Anet Atanasova's poetry possesses a bright individual sound, setting her own personal code, present and easily detectable in all her poems. However, this in no way makes it easy to decode. The strong psychological element in her poetry makes her complex to comprehend and requires a deeper insight. Also a lot of re-reads to make sense of all the pitfalls. They are beyond words, as subconscious elements that we must go through with self-analysis, along with the analysis of verse.


Her psychological education brings a special insight into words and the creation of a verse, which allows her to find that personal freedom in the depth of mental problems that many poets dream but never reach. Annette does not bother to experiment and write without aligning her work with the imposed poetic frameworks and trends in contemporary poetry, instead seeking the closest to the authentic Self.

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The moaning crushes the springs of my vocal cords
He marks me with other immortals
Just enough to know it is
My love!
My marks are your doctrine of crucifixion
There is unfilled space
Not just for writing
But also for having
Your core is the only non-inhibitor in my body
The other is a matter of torture


3..2 .. (?)


and in the gap between you and your industrious outline
I will come without your comfort
and I will not ask for entrance or sighs
I'll do it quietly
like salt in the waters of the Dead Sea
I'll stick to you
so that it keeps matter on the surface
then I will dive numerous times from the burn
I'll play lava with him and warm up in the winter
… In which I will leave you
I will destroy the damage for their own benefit
not to hurt them with an accident
that actually carries everyone else
but not reality
I'll jump on the rope elusively
just to make sure you tie the loop with it
and just please make it symmetrical
like God
and the whole
the circle requires consistent outlines
and if your god is a spirit
is he so selfish
to take away his own
to own me
and please believe me the analogy
that I will deprive you of yourselves to feel paradise
I will wander through the bowels of men
and I'll keep my weapon radius
and your "Hell" in this case:
just turn it in: "Yes"
will have pressed the trigger




your cartilage threads at the gates to yourself
they start to creak more and more stubbornly
it's like we're in a Lynch movie
such treacherous rape
can only be done with permission
you let me break the lock
while releasing the key from below
not paradoxes are insane
it's crazy to call crazy
the one who is not
all your space inside
it smells of my sweat
what else to evaporate from the outside
as soon as your tears come
I hate any humidity
which is not shedding muscle
you say and He is like that
and pushes in red
stop please - i hate metaphors
I will lock you from the outside in you
interpret if you dare point


There are believers silent before them


what does love do when it falls in love with itself again
and how exactly does dreamless water dream when it always remembers
we dehydrate what flows into veins and arteries
it drowns in our own dryness and then we try to save it
boats are always less than needy
so sometimes it's better to be drowning
than on anyone's shore saved
we harass some not our loneliness
just so we don't hear our own silences
and throughout the deafening process
we do the most contemptuous:
we squeeze the nectar of what is ready to give birth
just because no tomorrow is coming to us now
and now it is always tomorrow and every yesterday
only sometimes the children we raise internally
try to be with accurate diction, punctuation… to adjust the arrows
because isn't that how it's done
breathing, living, "no choice"
always left-to-right and if nothing can be holistic
always from me to me and never to myself
only high-pitched moans of tortured forms of self-perception
then the dead flowers germinate, flowers in vases -
never dying in this life
and so many more times they "emerged" on time
and we think how beautiful they are in the evening
"We think" is such a false word
everything is so unthinkable
as much as the tautology itself
and that beauty of a dead branch
is nothing after the aftertaste without sensory endings
when was the last time your palate trembled without trusting in someone else's
and sweetheart, where did you forget the chewing gums of the universes that it mercilessly shaped into ovals
I am walking on this earth today, I am going through what is called a body
and I “think” how many universes we come to
as we perceive them as black dots of ignorance
in which someone said we should not fall
you always listen to me with your eyes
but hear me now when I say to you,
loving the feeling makes sense for three days
because I'm so waterless
and on the first I rose again


The flight to the survivors is delayed


epitaph is somehow the other way around
a gravestone before life happens
so that Prever could close the cell
and to remain in it even with desire
when it is closer than it is outside
the horizon of experience ceases to exist
because it was, could and would
not in the past imperfect
namely, completed before the beginning
choose your direction
go the other way around
and know yourself what you are not
learn from you
meet and hear your name opposite by another letter
unknown, but why in some way personal
call yourself again
be upright while kneeling
baptized alone with my name without religion
then forget about the monologue
and let all the devas remember you:
remind them how the words breathe
pulpit and pole and iron but without voice
and then let the bird come out
and as you mix your eggs for breakfast tomorrow
one of our unborn may remind you
though it never flew
forgot about the air and the worldview
someone's pen wrote you
and it makes sense that
the little things on our grave
for something existing
are a legend for life
trust them

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