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Pages: 67

Published: 26 days ago

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Book Description HTML

Do we know what love is? Do we think we know the many layers of its spectrum? Agape, Philos, Eros, and perhaps many others not yet discovered? Do we think we know God, truly? Do we think we understand each common man and what his feelings are, both on earth and lands afar? Do we think we know death? And what about life? And life after life? What does one experience when one gets there, and what does one make of it? Do they morn? Do they moan? Do they plead or do they seethe? When faced with their atrocious love, do they concede?We do not know. We can only speculate.A poem collection that takes the reader through the word-web and beyond, with one motif behind it: Love, and its many and varied consequences, exploring spirit, flesh, and mind alike, however tormented they may be.

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Anastasia Forfotă

My name is Anastasia Forfotă and I am a medical student on her way to become a psychiatrist, as I value very much the human psyche and emotions. I am not only curious about them, but also interested in helping others overcome life's struggles, especially through expressing themselves and communicating, mostly since I am a very empathetic person, and I easily understand what others go through even though I have not experienced anything similar myself. Poetry is, to me, a way of not only expressing my own thoughts, feelings, desires or secrets by means of an intricate web of metaphors and symbolism, but also expressing the point of view of characters, historical or religious figures, people whom I know and am close to (or not) , and especially of those who have, along the time, been misjudged or misunderstood, misquoted or misinterpreted, mistreated and, eventually, misdirected in life. It is very often that I find myself writing from the perspective of even the people that I despise or am disgusted by, with whom I cannot ever agree in matters of their morals (or lack thereof) , and yet I can say that it is a thrilling experience to even comprehend the mind and heart of a monster, and that usually makes for an interesting read. I am not always myself when I write, and yet I always am myself, and the poems are not always about me, yet I am in every poem. I can only hope that whoever decides to take a look at my scribbles will be intrigued, delighted, or even disturbed by what they find, as art is not meant to impress, but to express, and that is all.

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