I’m no poet – broken poem.

THE BOLD MOM Mar Watercolor drawing Doll Bondage

Mar Watercolor The Bold Mom



I’m sorry, I’m no poet.

I have no expression blessings

My drawings are just little creatures that crawl my hand, their own will.

Dynamite is letal and you cannot handle a Galaxy in broken hands.

It explodes. And smashes you through the coldest dark wall in your mind.


I’m sorry, I’m no throbbing ice.

It’s not about weakness.

It’s about knowing you’re not good enough. Sharp enough. I never am.

About tear your mind with knives of fierceness and ruin.

Because your guilt and your own punishment will choke your soul.

As they always do. And never come back.


But this is something no one will ever see,

Because loneliness has been a sweet harrowing partner.

But do not worry, I got my most terrible corrector on my own.

Who never forgives, and never forgets.


Drowned in tears just making it worse,

Every word, burying you deeper in the mud.

Because I never could control the bleeding of my heart,

Which always leads me to the darkest way.

But my inner fear and chain around my throat,

Is that I ache for darkness.


But even darkness, even darkness…


That’s OK. I saw. I understood. I understand.

Not “just another” chapter.

Not a judgement to forget.

Anything to forgive.

And an enormous amount of bleeding jasmines,

That will always fill your darkest dreams,

Just to not let you rest in cozy places.

No lap to make it your throne.


Anyways. I’m used to ice.

To be what you are not, looks dreadfully painful.

But after all, will keep you away from your own needs.

Whether fierce, sharp, wild and starving.

Whether wrapped in red silk.


A shadow will always be better. You cannot break the broken.


Luckily, I’m light enough as to never leave a print.

Not even a perfume or a thought in another mind.

Luckily, I’m familiar to insomnia and empty rooms.

To be a dark angel is not as beautiful at it seems.

After all, you cannot choose to be here.

Losing control and tremble, nobody cares.


Drowned in tears you don’t see the way.

Anyways, I do not need to see anymore.



I do not hate.

I do not reproach.

Everything I cannot say, it’s my own condemnation.

All my darkest thunderstorm, thoughts, desires.

I will never let them out.

My own burden.

I’m Mar.
Head of The Bold Mom.
Promoter and compulsive thinker.

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