The official website of Ria April Avalon, a contemporary poet and lyricist

Here are my thoughts about everything that is going on in our “brave new world” and my personal views on the modern society, people, politics, and religion (by the way, I am an atheist). Both poetry and lyrics belong to this category. Warning: explicit content!



This open book without an ending
Is everything my life reminds of.
You, shallow souls, were just pretending -
You're out of touch, I'm out of mind now.

I was a slave of my devotion,
A pillow for your worthless tears,
And you just played with my emotions,
Then in a moment disappeared.

I gave you all my heart to treasure -
You marked it with your footprints, dirty.
But it's your loss that can't be measured,
And nevermore your lies will hurt me!

The novel's waiting for your ending,
Fresh rumors - what is more exciting?
I'll laugh at you and keep pretending
I can't make out your handwriting. 

I press the button and renew
A page with someone's masterpiece.
I see a so-called review
With letters less than letters missed.
The comment's author claims to be
A bard, a critic and a muse.
This three-in-one, or none-in-three
Can't get the core of someone's views,
Of thoughts in their poetic flight.
Yes, it is hard - they tend to flee,
But it's the artist's one true might
To see what other eyes can't see,
And poets for a day or two,
Who shape a random phrase by chance,
Who haven't proved a sentence true,
Just have no right to set demands
For those who ponder, dare and speak,
Who search, discover and create.
Their fame is yet to reach its peak,
And as for you, it's way too late.

Tomorrow's Exceptional Hero

Your ego's inflated and too oversize,
It's only your pathos that shines in your eyes.
Your words are important just devil knows where,
The mirth in your voice is a sign of despair.
You've never seen life, as you've been colorblind;
It's painted by poets in all undertones
While you label things just as black or as white,
Your black is opposed to the world of your own.
If difference frightens you, you're the crowd,
There's nothing your hopeless days are about.
You're models of somebody's system, you're clones,
You're always together, forever alone.

The crowd is such a deceptive protection,
The crowd is moving in just one direction.
It's moving nowhere, the speed's minus zero.
It's our tomorrow's exceptional hero!

The sun in your world still can warm you at night,
But nothing will ever be fucking all right!
Work, family, pub, sleep... Then count to ten -
You'll see the same picture again and again.
You can't change the rules, so you change decorations,
You're frightened of getting to your one true core.
You, slaves, could be kings - you are human creations,
A bit of a muse and a bit of a whore,
A thinker, a painter, a soul to admire
As well as a wreck, a destroyer, a liar,
An actor, a man with his truth full of guile,
It's better than your hypocritical smile!
Your credo is envy, the reason you fail.
Our world is a pedestal, yours is a jail.

The crowd is such a deceptive protection,
The crowd is moving in just one direction.
It's moving nowhere, the speed's minus zero.
It's our tomorrow's exceptional hero!
Is it?

Life Story

She's out in the rain, on the verge of despair,
The smoke is twirling in fresh autumn air,
Ten cigarettes stand for three-four minutes each,
She's waiting for him - he is out of reach.
At last he shows up: "Hey, I'm sorry I'm late",
She sighs with relief. What a wonderful date!
He looks like a tramp, and she looks like a whore.
A flawless match. They accept and adore
The real each other with no pretending.
But if they could simply imagine the ending!

Today she is only the pride of his pride,
A bit of fluff. Sex? Well, they two never mind.
But they are the victims you can't really blame,
Tomorrow this story will have a new name. 
They'll have their freedom destroyed by an oath
Of love, so pristine. I'm sick of them both!
It's time to grow up if it's not way too late,
The concept of love stands for fear and fate.
Love is alcohol multiplied by their tears,
The number of both will increase in some years.

Ten years have passed, she is still in despair,
She lies in their bed, breathing close heavy air,
Ten cigarettes stand for three-four minutes each.
She's waiting for him - he is out of reach.
He shows up drunk in his torn baggy clothes,
She leers at him. What a night for them both!
She looks like an ugly and worn-out whore.
They're no more able to love and adore
The real each other with no pretending,
But they had a way to escape from this ending.

The Extremes

She's wearing a plait and a plain floral dress,
Her skin is so pale, and her fringe is a mess.
She can't link three words in the most simple phrase,
And ignorance left dirty marks on her face.
Her look is so frightened, her thoughts are a dump,
She's shallow, naive, indecisive and numb.
She won't ever part with her old silver cross,
The symbol of nothing aside from her loss
Of I-do-create-my-own-destiny power.
Poor thing, she's still waiting for her fatal hour.

I'm so sick of living among this gray mass, 
Where everyone claims to be always the best. 
The philistine's life is so tragic and dim,
It's walking in circles between the extremes.

He's wearing piercings and torn baggy jeans,
He's now in his twenties but looks like a teen.
He's always in fight with those two shameless queers
Who play homo-love right in front of their peers.
Turn back, and you'll see lady-like prostitutes,
Both charming and scary. Well, look at that dude!
He's ready to take them, two ones at a time,
And rape them. Oh, wait, it does sound like crime.
I'm smiling at them while I'm passing them by,
Continuing singing this song in my mind.

I'm so sick of living among this gray mass, 
Where everyone claims to be always the best. 
The philistine's life is so tragic and dim,
It's walking in circles between the extremes.


Romance Is Dead

A glass of cheap vodka tastes just like depression,
It hurts to be sober tonight.
The mirror reflects such a nasty expression
That I quickly turn off the light.
Some porn and then casual sex with my hand...
Oh damn! This is something I shouldn't have said.
Why don't you believe that I need no boyfriend - 
No problems, no worries, no tears, no regret?

I can't fall asleep, so I get on the net
Where I claim to be an online super-whore,
I find guys like you just to make them all fret,
My tease makes them want me, but they can't get more
Than flirt for some minutes, some sexual tension
And then disconnect. Their muse disappears.
I've had a good time with these cruel intentions, 
Enough for today. See you later, my dear.

You say it is stupid, it doesn't make sense,
But you are the first to have buried romance.

Get Over It

I hate you all, I wish you pain.
It doesn’t cause me any strain.
I can’t care less for all this shit
You say to me. Get over it.
Yes, whiskey is my perfect friend –
It’s always there by my demand.
Yes, I detest the whole mankind.
Yes, I deny, and I’m denied.

I curse the world, I curse my fate,
I first destroy and then create.
You laugh at me – I turn and spit,
You try to mess with me – I quit.
You draw black hearts – I draw red spades,
You say “enough” – I say “too late”.
You can’t accept your worst defeat –
My victory. Get over it.

You draw black hearts – I draw red spades,
I curse the world, I curse my fate.
Yes, I detest the whole mankind.
Yes, I deny, and I’m denied.

Get over it!

A Desperate City

Hello to you from the gray gloomy city,
Where crowds unconsciously worship despair, 
Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity
With stupid beliefs 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?

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 neighbors 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 a couple more days.
I spent the next hour listening to moans,
But envy and anger were still neutralized.
I made through the day, and I did it alone.
The neighbors calmed down. I closed my eyes.

The Voice of Despair

Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Old 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,
The last of his vanishing 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.

Welcome to Fail

Work, Friday parties, chores, spouses, kids,
Fashion to follow and patterns to be -
Standards of living. And now repeat:
"This is my life as I want it to be".

You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!

Late in the evening you search for some fun,
Playing net wars of the stupid and lame.
Pressing the button, you load your gun.
Play your reality rather than games!

You think you're perfect, you swear it's true,
But nobody is, you are nobody then.
You're welcome to Fail - population is you,
Enjoy the illusion of freedom, Failmen!

The further it takes you, the further you go,
A plain carbon paper with plain decorations
Is all your damn life till the end of the show,
A pattern that's set for the next generations.


You wake up at six to have sex with your spouse,
You're under the blanket with tightly shut eyes.
At seven a postman arrives at 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.


The same nasty job and the same decorations,
The desperate faces of helpless sweatpals,
Bright shouting ads at half-dead metro stations,
Then evenings with you in a dark empty cell.

The price of ten dollars for some inspiration,
Some spirits, some sex and a pointless nightmare,
Brain vomiting words for another creation,
The words squirting hatred and bleeding despair,

No money for life, but great plans and beginnings...
They hate me for pride and my truth, almost ripe.
I've chosen life with just one subtle meaning,
They've chosen one of a stereotype.

I say what is true and I live what is fair!
I laugh at those dull social-networking mugs 
Who tell me: "Young thing, you're nothing in square",
The kids of web chatter and audiodrugs.

The lights in the streets take me back to November -
Complete isolation of heart, blood and mind.
The ones that I loved still forget to remember
A beautiful devil - the one of this kind.

The guise of my freedom has changed. Don't you care
That everything else has remained? It is me!
Alone in the crowd, both here and there,
And fucking damn proud: I'm sober and free.


You're shallow as a pool of dirt,
In which your quasi-force has drowned.
Your words are pointless and absurd;
You spread your helplessness around.
You hide behind your ego brand,
You contradict your each demand.

You're freedom-proof yet still aware
Of all the grieves of your position.
Wipe out the rust of your despair -
Your brand is someone else's mission!
Your programmed life has gone astray,
Your days are like a failed replay.


I'm fully devoured by hate,
My mind has been brought to stagnation,
It's my unconceivable fate
To get slightly less estimation
Than sluts in a changeable guise
Or fools wasting time on careers.
Well, who is the one to despise:
A poet or one of those peers?
They fear the joys of today,
They fear the freedom addiction,
And I have no words left to say
When called a damn tough contradiction.

The Truth

You are not the ones for love to know,
You are not the ones for life to please,
All you hunt is dirty euro dough,
It's, in fact, a terrible disease.

Your infected ego is inflated,
It will burst and poison all your veins.
Even when the beast is saturated,
It is still your helplessness that reigns.

Every step you take will be declared
As the most expected epic fall.
I'm the only poet who has dared
To announce the truth, to say it all.

I Don’t Care

You detest me. The reason is clear, 
And your welcome is always so cold, 
But the core of my perfect idea 
Has been stolen by the whole 
Heartless cruel rotten world. 

You all promptly discovered the sense of surviving 
And at last started thinking what means to be free. 
Full of envy, consumed with mixed feelings, you're striving 
For quite shallow things in the same way as me. 
You are trying to open my eyes 
To my being the core of the vice, 
And you all are as pure as spring morning skies.

Please believe neither laughs nor my tears, 
Like I never believe what you say. 
My true muse will be straying for years 
After one unlucky chain 
Of the same exhausting days. 

You are lively discussing your sides of the story, 
Do you find it a pleasure to dig tons of muck? 
You have nothing to do with my grief or my glory, 
Or a lot of misfortunes, or ultimate luck. 
You are looking at me with eyes green, 
But my eyes are still pure marine 
And will stay so regardless the scenes I have seen. 


Your gloomy third husband and four naughty kids
Exactly resemble each other.
They find their joy in net games and cheap sweets,
You feel like a hopeless mother.

Your man doesn't love you. Accept it is true.
He needs ironed suits and some dinner.
However, he had kind of feelings for you
When you were much younger and thinner.

You get up at six, eat a stale breakfast pie,
Clean up, wait your turn for a shower,
Your husband can't cope with his hair and tie,
Kids must be at school in an hour. 

Those tragic soap operas on the blue screen
Are, sadly, your only salvation.
Most couples discover the same boring scene,
Routine kills your life inspiration.