Everybody wants to be a poet

▶ Everybody wants to be a cat – The Aristocats

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Poems save my soul and writing them lift the weight of it I have to carry everyday. They’re my touchstone, my benchmark, my compass. Having written almost 20 poems in less than 16 years of life probably doesn’t make me a poet, I’m too young and inexperienced. Maybe one day I will, but who knows… this competition is ruthless. Everybody wants to be a poet and thinks they actually are. So, that begs the question: what makes you a poet and, above all, what makes you better than another one?
I guess it depends on the readers. What can make someone feel something, isn’t sure to be making another person feel the same. People are so changeable and fickle, different.

Well, of course, you can base your criteria to judge who’s the best in this area by analyzing the form, the external appearance of their poems: but, big news for the ones who loves to write prose and their idea of poem isn’t stuck in the 14th century with Chaucer, poets stopped caring about how a poem is formally written since last century. You can literally say “The sun is shining and the sky is blue” and, if you give it a title and decide that’s a poem, it is. Isn’t that terrific? 

Well, not really. At least, not in my opinion. I take the view that poems are made for those who are truly willing to understand them, not for those who need to learn them because their English teacher told them to. The world of poetry is a world apart and, call me selective, for the chosen few only. You don’t need Jesus from the Heavens to be told that you’re one of them, you just need to attend to it the majority of your time. It needs to be your passion, what makes you truly feel, what you live for and of, basically. I don’t think I’m being too exaggerated because that’s what I do on a regular basis.

Poetry is silent, something which involves your mind, your soul, your heart, and only eventually your fingers (to hold your pen). Poetry doesn’t need advertising. Poetry is innate, but needs to be understood and supported by whom believes in its power.

In conclusion… okay, write a few verses and fill your Instagram bio with terms such as poet , living for poetry, etcera… But don’t expect to be taken seriously.

@layalke 🐍

From the Gospel according to me

▶ Take me to church – Hozier

Words might help when commuicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Prepare yourselves for a random vent I wrote a few days ago. I woul’ve liked to go on in a deeper way and be less “calm”, but, you know… the Internet. Also, you will pardon me but my least classy and elegant part came to light whilst writing (you’ll find a couple of swear words). This is a topic which really is close to my heart, 100% close. The closest something has ever been.

Do I think religions shouldn’t exist? Yes. Do I think God exists? No. Do I believe religions are nothing but a giant media created in order to control the mass? Of course I do. Am I willing to respect anyone’s religion, as long as they respect me and my choice of not having one? Yes, I am.

That’s the big difference between sensible and hateful people. If you’re intelligent enough to be following basic human rights (such as equality, liberty, personal security…), you’re doing your job quite well. You don’t disrespect others’ culture and of course you can demand others not to disrespect yours.

But, in the very moment you tell an atheist: “I’ll pray for you”, or, for instance, an atheist says: “I think every muslim should die”… well, shame on you (and on your family & on your cow). By doing so, you’re just contribuiting to increase the big circle of hate we’re in, and that’s really not what humanity needs right now. We’re already messed up, we don’t need anyone’s bullshit to make us angrier.

I’d love to share what I think here: religions can have both positive and negative sides, and you decide if you’re a believer or not only by choosing which side you’re mostly affected by. For example, those negative sides I saw have frightened my so much I can’t see the world of religions otherwise: that’s why you should read the Bible and the Qur’an. Some of their passages are horrific, mainly because those books were written by several men thousands of years ago, when their view of life was still uncivilized and not as developed as ours. Their thoughts about women, children and homosexuals… hell no. I, being a teenager girl part of the LGBT community, cannot stand anyone who still believes those are the doctrines we should follow nowadays. The idea that I’m deserving hell because of my sins is a lie meant to make me a slave of those in power.

About the positive sides: of course, if you’re a believer, you need religion to bear the unpleasant events that may occur in your life. Perhaps, believing that in a few decades you’ll be living peacefully and in a stress-free way, with the people you’ve lost, might help you going through bad periods and I totally get that: in a way, being a devotee could help me as well. But, again, that’s another profound difference: I make myself the strength I need to survive. I’m strong enough not to need anyone else who promises me some sort of awesome and amazing life afterwards. I need certainty, I want to live this (and, supposedly, only) life the best I can. I guess that’s both a responsible and wise point of view. I want to live the best life I can to make sure that the people who come after me will have their chance to be shown a world a little less shitty than what I was introduced to.

In conclusion: I hate what religions entail in the real world (terrorism and wars, prejudices and bias… don’t try to tell me that religions aren’t involved), I highly dislike those worshippers who call themselves so just for a matter of traditions / obligation but still, just because I want to be a decent human being, I respect those who respect me, wherever they come from and whatever their religions and culture are. “Live and let live”, everyone be ready to tatoo this on their mind. Peace&Love folks!

@layalke 🐍

The singing butler

“It’s so simple, my dear friend! Read her eyes and look into her soul: she wants you to belong to her and she wants to belong to you!”

Those words got stuck in John’s head, and they had been doing so since their speaker, Mr V, pronounced them. And now, as he proceeded to dance with her and had to search for her face because she kept her eyes down, John realised he did agree with Mr V. Mr V was completely right and he understood that when it was too late. 

“Please Annie… Look at me.” He begged in vain.

Graceful and elegant, she continued to dance on the top of her bare feet, careful not to step onto the incredibly clear puddle next to her. 

“Mrs Annie… You may desire an umbrella to hold!” Her old servant said.

“Why should have I? It isn’t raining.” She whispered. Or maybe she screamed. John couldn’t really tell: when you’re in love, everything sounds like a harmless and soft whispering.

“Annie, I implore you… Look at me. One last time.” John’s voice was just like a broken record player. 

Her breasts against his, her velvet glove on his shoulders, her face turned around, her hair wrapped up, her bare back and her shapely backside. She was the most genuine and charming creature John’s eyes had ever had the pleasure to see.

“My friend… I’m willing to lend you my umbrella! Just, for the Queen’s sake, stop it! You’re going to get ill, believe me.”

“Sir, what are you talking about?”. John was quite perplexed: before Annie’s governant, now Mr V… What did it all mean?

Mr V said something that John couldn’t hear because Annie dragged him away. Finally, but still keeping her face distant, she told him: “Now they won’t disturb us”.

They were far enough to be kissing and not be seen, so John seized that moment and decided to stop their dance and lend towards the woman’s lips. He had been telling himself: “Okay, now I’m stopping… now I am…” when he realised he couldn’t, he just wasn’t able to. His mind didn’t control anymore his legs, they were moving by themselves and this paralysed John’s features. 

“Do not try to stop, you won’t”. Annie said effortlessly.

The last thing John’s eyes saw were her, the woman he had always loved and cared for. He couldn’t move; Annie was his mastermind, John was her puppet. At the end, he really did belong to her.

@layalke 🐍

Dans un café

In a café. That’s where it all started and it all ended: poor Mademoiselle Charlotte had been left alone once again, sat on the narrow and uncomfortable couch, facing that rounded glass filled with a high-alcoholic drink. She didn’t even remember what she had ordered but it didn’t matter anymore because she didn’t care; and she hated herself for it. She had always been the “special” girl, the “different” and “unique” one. Also “lunatic” and “insane”, but she preferred taking them as compliments: at least she was not like any other woman!

But now, sat on that wretched couch, facing her forgotten drink, Mademoiselle Charlotte was just like any other person in that café: lost but not confused, tired but not exhausted, angry but not evil. 

She didn’t care about anything going on anymore and pretended not to notice even when a gentleman sat just next to her, with a pipe between his lips, a bushy and dingy beard and wearing a wrinkly bowler hat.

Madame… are you all right?”

Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” She said, keeping on looking at the void.

Desolé. You look suffering. Are you sure everything is fine?”

Non, monsieur. Nothing is fine, but I would be surprised otherwise. Would you leave me alone now?”

The man stood up and angrily mumbled something about how her supposedly unsatisfactory intimate life was not a pretext for her to be such a hateful and unfriendly mademoiselle. Pas vraiment française.

Charlotte sighed and went back to her thoughts, which weren’t actual thoughts, but she’d rather desire them to be. She, educated and cultured, needed to think all the time. She was different.

Was she, actually? Julien, her last lover, had abandoned her just like he did to any other woman he had. That made her one of the many. They had met in that classy café a couple of hours before, he had told her those cliché excuses and, after an hypocrite kiss on her cheek, he left. She hated herself and she hated him. He made her realise that, after all, she was not so special.

@layalke 🐍

I miss us

This is a tribute to all those friends which aren’t so anymore. Feel free to think about whoever comes up to your mind, I’ll try to be the less specific I can.

▶ Stay with me – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Dear man,

I’m writing this knowing you won’t probably even read it. I don’t think I’d like you to, because otherwise I’d be talking to you in person and I wouldn’t be obliged to write. I’m writing because, you know me, that’s what I do when I’m upset. And now, I really am. The reason, and, careful, that’s not a fault, is you.

Yes, we made peace and apparently we’re fine, but we’ve always known we won’t ever be as close as we used to. 

Do I miss you? Oh Gosh, that’s a hyperbole. I miss our hugs, our sweet kisses on the cheeks, our songs, our train tickets, our silly/cool photos we managed to take, our houses, yours and mine when you’re in it. I even miss your parents and your siblings, I miss the food your mum cooked and your dad’s car rides, I miss playing with your little sister. I miss our dates, I miss calling you at 4 am of the test’s day just to revise together that one subject, I miss talking about anything and everything and I miss staying in silence in your presence. I miss holding your hand and put mine and yours in my jacket pocket because it’s cold outside, I miss texting you everyday. I miss us.

Am I angry at you? I… I don’t know. I think not, I’m angry at how we both acted when it came to solve this situation. I think you are as well.

This letter is not a disperate scream for help, mainly because I’ve moved on and become close to other people, therefore I’m not alone. I don’t think I’ll be able to start it all over again, but believe me when I say that I do miss the idea of you I used to have.

I’ve just decided I’ll add my favourite photo of us because, despite what I said at the beginning, a part of me desires you to read this “open letter” and come back to me and hug me and tell me that from now on, everything will be like it used to be for real. But it won’t. And all I’m left with are my words and the vain hope that you’re happy; it doesn’t matter anymore what you’ve done or what I’ve done, now it’s just our feelings and our memories. And I want to thank you because, for a while, you taught me what true friendship meant. 

Yours truly, Miss Deli

@layalke 🐍

I can’t write

▶ Writing’s on the wall – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Being told once I’d got a bad writing was not a big deal. Being told twice started to get on my nerves; then the third, fourth, fifth and so on were a little bit of a bitter pill to swallow, especially because I know that the world of writing is my world, the world I belong to. The logic and reasonable part of my brain has always told me not to focus on the people who send me such bad vibes, but you’ll understand it when I say that it’s really hard.

A short time ago, one of my teachers told me: “If you didn’t write interesting texts, I wouldn’t even read your essays”. Well, ok, thank you?! What am I supposed to say?

Lately this has effected my creativity in a way I didn’t think was possible. I consider myself to be quite a calm and sensible person, therefore that logic and reasonable part of my brain I quoted before is the one I trust and use the most; but, as childish as it is, I cannot avoid to take this personally. 

I’m trying my best, believe me, mostly because I know that my writing could affect the mark of my essays, but I don’t feel motivated at all. I like my tiny and uptight writing, and you know me, I’m not going to change something I don’t mind about myself just because a few people do

At the end of the day, I am the one who stays alone with my words only, with those words that are apparently so hard-criticized but save me, in a way; when the words you write are what helps you go through the day without a mental breakdown, you get so attached to them that you consider them to be a part of yourself, part of who you are and who you will ever be. Now you understand how important this blog is to me; it represents my freedom when it comes to writing.

Let me write what I want, let me write as I want; I’m not asking for anything else. And, if you won’t, I will anyway. 

@layalke 🐍

Woman in the Sun

A Sun ray woke up Eloise. She frowned and turned her face the other way, under her pillow. She knew he had left, she felt his void next to her, but didn’t dare open her eyes. She didn’t want to find that out, she didn’t want it to be true.

Eloise had always been like that: instead of facing her problems, she preferred to stop caring about them and just pretend they didn’t even exist in the first place. That wasn’t really a problem, but surely she would rather like to be in a different situation.

The Sun out of her window kept kissing her cheeks, persistent and unwavering. Eloise couldn’t do anything but grumble and eventually stand up. 

Once on her feet, she finally faced the open window and the light that came from there. Hypnotically, she smiled and, step by step, got closer to it.

What she saw, why she suddenly smiled and what at… well, we shall never know. Our view stops right here; the camera that’s been recording the whole time won’t move anymore. We are left with the view of her unmade bed, that sunshine ray which cuts the room in a half and, supposedly, takes away Eloise. But actually, we don’t know what happened next and we never will. Eloise, that as beautiful as inconsciously fearful and fragile girl; Eloise, her golden hair and her olive skin which seemed to reject those kisses, wherever they were from; Eloise, that once in her lifetime, had perhaps learnt to face her problems.

@layalke 🐍