April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd. She creates to destroy stereotypes. April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
The Voice Of Despair
Triangles of half-open doors Reveal all the truth that is hidden: Just condoms and cans on the floor, Black papers with verses, forbidden - Unfinished remakes of the song, Deprived of the right to speak loud Of wicked intentions gone wrong - Erasers have muffled the shout.
The only illusion-proof mind - A poet, the voice of despair, Sincere, the one of this kind Throws verses far into the air Right there, in a dirty old flat Among once great talents, now rotten. They all have deserved more than that, But even their names are forgotten.
You wake up at six: intercourse with your spouse. You're under the blanket with tightly shut eyes. At seven a postman arrives to your house With two printed portions of scandals and lies.
You turn the TV on. Your damn daily dose Of lies is exceeded with fresh morning news. You firmly believe global changes are close - You have no idea they've hidden the truth.
In life you've achieved less than nothing, you're poor Though you were the best both at college and school. Well, man, who are you? You are not even sure. In fact, you're a pawn in the game of a fool.
3. A Desperate City
Hello to you from the gray gloomy city, Where crowds unconsciously worship despair, Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity With naive belief in the world's being fair.
They have no trust in a man's inner power, And fortitude sounds like something unknown. They have no poets, just ones of an hour, Who drown at once in the thoughts of their own.
With greed they consume plain illusions for dinner, And dress them with lies when they serve the new dishes To those so-called "pathological sinners" Who find someone else's delusions delicious.
They have Friday liter-mates rather than friends To mark that the week of no favor is ending, But even with glasses of spirits in hands They look worse than misery. Are they pretending?
I'm wild and sometimes even heartless-can-be, I'm fond of collecting illusions to ruin, I'm breaking the rules life has written for me, "Create to destroy" best describes what I'm doing. I'm scarily dangerous, silently loud - A walking disaster you'd better ignore, The pain in the neck of a desperate crowd. But I'm like a magnet - you'll only want more.
You'll figure me out, you'll get to the core - One beauty, two fears, three dangers - it's me. You'll enter my heartspace and close the door For anyone else who I wanted to be. My truth was denying devotion and faith, And now you've proved right the opposite true. A chain of mistakes is the sign of my days; My strength will forgive me - it led me to you.
5. Every Single Evening's Plot
I closed the door of my dirty old flat, I went outside for a short evening stroll. I bought some cheap hooch and a condom instead. I'd only arrived when I heard a phone call. It was so persistent, so deafening loud. Who failed to forget me? I wanted to know. I took a deep breath for a desperate shout, Picked up the receiver: "Hello! Hello?" Just silence. An error? Wrong number? Or what? A quick thought of you. Stupid me! Would you care? I started to feel all the spirits I'd bought Dissolve in my blood, neutralizing despair. In less than an hour my neighbours arrived And asked me for something they needed. Okay. I gave them a condom and bade them hot night - I wouldn't have sex for some number more days. I spent the next hour listening to moans, But envy and anger were still neutralized. I'd made through the day, and I'd done it alone. The neighbors calmed down. I closed my eyes.
6. Fate And Fortune
This northern city with headlights-eyes Has buried me in its cold and gloom; You'll see this place in a dreadful guise And once sweet home will seem a tomb Once you're aware there's no way out, Once dreams of youth say goodbye and grin. It goes farther and makes me doubt In all the things I have ever seen. Its blood has turned into ice and snow - It's endless winter in every heart. The winds of grief never cease to blow, The art of grief is the greatest art.
And once in this cradle of dirt and despair A wandering stranger demanded my mind. He asked me about this damned northern air I'd better not breathe - I would leave it behind. He said: "I'm in love with this misery, miss. Destruction is right what we need to create. True art is in grief, I've been dreaming of this. My yesterday's fortune's tomorrow's fate. I know all secrets my destiny knows, So this boring dwelling won't be a surprise". I thought: "He's my twin, and it clearly shows". That evening he opened my widely shut eyes.
A perfect stranger has built a wall To be a shield from this gloom and lies, From endless rains of this city's gall That falls on me from the shattered skies. The wave of feelings can warm the days Of dull existence in Bitterland And melt the ice in this rotten place, In every heart that it's due to mend. This northern city with headlights-eyes Has turned us down in its nasty voice And... brought together. We've paid the price Of fate to fortune. We've made the choice.