Corina Gina Papouis

it’s not for me to say when my sun shall set in your heart it’s a clock’s job God is checking it out on his wall and pushes the mary-go-round of time with his finger sipping seconds and

listen! when you come out the door take a left and follow your innocence with ambition after the first tears take your hands out of your pockets walk with your back straight and your chin

you’re one tough tree branch that would hold the nests of all birds flapping their wings freely in my sky you’re so beautifully disguised as a bathrobe waiting, waiting long after the running waters

perhaps is not all that bad perhaps the way I see it and the way you see it are just two poles of the same Earth spinning around a dying sun for its survival in other words the going

standing against the wall wrists tied to this feeling in the shape of a cross I’m waiting the tap is dripping and I can now count my every sin and its consequence following with big wet

You had enough of me? I often seem to wonder Sometimes I cry, my face turned to the wall I know, it’s silly yet I can’t stop but ponder The little things like: Does he care at all? I then run

my hands are freezing unlike the river flowing through me pebbles and lava fire and hell sliding from one heart chamber to the next a snake melting all that I am in its way my hands are

I’m looking for a man with rough palms and long gaze stretching all the way to the horizon (a crusty bread which you can hardly bite but still hot in the middle) I shall wait for him at life’s

some people driving on motorways do unexpected U-turns and somehow on that very split second (before you curse and call them names!) you envy them. you envy them for the pure and utter

hush let’s negotiate with a gun to the head let’s pull the fear over our knees and wait for the light to undo our impotence look at those empty chairs within us the fog among them we are

walking on this wire eyes glued ahead arms widely stretched open hearted feet poking the air one in front of the other I am doing it if you’re close enough you may also hear me humming a tune the

she was in love with bukowski so she wrote him a poem and poured another glass while rain was flooding her thoughts and nobody really cared not even bukowski who did not even stir down in his

laying on top of the world or something big, anyway I sit by the window and my fingertips crawl on cold glass you’re on the other side but most of the time you’re not and my fingertips carry

honey, tonight I shall disappear at 12.00 am sharp. I shall leave behind both my crystal shoes, the keys to your palace, one vague sense of disbelief a couple of unwatched sunsets a few piles

‘I don’t mind if you don’t mind Cause I don’t shine If you don’t shine’ – The Killers don’t give up on us walking down this road with magic stuffed in our pockets lay down with me on the edge of

11th of November, 2009 7.30 PM A drizzly cold night...I pulled over by Brockley and Ladywell cemetery and for a split second I said to myself: ‘I could have been home, by the fireplace with a book

..and tangled up in ivy this tomb her humble home no heartbeat to surrender to so cold and so alone a passing cloud of haven she watches from above you aching for her beauty the lips you

Poetry and the universe - a link established through time, time after time...From nursery rhymes ‘Twinkle twinkle little star’ to masterpieces written by reputable poets such as Tagore, Frost,

I am a speed-dialled emotion an ex-employee from hell my name is [ ] written in capitals all over narrow alley walls where blood traded its lingered beauty in kind the wind envies me for

I walk on cotton and cloud or streets at random and is nothing to do with autumn (I’ve been thinking about this) nights are thick stretching like a duvet over thin light and flashbacks are

you’re lost in the woods of fear the paths inside splinter your skies like a thunder you look at your hands they stink of victories that will never be forgotten can you hear the