Page 77 - 2015_revista_noastra_nr_43-44

CONFIRMARI
Dragoş Dimoftei

Life: A Question Hope

I am sitting in a dark place because I loathe the light,
Feeling broken, tired, remorseful, alone, empty inside. Without hope,
Once, I tried writing a poem about it, but it came out wrong The night falls,
So now I'm watching over her, and her, and her from afar. The stars gleam,
No one listened. No one read. No one cared. No one loved.
They've never felt such true emotion and never will because The moon shines,
I was TNT filled with love, ready to explode. Exploded. The rivers flow,
The nature sleeps,
When I was 20 I wrote too many love stories But we'd all die without it.
And drank way too many bottles of cheap whiskey
And maybe didn’t take enough of those sleeping pills.
I had given up on love. It had become sick and evil. Dark. With hope,
But I kept on writing because I thought that maybe... The writers dream,
Maybe it's worth it, maybe there's still hope. The lover loves,
But hope is the most horrible thing after all. The lungs breathe.
The mind churns,
When I was 18 I was in a relationship
For over a year. I had finally found her. The eyes cry rivers,
The girl with the saddest sky blue eyes But we'd still all die of it.
And the brightest and most sincere smile.
We shot for the stars. We seemed eternal. We hope to love,
She told me she loved me. The next day, We hope to be loved,
She said sorry for sleeping with some other guy.
We hope to live,
When I was almost 16 I thought I could We hope to be happy,
Conquer the world with my little texts. We hope to dream,
Or at least the heart of a certain girl. Another one. We hope to be heard,
After some prom, I tried reading her a poem And we hope it doesn't kill us.
I had written about love being a black hole.
She called me a creep and a psycho and a freak
And mocked me in front of the whole school. But we don't love hope,
We hate living with it,
When I was 14 I wrote my first story. We aren't happy with hope,
Partly because my parents made me, We don't dream about it,
But I also realized you can't break
Something that had already been broken. We hate the word hope,
The story was about a girl I used to like We almost never hear it,
And I tried giving it to her on Valentine’s, Because we all know hope will kill us.
But I didn't; I don't remember why.

When I was 12 my parents bought me Ploaie de vară
An old typewriter from a flea market.
I didn’t use it much because I was 12
And I didn't know what to write, Aud ploaie de vara prematură,
But whenever I would sit in front of it Simt cutii de carton şi conserve goale,
I pressed the keys ever too gently, De zâmbete pe feţe plouate mă satur,
Careful not to break it or anything.
Plouă cu sânge şi jale.
When I was a child I wondered
What it would be like to be an adult. Manechine găurite ţipă tare.
And I kept imagining myself at 20 or 30 Merg pe stradă, închid ochii şi văd marea,
Being happy, accomplished and loved Ating cosmosul cu degetele-mi murdare.
Silly me, I had no idea you can break things Iubesc înecul – îmi pierd suflarea.
So many times that, unfortunately,
They just stay broken forever.

74 REVISTA NOASTRĂ nr. 43/44