Books christina strigas confessional poetry dream men Poems poet poetry streams of consicousness thought words writers writing

i took all my books out of the way

i made a path for you to walk into

but you send me cryptic messages

i can’t understand. i’m not that smart

i think in beats, rainbow schemes,

i want to finish writing this poem

before he gets here and breaks my

silence into too many questions

i avoid answering. i removed my

poems for you, made you walk

straight into my heart and pull

it apart with my own weakness.

i never should have trusted you

with that one secret, you haunt

me with it, pass it around my

air like a ball. you’re playing

with my vulnerability. i tell

you to fuck off instead of good

night and in the morning you

wonder why i left for work

so early and we don’t talk again

until the following day

where we start over and forget

the past. it’s what we call

staying married these days.

Poetry writing


I am so excited to share this poem with the world.

Published for the first time in “The Temz Review.”

Please click on link and read it along with some other fantastic poems.


Some Wednesday hump day news

Hello all my amazing WordPress friends and followers,

I want to let you know what’s going on in my writing career right now. This way you can understand how insane everything can get in a couple of months.

After the release of Crush, my paranormal romance, I started working on another book, which has absolutely nothing to do with vampires. I’m not planning on writing a sequel to Crush, for those who asked. It’s not that kind of book, and I’m not that kind of writer. One book at a time, one story at a time. This new book is a modern love story with twists of erotica. It gets pretty damn hot in that manuscript…working on intense sex scenes needs some wine on the side. Not ready to disclose the title yet, but it’ll be an indication of what drives the force of the book and for you the reader, to keep on turning the pages.

My publishers: who work so hard at bringing out the best in their writers.

I have to edit the manuscript, which takes forever for me. It’s my pet peeve and I hate changing my words, somewhat like Henry Miller did, so because I tried to incorporate more poetic lines in this novel, from only two perspectives it’ll be a long editing process.

In the meantime, I am working with an incredible publishing house 451 Press, that has signed me up to create my book of poetry. I’m going a bit nuts here too, because when I presented them with too many poems, they came back to me with more editing. So right now, my incredible project manager Nicole is helping me out by selecting the poems that will pretty much make you come back for more ( the idea of a second book). The experience of working with such a hip, young company is so refreshing and makes me feel so young at heart.Check them out for yourselves:

I thank you so much for your constant support and for visiting my blog. Sending you some love and peace your way. It means more to me than you know.


This song always inspires me, hope it does that for you too. Live version xx

451 press Books dreams fiction poetry writing

Act 1

artists lovers Old MOntreal poem poetry soul mates streams of consicousness walking writers writing

wandering by the port

you wandered inside my mind

and got lost. you asked me

why do you write? because

i feel the words the way

you feel the sunshine on

your skin. because i want

to tear apart the demons.

because the words i hide

are the ones that come back

like a magician’s tricks.

because i told you, i have

no fucking choice. he woke me

up at midnight with violent

blue eyes and soft gently hands

only to thunder my soul with want.

i don’t want to read your poems.

i love everything about you and nothing

to do with what you write.

you know half of me.

you know all of me.

you know you can’t escape

yourself, baby.

he makes me crazy

with wanting and i tell him

everything. truth serum is

my vodka at scarlet

restaurants with

mobsters ordering

salmon tartare as if

they know everything about

fine cuisine, but nouveau

riche stay under the radar

no matter how their lambos

look in valet parking. try harder.

want less. the trick is to

keep breathing in tiny

made up gardens looking

for truth in empty champagne bottles.

it’s bullshit and Old Montreal is

holding my memories the way it

held my heart. we walked into

the pub and once again

I was the barmaid and you were

my man. nothing much changes,

just rust is added, some wrinkles,

some new buildings, old joints

still around to draw me closer

to you. i can’t escape anything

about your manic attraction.

i don’t know who i’m trying

to fool.

451 press Books confessional poetry dream fiction First novel Instagram poetry poetry book poets of instagram prompts words writing

Tell me

Instagram poem poetry social media writing

aka: sexyasspoet on Instagram

aka: sexyasspoet on Instagram.

dreams imagination interpretations meanings poet poetry writing

Across the Street

It is funny how you wake up from a dream

when you do not want to

and that fucking alarm

has the worst timing.

Look Aysha said, he’s across

the street. I squinted, I let

the rain wet my hair. He has 

a message for you. But he’s dead.

No he isn’t. He’s right there.

Then I saw him. He stared at me

with his familiar clothes and

cute cap and his unforgettable look.

I waited for his thoughts to enter mine

like in that stupid move, In Your Eyes,

but nothing. Now I have to guess,

ponder all day what he meant

to say. His constant beyond the grave

obscure meanings, quotes,

sayings, life affirming opera


I have so many estimations

but all lead to the bridge

I almost crashed into

last night in the snowstorm.

I got nothing.

I see everything.

He did not want to cross

so that tells me

what my heart

knows to be true.

Do you ever see the dead

and wonder why you?

Do you ever light the candles

and watch them flicker?

Do you ever question

artistry and love?

It’s only my right breast

that needs


the rest of me

is doing just fine

with snow tires

and edits

poetic lyrics

to get me by

but when you told me

about your mom

my insides were ripped apart

for your pain.

I feel the heartache

and shock

I end up reliving mine

and even if you are

tired of reading me

I will never stop.

emergency hospital memories poem poetry thought trauma writing

Emergency in two parts


If regular days exist

I want to have one

without trauma rooms

injections, life threatening

false alarms and real tragedies.

Spend a day in hallways

rooms which monitor


instead give science lessons

about the four chambers of the heart

(the heart, the body, the soul, the mind)

you just made that up, Mama

I suppose I did.

It is the nasty smell of sickness

versus Gucci floral scents

Diesel pour homme

how we fight the system

sign away organs

cry under smiles.

At least the walls are a warm beige

and the no service on my phone

gives me time

to reminisce

as my mom and aunt describe

myself at four, five, nine, sixteen

I did that?

How other people’s memories

of you

are not even your own

how family

is stuck together

in hospital waiting rooms

taking turns to eat

or smoke or think.

This is how your childhood

smacks you

with scenes

from a forgotten movie

you vaguely recall.

You made Greek coffee at nine

(wow, such an accomplishment)

as their definition of a woman

and mine clash once again.

Yet times means nothing

and memories

are a dream now

what was real, invented,

told to you

what you are doing

in a hospital for twelve hours

when there is absolutely nothing

medically wrong with you

so I write some poems

about moments

slipping away.


Working at a hospital at sixteen

does open up your heart

toughen your soul

evolve your mind

wear out your body

and all that smoking

in staircases discussing the importance

of art



seemed like Nelly and I

would change the world

with our artsy degrees

idealism in science

what a fucked up


Lest I forget him,

how he knew where to find me

when I hid

and took me to every quiet


to ravish me

and wake up parts of me

my young heart

still searches for.

Sitting in a waiting room

is not

my favorite place

but we must

do it

the only thing left to do

is remember

think some more

remember some more.

Say goodnight, good morning

find patience and vending machines

coffee moka awful blends

sour cream and onion chips

suddenly there are no candy bars

going crazy looking for snickers

remember the way

back form the cafeteria

memorize letters

get lost in basements

ask at least two strangers

for directions

and count my change.

Say good night again.

And start over.

cafe latte poem poetry writing

cafe au lait poems 2

You may have

felt me before this day

in sweet ways

that make men

give me their cards

at music stores,

chase me out

of grocery stores

for dates, free drinks

at bars claiming its fate.

You know, I never

stop running

and who knows now

if I wake up tomorrow

or the next day

if I will run toward you

with these demons at my back

angels in my blood

and this pen,

this fucking pen,

filled with my disease,

how it makes me bolt,

pour out letters

think quick, breathe heavily

as coins clang, women laugh,

phones beep, and here I sit

in my comfort, writing zone

next to another soul mate

eyeing me with jealousy

as my eyes never leave my page

and these walls surround me

and that girl across with her annoying


still does not make me lose my mojo;

your messages, I’m not answering,

my images are just that constant

disillusion of reality.

You have to lie on your side

elbow propped up

and mimic me; stare right back

as all the pictures fade, disappear

into the soft soil

at our feet

and the only sanity

lies in an insane asylum,

definitely not here.