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Nadia Caramidariu, 13 years old, is participating in the 6th International Literary Creation Competition, from Vladimirescu, Arad, Romania. We are grateful for the participation and wish her success.

Poem 1:         Inactions

You will regret your inactions the most
every time you didn't boast
about your achievements
and your hopes.

Every time you didn't go to the park alone,
when you just decided to stay on your phone-
because what if someone judged you
or thought you looked askew?

Every time you didn't raise your hand
even though you could fully understand
the question being asked
in the morning science class.

Every time you declined an invite 
to a lively, loud night,
because there was energy you couldn't hone,
and you were outside your comfort zone.

Maybe if you'd left the house,
sure, they might have judged you;
but maybe you'd have found a spouse-
and wouldn't that sky have been so blue?

Maybe if you’d raised your hand,
you'd have gotten some praise,
and life wouldn't be so bland-
you’d be a bit more fun these days.

Maybe if you'd gone out
you'd have found some lovely friends
wandering about-
but you didn't, so that is how it ends.


Poem 2:      Static, Elsa, Manny and me

One by one,
I've drowned the people that I'd been.

First was Static,
with her sad, downturned eyes,
which cried so many tears
and saw so many guys,
inhaled the smell of fears
too many times.
“Dad!” she called,
“Dad!” she cried,
only to be left behind.

Second was Elsa,
that smiling little girl,
with a hand on her hip
as her parents watched her twirl,
And a grin on her lip
in her Disney-princess world.

Third was Manny,
insecure, passions dying,
as her mind played Static memories, thorough
in reminding her why she's crying.
But don't let that brow furrow:
stay home from school,
in your burrow,
like an empty ghoul.

And then there's Nadia
who writes poems about her life,
is independent,
and doesn't dwell on strife,
who has filled that dent
in her heart,
who’s become fulfilled and smart.

She's forgiven and forgotten
everyone who did her wrong;
her shoes and sleeves are sodden 
from putting to rest
those who were too strong.
Static, Elsa, Manny-
all of them are gone,
reduced to a fragment
which she’d never pawn.

Despite everything bad,
there's an equal amount of good,
and I've managed to find it,
like I always said I would.


Poem 3:   To Know Who You Are, You Must Know Who You Are Not 

I'm not a football star;
I'm not a big shot.
I'm not a musician,
and my words don't always hit the spot

But I'm a tennis player;
I'm dedicated.
I'm an artist who can layer,
and I'm very educated.

Whenever I see a football star
winning awards,
I tend to feel jealous,
forgetting that I can win those on chess boards.

Whenever I see a guitarist
playing at shows,
I tend to feel jealous,
forgetting that I can also compose.

But my question is:
if I was a football star,
if I was a guitarist,
Would I still be a tennis player?
Would I still be an artist?

Would I still be myself?
Or would I be somebody new,
a morphed version of me-
twisted to be 
a perfect she?

That's not what being human is.
If I was a football star
Would I still be a math whizz?

Not everything you do will be five-star.
So just a thought:
to know who you are,
you must know what you are not.