifth grade, in Catholic School. My teacher taught religion class every afternoon, and we discussed what happens when we die: we go to the pearly gat...

Not sure if I love being angry with you, Or if I'm just angry that I love you. Maybe a bit of both, as I confess, That this perfect path has digressed. And there is nothing that makes me Feel more insecure Than not being sure If this romance is honest and pure, Or if it's a heavily masked detour. Is this romance just a dance, That happened purely by chance? If so, let me lie in the crook of your collar bone (Which I love so much) And let me use your legs as a crutch, So that I won't cry at your touch. But if this romance is something more Than a cure to our juvenile bore, Then please do let me know. I don't want to be one to Dip red roses in tar No, I want to lie under the stars, Counting each one as we go. On a midsummer night, Where the moon shines so bright, Let us examine each constellation. Let us take a long vacation, As we number each star that passes through. It would take forever, Which is how l...

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...