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Tanya Ivanova Poems
Tonight again is running slow, Like many nights in even row, But I got feeling that this night, Not everything will be all right.
Blind wanderer in a beautiful dress Please come back into my hurting soul,
Men Do Not Know How To Love
Men do not know how to love, Cause they are burning in stupid desires. Their touches are always too rough, Their hormones are always on fire.
Good poetry is hard to find It always hurts in chest It leaves a thread back to remind Most poems are like pest.
I Dreamed I Have a Beard Growing
I had a dream extremely weird That on my face was sprouting beard And as a woman healthy vain This awful fact made me insane.
By the fireplace of personal wellbeing We are sitting and champing some chips.
The Dog And Its Dead Owner
The dog was happy in the yard, Enjoyed to play around. It was a conscientious guard Of this small village ground
The Lion And The Mouse
Once the lion was overly bored He caught a little mouse for fun For food it was to be ignored So he did let it freely run.
Caressing me with chocolate look So that in me to break the ice And me for you an open book In your meal I’m just a spice.
Sometimes I don’t follow the rules, That society puts in my head. I don’t keep to the plans or schedules And I cross very often on red.
You are only a far away stranger, Who's trying to enter my mind. In the wildness you're messing with danger, For my nature you're deaf, dumb and blind.
I am just a doll of rags And I am torn and sewn For future children just a bag And needless parts are pruned.
A Story of Friendship
Lion, jackal and vulture Went along on their way. To each other they showed culture And divided their prays.
The Fox and The Grapes
The fox saw grapes high on a wine And thought: 'This grapes will be mine.' It stretched and jumped to reach the grapes, but it was fox not like the apes.
Comments about Tanya Ivanova
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Tonight again is running slow,
Like many nights in even row,
But I got feeling that this night,
Not everything will be all right.
Cause when the prejudice will break,
Insanity will be awake,
Illusions it is gonna sell,
And it will open doors of hell.
And you will come like a surprise,
And all my passion’s gonna rise.
And if I am so puzzling brave,
You will be not at all in safe.
And all these flames in your look,
My eyes for you are open book.
And if your love is so d*mn real,
There’s something here for real deal.