Esther Racah Writer & Literary Blogger

Tag: writing

  • Crying To Death

    Crying To Death

    Crying to death until I lose all my fears
    Crying to death until my heart bleeds the last drop of grief
    I don’t remember my name anymore
    I come from a faraway realm where dreams are forbidden
    I wander astray in the labyrinth of my bleeding heart

    Not anymore comforted by solace and delight
    I strive to find refuge in my secret realm of illusions
    Because I love to lie to myself with shameless boldness
    Because I love to fill my heart with deception

    I’m untamed and wild, and I don’t bow to any convention
    It’s impossible to fit my soul inside a box of comfort
    Too many thoughts crowd my mind
    Too many emotions crowd my heart
    I’m a paroxysm, a burst of madness wrapped in the quietness of my sorrow

    I love to wear exclusively beautiful vintage-style dresses and ballerinas
    I love to wear red lipstick and red nail polish
    I never cut my long blond hair because they keep my little secrets for years discretely
    I love books but sometimes I keep them closed as if I would like to guess what is going to happen next in the story

    I mainly write night and day and I cannot see myself not writing even a day
    That would be like asking me not to breathe
    I suffer in silence when I am home alone so nobody can discover it
    I never plan what I’m going to write because I believe in improvisation in poetry
    I love cloudy skies but not the rain because it makes me feel miserable

    I love to be in love but I also love to be loved and adored
    Solitude and books are my best companions, indeed the only ones
    I adore art in all its forms, music, literature and art
    Sometimes I prefer to write in a direct way and simple style without labyrinths of metaphors

    Crying to death is a way to express myself when I’m suffering unbearably
    And when I don’t feel understood and seen by the other creatures of this planet or when memories come to visit me
    After all, we suffer mainly because of indifference or tainted interactions with other entities or because of something we don’t want to remember

    I feel like an alien creature not belonging to standard society and as an introvert it’s very difficult being part of this messed ocean where I never felt comfortable. So bizarre and odd I’m in the other’s sight that I cannot blend with them.
    Therefore, I dwell in my loneliness where I have built my castle of dreams.
    Elisabetta

  • A Motionless Dream

    A Motionless Dream

    A motionless dream
    And a new dash.
    Just then and so
    I am writing
    In my life’s way.
    It is not to
    As I have written
    Reading
    This life by any means.
    The way
    Of being in a state of forsakenness
    Is uncertain
    Similar to the nothingness
    Which doesn’t endure permanently
    So many fractions can be found in me
    Even more diversified than my thoughts
    And everything will end up
    Breaking into fragments
    Even though once it has been whole as a soul.
    In a motionless dream
    The ocean breaks down,
    And I fall down in the quietness.
    In my soul’s dreams
    I do not know where or when
    Whenever a world is hidden;
    Of all the visible things
    There is nothing better than
    A motionless dream
    That has left all that’s gone.
    A motionless dream
    Of nothing, I should have lost.
    I wish to breathe into it.
    It was like the wind-song
    When it was on my head.
    Not a single shadow
    But darkness, at this very moment,
    And more than anyone
    Who doesn’t know if you are born?
    Is what could be thought
    Not always
    On Earth or outside the universe,
    Everything has been lost
    No apparent transformation, even so, has ever been.
    Esther Elizabeth Racah

  • The Sleepless Nights

    The Sleepless Nights

    The Sleepless Nights

    Long are the sleepless nights that I spend alone writing and dreaming about absurdities
    Surrounded by books and scribbled notes scattered around the house
    I wonder how much my life is real
    Since it is mainly made of poetry, writings, books and music
    Solitude is my constant companion
    I live in my bubble of segregation
    Nevertheless, I cannot live without music, art, poetry and that deep ache in my soul
    Having to keep dark secrets
    On the sleepless nights, I might write my poetry only for myself
    Feeling like no one on this planet will ever read me
    Every day I pretend to be patient and wait
    Most of the time, I feel the most invisible creature in the world
    With traumatic experiences and terrible abuses
    I had to endure in silence and loneliness with infinite strength.
    Esther Racah
  • I Don’t Like Writing

    I Don’t Like Writing

    I Don’t Like Writing

    I don’t like writing
    Nevertheless, it is an unavoidable activity for me, such as breathing
    As long as silence talks to me, many impressions crowd into my mind
    Often I stay idle, wondering about random ideas
    But I am not able to rationalise all that is inscrutable
    It is as time shows me life in pictures
    Like a collection of many old miniature paintings
    Some of them are blurred
    And others are very unambiguous
    All those words of mine give only sporadic impressions about myself
    All those poems of mine are only fragments of me
    My poetry is accessible for everyone to read
    My poetry is not trapped in a book
    My poetry is absolutely a wild living thing that breaths
    Hence, I chose the freedom to express myself straightforwardly.
    Esther Racah

  • Writing My Soul Down

    Writing My Soul Down

    Writing My Soul Down

    Writing my soul down while it is raining
    The dark night appears like a vast stormy ocean
    Expectations defeat me as I dream each day and night
    Being emotionally paralyzed, I wait for the moment I can rely on my senses
    Sometimes the perfection might be in the imperfections
    Sometimes it would be better to be wary rather than foolish
    Humbleness should replace arrogance
    Honesty should replace dissimulation
    Exhaustion might hide anguish and grief
    Nowadays, popularity and lavishness classify people
    Idiocy and platitude endangers arts and culture
    The most important values of this society are to be popular and wealthy
    Everything can be buried in the abyss of the ineptitude
    All that I can do is write my soul down, scribbling notes.
    Esther Racah

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