<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=491418" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Obsession (revised)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">to believe that there are heights to my own glory<br>is no longer possible.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> On that day in that room, where they wear<br>all their thick glasses, their hands have already done<br>what should not have been done.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I was weak, and my mouth did not open.<br>They kill every poem i had in my palms.<br>They were doves.<br>They said they were bats. <br>Black bats.<br>No, i said they are the whitest doves i have. <br>They are even angels.<br>They were laughing.<br> Some giggled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> And they <br>said, 'Crucify him, crucify him! '</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IT was an obsession.<br> That i have butterflies on my hair. <br>That there were<br>red roses in my fingers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There were none, in fact. <br>What i had are mere words.<br>Syllables of my survival. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">When i left that room, i did not admit that it was my mistake.<br>Far from that, <br> i look again at my hands in the mirror, <br>and i saw</div><div style="margin:10px 0">vines, fragile tendrils, and they are so alive, like <br>dragonflies. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">One understands somehow, that we write, not because we want<br>to have a brand, a name, a tattoo</div><div style="margin:10px 0">a heart, a rose, an arrow, blood dripping</div><div style="margin:10px 0">NO. That is not so. We write because we are here and our fingers<br>are always incomplete.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We press our palms on our chest and we say<br>Look i love myself, and this all i got.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let me write and let it all be about me.Not for those thick glasses<br>Inside that room.Their rules are not mine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I have mine only to give.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=491418" data-title="Obsession (revised) de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="to believe that there are heights to my own glory is no longer possible. On that day in that room, where they wear all their thick glasses, their hands have already done what should not have been done. I was weak, and my mouth did not open. Th..."></div> </div> </div>

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