Laura Russo was born and lives in Battipaglia, Italy.
She combines writing with anything that is art, such as drawing, painting, photography and declamation. She has her own literature column in a newspaper from Paestum named “The Writing between the lines”. Furthermore, she collaborates with a newspaper from Battipaglia by writing about local cultural events and publishing her own poems and stories. She writes regularly about cultural topics, poetry, aphorisms and stories. She runs a poetry Facebook group named “Poetic threads” and she has an Instagram column about poetry.
She also has her own YouTube video-poetry channel, where anybody can hear her voice.
She has participated in multiple national poetry competitions, receiving numerous awards. She has written for multiple poetic anthologies and collective books. She dedicates herself to the art of declamation, obtaining important awards in competitions of the “Voice/Poetry” sector.
TO MY BELOVED
I could tell you how I feel,
gift you verses, my woman.
Cover yourself with captivating words…
I could, but it has no value
compared to my feelings.
I tell you then my love…
Sit down and hear
the sweet dancing of my heart,
see the light of my eyes
reflect your face.
Only then you will feel…
What I feel.
HOLD ME
In your arms
I want to stay.
Hold me tight,
don’t leave me.
Let it be you
My home,
where peace
I can find.
You, safe haven
To dock.
Hold me in your arms
Don’t let me be afraid
May my fears
Free my heart.
Hold me… don’t leave me
ME, ACCOMPLICE
You have slowly scratched my soul.
You removed and never added.
You shattered my certainties,
while building yours.
The more I loved you,
the more I fell out of love with myself.
You strengthened your ego…
I weakened mine.
Accomplice, I watched in silence,
as I slowly died
in my soap bubble.
So distant from myself
that I don’t feel like myself.
I look at myself from afar,
i feel pity for that soul… my soul.
How could I have let this happen?
In the name of what, why?
You erased me,
I have little memory of myself.
I don’t remember who I was and I don’t know who I am.
But, I see a hand… there, at the bottom.
If I push myself a little further, perhaps…
Perhaps I can…
I can get it out…
I can get MYSELF out.
Prepared Angela Kosta writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist
