Tag Archives: introspective verse

A Dialogue with the Mirror

Posted in Poetry English by

‘You wretched beast, you pitiful ghoul’ —the cruelest conversations are the ones we have with ourselves.

An intense, confrontational poem structured as a dialogue between the speaker and their mirror reflection, exploring the painful disconnect between outward appearance and inner reality. Through powerful metaphors of shattered mirrors, extinguished suns, and lightning-struck trees, this raw verse examines the masks we wear and the darkness we hide.

You! Yes you – you wretched beast!

perhaps you are me or just another priest

Trying to creep and trying to crawl,

within my sad existence, a great, dark hall

Trying to wear and trying to see,

my skin, through eyes silent as the dead sea

You! Yes you, you pitiful ghoul!

perhaps you are wise or just an old fool

Don’t try to understand my twisted life,

a tree struck by lightning, yet playing the fife 

I stand strong and mighty, towering over all,

strength is what I feign, in the end I will fall  

You! Yes you, you pathetic creature!

perhaps you are true or just a damn preacher

Don’t try to love my tired and broken soul,

I look like a knight and inside, I am just a troll

I am but a mirror, shattered into a million shards,

keeping you all blind, I always hide my cards

You! Yes you, you faded, grey wraith!

perhaps you are ignorant or just acting on faith

Don’t try to be kind, with empathy on a roll,

a sun with extinguished fires, I am a lost soul

My sins were all black, they spoke of my desires,

my regret is now cold, just ashes and burnt pyres

The Autumn Outside, and the Autumn Within

Posted in Poetry English by

A season that never ends.

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Outside, autumn reigns with colors of gold and rust,

walking in fancy colors, is really a sad, old whore

Within, the autumn stays forever, heaps of ash and dust,

it was born when I was born, will die when I’m no more

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Outside, there is a verdict, a cruel and harsh judgment,

unsolicited and uninvited, yet delivered firmly in the face

Within, there exists failure, dark, rotten, and repugnant,

it was born when I was born, will die when I quit the race

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Outside, there is refusal, a hard and cold rejection,

imparted cruelly, yet justified and utterly sensible

Within, there exists misery, a bitter and dark dejection,

it was born when I was born, will die as I am dispensable

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Outside, there is warmth, an almost useless affection,

a product of reciprocity, mere courtesy, and manners

Within, there is love - a brightly burning perfection,

it was born when I was born, will die with lowered banners

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Outside, there is sadness, and within it is always blue,

in perfect harmony, the weeping violin and the crying cello

Outside, the autumn reigns, and within, there is an autumn too,

were there when I was born, will fade as the ink turns yellow

Nostalgia: Scratching the Healing Sores

Posted in Poetry English by
autumn_nostalgia_by_kotenko

What if nostalgia isn’t healing—but a wound we keep reopening?

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I am addicted to the pain, the sweet throbbing pain

I am fond of the pleasure, the long steady rain

I am addicted to nostalgia, which comes at my leisure,

the memories and regrets, my great and humble treasure

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I am addicted to scratching my old healing sores

I am fond of the pain, it lives in all my pores

I scratch them and peel them, the dry, brittle crust

I nick them and skin them, the gold-brown rust

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I am addicted to scrubbing the old, clouded mirror

I am fond of reflecting, my past growing clearer

I see them and smell them, the sepias and the musk

I recall it all vividly, the dawn and the dusk

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I am addicted to being lured in by its deadly charm

I am fond of its false promises, all sincerity, and no harm

I see it as the raindrops caught in a great spider’s web,

seducing me, entrancing me, the dance and the ebb

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I am addicted to all the waves, the ups, and the downs

I am fond of the onslaught, the smells, and the sounds

I perceive it as a storm, all chaos and destruction,

my mind is the stage, it’s a theatrical production

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I am addicted to my past, a slowly burning pyre

I am fond of my journey on the path of desire

I am addicted to nostalgia, my friend, till my death,

I am fond of its company, till my very last breath