Great art comes to deep pain of my soul
and it has a voice inside me like a kiss of rain !
If I don't write I can not breath .
I have always like spooky things because
I understand the pain hidden so deep inside !
In my hands I hold my own spring ,
like the dreams that I never can dream it .
Sometimes, magic is the deepest darkness !
How can I forget my words ?
Flowers are my feelings .
Spring is a walk in pain !
Sometimes, life is just a toy .
My hands are without hope .
Alone is my music .
Only the time seems to be old to me ,
That's to late now !.
Somewhere, in my own poetry !
Music is felt without seeing it .
I cry in blood of my own joy .
Somehow, I felt no love in the road that I walked . . . . . .
- A. A. Popovici,