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Showing posts from 2016

The Poet

Words need to be loved. Sounds need to be caressed by tongues more than lips need to be kissed. Punctuation needs to be eyed and appreciated more than a pair of eyes full of light. Poetry, needs to make love.
Poetry needs to make love with your mind and send shivers down your spine when it enters with the light in your eyes and travels through your blood.
Lines need to flash before your eyes when you think of beauty and be frozen in your memory forever.
Words need to be loved.
They need to roll down your tongue and into the world like a thousand waterfalls. They need to be touched with your fingers as if you cannot believe it's true. Words need to be touched more than the milky skin of the one you claim to love.
Rhythm needs to pour out of your heart with such strength your chest aches until it's all out, leaving your body through your fingertips...
My dear, if you want to love a poet, you must learn to open up your mind like a vast sky and love the words flying free.

A great man

My grandfather has soft and fragile looking hands and a home full of women. My grandfather has the most beautiful hazel eyes that welcome me into a world of love, warmth and comfort.
He braids my hair with his gentle hands. He also built a house, a home, and a fireplace, with the same hands.
He walks me and my friends to school every morning, and sometimes we're late because he stops to help strangers on the street, sometimes he stops to tell people off for being too aggressive with their own children. No one would dare talk back to my grandad.
Sunday morning, his dark blue cardigan wrapped and tied around my little self, we dance and sing along to Frank Sinatra songs. We eat an excessive amount of toast, feta and olives, dark, salty, bitter olives that he says are the colour of my eyes.
My grandfather cries at sad movies, and takes hours to get ready every time he walks out of the house. He says women are beautiful as they are and it is the men who need to try harder, as he l…

small hearts and big wounds

i like to watch people and write their stories. i once wrote about a worker that came to fix the gas leak in my room. Another time i wrote about the homeless man i walked past every night, sometimes sober, sometimes drunk. i must have told him my own story about a thousand times. But i prefer writing his...
i write about my friends and my primary school teacher. It comes easily...
But when i write about myself, the rhythm is broken and tense.
Because, somewhere in my story way in the past, there was a man who made ME feel small, broken and tense.
i like to think i'm over that.

The importance of simple things and a love that is far in time...

I don't want to be the girl that makes you weak on the knees and makes you stutter and suffer for words to say. I don't want to be the girl that awes you with her beauty and fills your throat with the intense smell of expensive perfumes. I don't want to be the girl that takes you on wild adventures and inspires you to take risks in paths you never thought you'd take.
If I can be that girl, than I have already been her, for the sake of my youth, myself.
I just want to be the girl who throws a duvet over your shoulders when you're cold and shiver in bed.
I could rest my head on your shoulder, and you can rest your head on my head...
Then, it's up to you, to love me, hold me, look at me as if I am all that.

Albania is a female noun.

My mother tongue is my mother's tongue.
It is the language of hardworking women with sharp tongues and strong fingers.
My mother's tongue is ancient and beautiful in it's loneliness.
It is the language of poets of the north, playing with warm sounds that roll off your tongue soft, melting and full of flavour like the freshly made butter by the village women. The village women, subject of so much poetry, and love songs played at night near the chimney...
My mother tongue is not, cannot be my father's tongue. For with it's beauty and it's wilderness, it is a woman's tongue. It is the language of family, and caring, and love. It is however, a stubborn language. A difficult language. Complicated, argumentative, tiring, descriptive, long...
It is me, it is my mother, it's every woman's tongue.

Fragment - πυρομανής

His love is hot like the fires in the mountains that separate our countries. It is not the heat of a moment. It is not passion.
His love is hot. Real hot, like the piercing pain of burn marks and needles through your skin. It's a heat that comes from inside his twisted brain. It's the heat of blood flowing through the purple veins that map the lumps of contracting muscles and flawless olive skin.
He does not understand pain. He does not...
He does love.
His love is a nasty, sadistic fire that leaves behind ash, real scars...and worse:memories.

Many returns!

He ties my shoelaces.
I've had a few cocktails tonight. My head feels light like a feather. My soul could fly. And it does. It flies all the time. I have so much fun.
My manicure barely dry. My hands are thankful of him for tying my shoelaces. But my head still rejects, that speedy beat in my heart.
He loves me!
I know that he does because he fills my glass with amaretto and jack and a straw the colour of which, matches my mood.
He wears black. I like black.
He is warm. I like warmth.
I know that he loves me because, I told him to go away and he didn't. Instead opened his arms. His chest became an ocean where many times I drowned my memories, and the pain in my heart.
His chest, the ocean, where many times I swam, in dreams, towards calm and happy waves, in the sunny place of our friendship.
He calls me beautiful, when I change my hairstyles, and patiently picks a dress out of the many I parade before a night out.
He knows I will be late, everytime, because he's waiting an…

Never say never, never say forever.

Daring, is he who loves deeply without being love's fool. Foolish is he who believes in not being in this world alone.
For nothing lasts forever. People are perishable items where life and affection seem to flow eternally. But people, do not lie to yourself, are perishable.
Therefore, he is daring, who loves another even though he knows he will lose them. Even though he knows he is giving away a piece of his heart forever. Gentle hero, who looks at pain straight in the eye.
Gentle heroes, us, lovers and friends, and siblings of someone. Gentle cousins, sons, daughters and mothers and fathers. We are all heroes in this life. This life that will one day wretch us all and take us straight out of each other's arms.
We are no fools. We are daring lovers of the person, for a while, and then the earth where they lay.
Our tears will water new plants. Our love will grow. The tree of life will be reborn and back in the earth we will lay again one day, each one of us, alone.
Foolish is h…

Fluffy dreams and silent wishes...

Don't let me down, in this dusty town with the noises of drunken boys and girls who fall over skinny heels and rotten hearts.
Find me somewhere in my dreams that smell of roses and turkish delight. I will hold your hand and pull you in... We'll wear petals and flow along to sweet sounds of waltzes in a classical concert in Vienna. You will lift me and we'll fill our souls with music. We will walk along a river, maybe Paris, maybe Rome. We will fill our eyes with sunshine or maybe sunsets on a beach.  And if maybe we get hungry, we will fly in dreams to Tokyo. We will find a restaurant and we will fill ourselves with warmth and even ramen if you like. When we get tired we can stop, on the yellow sofa in front of the TV. We'll rest our heads on each others hearts and wake up happy. We'll wake up free. We won't care of any clichés, shamelessly filling our heads with dreams... Don't let me down, in this dusty town with the noises of drunken boys and girls who f…

The red dress with the stars

Her stare shoots like an arrow invincible by time or distance, reaching straight for my heart.
This little girl that wants a red dress.
My weakness. Her dark curly hair and her chubby cheeks and the big, round, curious eyes... and her smile, her big playful grin melts my memory into something warm and sweet.  She is my weakness and my strength. She is my everything. Everything I never wanted to lose.  She is the child with the soft skin and the small hands where a big, bright pink, heart shaped ring sits funny. The child with the white shirts and frilly dresses and the stripey sandal and sock combo.  She gives me reason.  With her strength, and her curiosity, and her smile, her big bright loving smile... Her eyes, always ready to know more... I too, want to know more.  Her love, her gentleness, her polite little comments, and her insistance about her red dress. The red dress with stars on it that she wants so much. With real, very real, sparkly red stars.  I miss her now. Where is she…

The other

She is not the soul behind the letters. She is the face of the moon for some love far away. She is the subject that overwrites anything a wretched author may say.
She is not, the hand that types for she is the smile that strikes in the heart. The smile that is still hers and only hers. For her soul is untouched.
She is not the heart that aches in the weak body of a poet, but the youth that traps you in her joy of life and her big dark eyes and her long black hair shiny like lakes under the stars. With her perfect skin and beautiful complexion, she is not the painter, but the painting of a thousand suns.
She is not a woman grown before her time by the injustice of life. Nor is she a bit unstable, or mad, nor will she put up a fight.
She's just pretty, and happy, and everything I would want to be.
You may have gathered by now, she is not me.
For I am the soul that loves and hurts and writes. The wretched author of some lost poetry. I am not the poem, she is. I'm just the on…

Chasing life

Love. Fate. Time. Time is everything.  Time is a moment of gain or lose, a moment of life or death. Time is the god that punishes an the servant that pleases. I am the product of my time and the tool of myself.  Love. Fate.  It can all change in just a moment. Around me, everything belongs to time. My lovers, past and the love to come. The love for the man and the love for the child, and the love for the life I may or may not have. Books, pens, ink that bleeds on paper from somewhere deep. All that is, and will be burried deep in time.  A moment. Less than a second, to take a decision to forever change the trajectory of time.  I will be making a decision and my decision will be making me and I'll live or die somewhere in history but time is here and time is now...  I need to run. I need to chase. I need to follow, my truth somehow. Love.  Fate.  I will travel through time, and time will travel through me. Time.  Time is everything we will ever be.


Tirana, 1997
Grandma sits on the floor. So do Anne and granddad. I am told to sit on the floor too. Why? No one tells me why. I stay on the window, looking outside. It’s almost 6 PM and granddad has to go pick up mum from work. Someone’s throwing fireworks, but I’m not allowed to stay on the window and see them. The noise and the crowds seem to grow from underneath the block of buildings. It makes no sense. If we’re supposed to be inside before dark, why is there still a crowd outside? 7 PM. Mum called to say she has had to go back to the ministry and granddad is there with her. I have so many questions in my mind. But when granddad is not there reading the paper out loud, all I get is ‘hushhh’… I sneakily change the TV channel (Anne was listening to Bon Jovi, as if the noise from outside wasn’t enough). I finally manage to find the news channel and I’m about to pay attention, but Anne finds me and quickly ruins my only source of information. But I still managed to see the square downsta…

The prospect of loss

I saw your little sister today.     I was walking down your road in the old part of town. The cobbled path covered in magnolias where I had walked many times before, always awed by the play of sunlight and shadow on the shiny stones.     She was there, on your front step on the left side of the path, resting her back against the worn off burgundy door with the lion shaped handles.      For a moment it was just like back then, when I'd always find her there, and her friends, playing in front of your house, your mum fixing their messed up braids from time to time.     But your sister has grown now , she looks like you. Tall, blonde, dark sparkly eyes that are more beautiful than the play of light on a cobbled street, more similar to the sea at night...     Now the age that we were back then, when we dreamt big and we thought nothing would ever separate us. When we loved with our hearts open wide, because we had never loved before. We only expected our larvae state selves to …

Secret longings and open arms

He is a dot on a map. A mark. A spillage, of blue ink somewhere.
He is...
Hope of a person for existence,
The existence of something great.
He is the missing, the blue that colours the sky in nostalgic pastels.
The dark of the night falling like a black veil on a widow that was never married.
He comes like rain in June. Falling furious and cold in a hot day. Washed away. Washed away.
He's completely washed me away...

The truth about being...

The more I learn, the more I realise:
I am nothing and I am everything.
The more I look for myself, the less I find,
and the more I become who I am.

I am only what I know.
I am not you.
I am not what you know.
I do not know what you know.

You are only what you know.
You are not me.
You are not what I know.
You do not know what I know.

Therefore I cannot understand or judge you and your actions.
Nor can you understand or judge me or my actions,
for they're not me
and they're not my actions.

I am what I know.
Therefore I am time and my actions belong to it.
I am ever changing. Therefore I am not.


Oh God, if you truly exist like my grandma says, please, let me be loved for my words and thank you for not making me allergic to wine (like a poor soul I know is), for, with time, only words and wine grow better.

Melting sunsets and endless roads...

Cross-legged on a bus, I have just left behind me the beautiful architecture of Barcelona and the heat of Spain.
Sunset, melting over the south of France. The bus drives towards it's openness, ready to be swallowed.
I have my headphones in and cannot listen to the pages of the book my friend is reading anymore. Love songs on my phone. They all bring me to the same image. The one I love.
These endless fields stretch in the horizon, part green, part orange, part blue... Yet, their vastness is nothing, compared to my love for you.
What does love look like? I don't know whether to smile or cry. My face, is the sky and you the gravity of the earth that pulls me towards youthful dreams and ambitious goals.
We are not gently passive like fields and sunsets in the south of France.
We are great, unsettled, and fast like wheels on an open road...


I’ve inked paper in many languages, but words get messy and loud. In the blur of confusion thinking often becomes hard.
What language do I think in? What language is my own if in my mind, they all become one?
I think in pictures. Yes, that’s a valid language. The language you can never forget.
The images are clear and vivid, like moving pictures in high definition swimming through my brain like little fish.
Perfect details. It’s odd. I know. 
They want to edit my brain with weird technology. But it’s really my eyes they should be looking at.
My ink-stained eyes, forever sketching in my head.

The walk

Empty, shiny cobbled street at almost dark when sunset in the city can only be felt not seen and we walk, and we stop, for a while…
A tree grows large and leafless near the cemetery.
Life has been written on tombstones many years ago…
Someone else walked the same cobbled streets around the church and built a cemetery and buried someone who had walked before them.

Yet another 'lad'

He's a real cool boy. He wears longtops and skinny jeans and smells of liquorice and magazines. He wears a baseball cap, backwards, like all the other cool boys, and puts product on his hair, whatever that means.

A real cool boy, stuck in his self proclaimed lad culture, where he downs his need for love. Sees in himself no future.

A papercut boy of little hassle. Friendly, no friends. He laughs like trouble.

Dare he see beyond his cool-man lustre.
His hair too straight, his clothes too neat, his words too little...

Freedom, like all else, is relative.

Does a bird ever know that it want's to be free if it's never been in a cage?

Maybe the bird who escaped sees his friends from time to time. In pretty, pastel coloured, bird cages that look like miniature versions of Barcelona. Maybe the free bird watches from a distance as his friends get fed fancy, expensive foods that the free bird cannot buy even if he spends all his life gathering.

True, they cannot fly. But, some of them have cages big enough to exercise their arms a little.
True, they cannot fly. But flying becomes tiring after a while and out there, there is no cage to protect you from predators, or other, worse humans who shoot you dead. They're safe and comfortable, the friends in cages.

Have you ever thought the free bird might be jealous?

For he sings beautiful songs he learnt somewhere far away. He sings outside the blue window where your ivory cage is placed, with its pretty, swirly details on the top. And your fancy food, and your shop bought water.


My sandwich is depressed

To make a simple sandwich you need two slices of bread. Some butter. Cheese and ham.
I have all those ingredients. Usually, when I wake up I go straight to the kitchen. I make a cup of tea or black coffee and start multitasking tirelessly.
I always toast bread. Toast is healthier and since I can remember (and my memory is unfortunately good) I have never had untoasted bread. What's the rush anyway, it only takes a few seconds and it tastes better and healthier.
My friends always seem to have issues with the way I make sandwiches.
So what, I spread the butter starting from the middle and then in no particular pattern or direction. Still, all I'm doing is spreading butter on toast. Same outcome.
So what, I don't bother carefully cutting the ham in a certain shape that it covers the bread equally. If I can eat a sandwich with more ham in the middle than in the corners, then so be it. My sandwich.
It takes me less than five minutes to make a sandwich.
I like sandwiches.

A happy boy killed himself

He died. And that was the first time you learnt about the pain he hid inside.
For most of the time he smiled and he goofed around. A glass of wine here, a hot dog the next day, an extra cheesy pizza guy. A messy hair, fifa playing guy. A good at physics and always at the gym guy.

He died. He had never said he wanted to. Not to you. Maybe to someone, in the past, who didn't take him seriously enough. He was just an attention seeker in the past, wasn't he? When he said he wanted to die. But he had all the care in the world and all the possibilities laid out in front of him like a soft carpet.

He healed. He became his joyous, friendly, middle class boy self again, before he died. You never saw sadness in his face. Only a wild curious look in the depth of his green pea coloured eyes often hidden by blonde curls and dimples on his cheeks when he smiled.

His smiles, like his friendly fist bump, always available, always for free. And nobody realised that he was hiding. Behind the…

Let her go.

Let her go.
If all you like about her is a pair of hot legs in high heeled sandals, don't call her the next day. Her legs that look strong and shapely to you have a story behind them. Do you love the story?
She ran a thousand miles away from her first heartbreak. She ran towards a love that was not fleshy. A love that was true and only hers.
Don't hold back her legs. They're only strong because they need to run. Let them fucking run. You'll not be able to hold her back for long anyway.
Let her go.
If you're awed by the way she lives her life with all her might, you probably lack the passion. So don't hold her back. Don't tie her up in routine. She's tried it, she loved it for a while but it never worked. So let her go, and take her passion beyond you. If you truly loved her you'd caress her tired head and you'd be fine with being her comfort, her quiet place, her boring escape in a life filled of wander. You'd appreciate, how boring is the b…

What love is more love?

Early morning. Tears are dry and the mind is sharp again. The earthly pain of a small heartbreak turned into something less painful, more intense. Questions.
What if.
What if our hearts fell in love before our bodies did? Just like the old times. What if our minds longed for shelter in each others words more than our backs did in each others chests? Would love, be more loving then?
Would we love each other better if we appreciated every freckle? Or would we love each other better if we appreciated every silence, and lack off.
What if there was someone that would appreciate the essence of us, before they could appreciate each inch of our skins?
Someone who believes in our art and our little fluffy dreams. Someone who makes us believe with them.
What if, we truly loved, and were loved, beyond time and distance, beyond imagination and expectation... Simply loved because our souls fit into each other like the perfect hands to hold.
What then? Would that kind of love be more love?

Why loving me is uncommon, and that's ok.

I'm the daughter whose mother went to work the next day after I was born. And I'm proud.

I'm the daughter of a mother who raised me on her own, and broke all judgement with which I could have grown. The daughter of a mother who didn't stop to gossip at the gates of the school. A mother who was barely ever seen at the gates of the school. Because she worked 7-7, and she brought bread in the table, and other goods. More than some people's fathers would.

I'm the daughter of a mother who loves me more than anything. A mother who can be both mother and father because she's that strong. A caring mother, even more attentive than those who stay at home all day being bored to death by their child. And I am just like my mother.

I'm the daughter of a mother who found love when her life was already whole, and whose love just doubled her wholeness and loved it all.

My love is intense, the kind you'll only see at the end of a day after having shared all the h…

Real flowers don't come back to life whenever you remember to water them.

He has a rose, on a green vase on the window sill. A bright and healthy rose that makes his mundane life seem more cheerful.

He cares for it everyday. He pays attention to every single petal and gently waters it when needed. And the rose smells nice. And the room is beautiful.

But days go by and the rose is not a novelty anymore. It has lost it's excitement and become part of the same mundane life. His life.

He forgets about the plant on the window sill. He doesn't water it often. He doesn't pay attention to the petals turning a sad brown on the edges.

He doesn't notice that the pretty rose is slowly losing it's life. Part of his life. And soon the window sill will be empty and cold. There will be no reason for him to open the dark curtain and let the sun in.

For his forgotten rose will be dead. And his room will be lifeless again.

The beautiful boring kind of story

We are.

That's all. That's the story. We simply are.

We are late nights cuddled up talking rubbish. Nothing of the deep intellectual kind. Something easy, simple, boring... not frightening.

We are mornings, wrapped up in sunshine warmth, too lazy to get out of bed. We are hangover afternoons once we stop being drunken nights, so often. We are bad jokes and cringey attempts at romance. We're less romance, more... boring. The beautiful kind of boring.

We are lessons learnt... actually learnt... with books and all, over long hours in the library.  We are soft blankets and movies, and a pair of glasses. Funny hats and borrowed hoodies. We are two am takeaways. Fattening. Fulfilling. Out of our time.

We are sleepy smiles at the best times and minute long arguments over many nothings at worst. We are relentless. The energy drink of course. I shall stick loyally to this boring story.

We are somebody's friends, somebody's family, somebody's missed opportunity and what …

Hugs are terrifying.

Hugs are terrifying because they're nice and warm.

They're like soft blankets of affection and all things good. Hugs are like strawberries in summer and like hot chocolate on Christmas eve. They're like marshmallows softly sparkling up and melting in a camp fire.

Hugs are like your mother's hair on your face when she kissed you goodnight and her arms when you fell on them as you were taking your first steps. Hugs are like your father's hands lifting you up when you were crying.

Therefore, hugs are terrifying.

Because your mother's hair will be far from your face one day and her arms won't be able to stretch through the distance and catch you every time you're falling. Your father's hands won't lift you up when you're heavy and strawberries won't taste as sweet when they're frozen. Hot chocolate will spill and ruin the book you're reading. Camp fires, will burn a forest.

Hugs are terrifying.

Vulnerable and melting like a mars…

The time of mangos.

I look back with nostalgia, to the time of mangos.

The time when he would buy mangos with perfectly purple skins. Ripe, soft mangos, with a skin so glued to the fruit it felt almost impossible to peel them. The sweet kind that would almost melt in your mouth like liquid honey.

And he stood there tall and well built, like those old fashioned noble men I read about in fairy tales, next to the cherry wood counters, slicing mangos for me. Spoiling me, every time I saw him.

I thought he was a God. A God I could easily believe in. A God with a round face and small, bright cheerful eyes. Soft handed, sharp tongued. Always one to tell a joke, and laugh at mine as if they made sense. I made no sense. But he was the kind of man who could make sense of anything. He was the kind of man, who could make anybody small feel big.

I would follow him around chatting endlessly, occasionally my mouth being busy with the sweet taste of mangos. That distinctive, exotic taste of summertime and mellow hap…