Marius Surleac

the green killer queen – the smartest harlot for the route of the faint kings

gold stabbed his eye – a craft masterpiece and one soul dull for sham beliefs

little baby crying – the proof of the birth or mum who is dying

that candle shining – no light from church, just van of electricity

in war there is no water – but trails in dirt and guns called Sons of Death

there is no taste, no color – just thoughts and pleasures, silenced in vacuum

eternal fall of the leaves – just Autumn that dies, because of the Sun

those noisy steps on the wall – one shadow hiding away in the light

that white shooting gun – ashes of a family and noise from their tears

I think that books are the symbol of inner way of thinking. I see inside books a long succession of ideas, of thoughts, of feelings, of dreams and eyes; and all this is giving us the idea about human

Sometimes you may wonder what the main purpose in this world is and who is responsible for pleasures and moments of life. Some of us might think that we, as humans, are responsible … but is not

What can I say about Rimbaud is the fact that inside his poems we can find a true opened door to another language, to an amazing non-conformism and a well developed intellectuality for that time he

Green was the milk I drank in the night, that surrounds my whole body from leaves till fore sight Stones are just crushing by wind from the sand cause time like a tack is dying in

My wonders are here in my heart, in my mind, in my hands, wherever I find – from past time till near My drill is the music I felt it before My friend is the cubic I dig it from

(Honor and pleasure for the One … That was the Einstein of painting) I got relieved from the egg of thoughts, under surrealist extended memory. My only belief is the touch of desire! Time

I scratched a word on the window for the simple fact that I thought I could escape my mind, and as reward, a piece of glass stabbed my ears I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t hear I felt asleep

Last night, right before going to sleep, I saw some sparkling light that came through the walls. It was too obvious that wasn’t a dream. In the next moment I screamed, I hid myself, my mind, and

Ferryman Charon, please welcome this pour soul, damaged by his own fate! Please, welcome me on your canoe that you infinitely keep it under your feet. I read on your face, sunburnt by the fate\'s

… I put my head on the shoulders of sadness and I fell asleep beside. In my dream, the silhouettes of apathy were burning too quickly, supposing that I care about the air that goes around and my

I chose to be alone for the simple fact that I feel a strong passion for suffering. That’s why, now, my body’s alone obsolete by the limits of space; also, my soul is almost alone … excepting a red

The body of a word is made by sensitivity. This kind of sensitivity is not made by hand, but it is made by heart, by brain, by feeling that mixes these two organs into a mixture of blood and

I\'ve got back in time ... sensing a smoke, Drinking a glass of wine, dancing a ghost! Dogs were roaring for food, Sickness spread through the eyes of horror. I met Joe ... He was a guy with a

If you\'ll pronounce my name, I will die!!! Who am I?

We are made by quarks!!!- said a small thought of mine. Sitting and writing these words, I thought: how I can make a short idea about what we\'re made of? Actually, there is a huge step from the