PROJECT: POETRY
Anger
I own them
I own them
I held my anger—kept it tight,
But never wore it in plain sight.
It wasn’t something one should show,
An ugly thing that made hearts go.
So under skin and deep in mind,
A ready bomb, a fuse unlined.
It simmered, quiet, barely there,
A smoldered ember, hushed, aware.
As if it wasn’t truly real—
But it was…
It always lurked, but once it grew,
It knew exactly what to do.
This one—I’d cut her down with words.
That one deserved a fist that hurt.
Here, I would set the record straight.
There, I would shout—no time to wait!
Truth would shatter, justice shine,
I’d burn it down to make it mine.
And anger? Oh, it had its way,
It grew, it swelled, it begged to stay.
I thought it made the world more pure,
That wrath could fix, could heal, could cure.
That fools would learn, the selfish bend,
That debts would shrink, the earth would mend.
But all it did was steal my peace,
And feast on those within my reach.
And in its wake, the wreckage lay—
A dream undone, a love decayed,
A thousand words too sharp, too loud,
A thousand silences too proud.
Too much broken, too much lost,
And once the flames had turned to frost,
So little of me still remained,
Just echoes of what rage had claimed.
A moment’s wrath—then years to mend,
A cycle spinning without end.
For anger is a ruthless thief,
A murderer of time and peace,
A fire that feigns strength and might,
But only leaves the soul burned white.
I held my anger, let it rise,
Fed it with grief, with loss, with lies,
Until I saw—too late, too late—
It was my soul it set in flames.
But deep within, a whisper stirred,
A voice so soft it felt unheard:
No fire catches on still seas.
But anger moves through blood with ease—
A word, a glance, a breath too light,
And sparks ignite the mind in spite.
So I let go. I cleared the space.
No flames to rise, no sparks to chase.
Now laughter hums where echoes dwelled,
And silence speaks where anger yelled.
No battles left, no debts to pay—
Me and my anger parted ways.
In Polish / po polsku:
I own them
I own them
I own them
To those who spoke too much
when silence was golden.
To those who stayed silent too long
when silver words carried a death sentence.
To those who walked to the stake,
their stories reduced to footnotes
in the margins of laws
written in the name of the Father and the Son—
divine,
hardly human.
To those who drowned in rivers
though they swam better
than the men who sank them,
too afraid of their power.
To those who sewed uniforms
for boys who’d grow up—if they lived—
to fight men’s wars
over the last word, a plot of land.
To those left behind
on the battlefield called everyday life,
keeping another generation alive.
To those who weren’t allowed to ask,
because the answer had long been written—
suckled from the breasts of weary mothers
who bore many and often,
laying their bodies in rows
like wheat at harvest,
where hands bleed
and backs break.
To those who were told whom to love,
whose dowry decided their fate,
because love from the heart
had no place
in families built for show.
To those whose corsets stole their breath,
whose only gospel was
obedience, taking their souls and minds.
To those who took the first step
so others could walk freely,
each step a gamble,
each choice—life or death.
To those who had minds and hands
but little room to use them.
Human, and yet—
not quite.
Demoted at birth
for a chromosome that came in pairs.
Their lives never made the textbooks,
never turned into quotes of glory.
They remained in letters,
in tired eyes,
in church records,
in shaky handwriting
where a cross stood in place of a name.
And I—
I speak aloud
because they could not.
I go where they were barred from entering.
I learn
because their schools were locked.
I choose
because they had commandments instead.
I owe them.
Behind me stands the strength of their strength,
their blood runs in my veins,
their laughter rings in my ears—
through tears,
through centuries of injustice.
Mothers.
Grandmothers.
Great-grandmothers.
Cousins.
Aunts.
Ancient sisters.
I owe them
at least this one sentence,
one that—this time—
no one can erase.
In Polish / po polsku:
The old
I own them
The old
And when I am old, if God grants me the time,
When life’s sponge is wrung, every drop, every line,
I’ll sit by my mirror, before I let go,
Look into my eyes, let my story flow.
I’ll trace the lines that laughter made,
And those etched deep from nights afraid,
of shadows and whispers that darkened my way—
What voice stayed with me, and which slipped away?
And in my white hair, every strand spun tight,
I’ll see a story woven from sorrow and light,
Of worries that carved their mark in my skin,
Of mountains climbed, again and again.
These shoulders may bow, this neck may bend,
But my head stayed high, my spirit held.
I’ll remember the women whose lives burned bright,
Who passed me their strength, their spark, their fight.
Their voices hum in my blood and bone,
Rooted in me, as though they’d grown.
From grandmothers, mothers, and those before,
I hold their dreams, their myths, their lore.
And the work they left, the task undone,
To break old patterns, stop what’s begun—
The same dark circle, the same old song,
Lived out in new lives, but carried along.
It’s time to end the wounds and the fears,
To mend what’s broken, to dry the tears,
To pull up the roots of all that pained,
And heal the scars that still remain.
So I’ll sit by my mirror, this old, old face,
I’ll reach it, I know, I’ll find that place.
I’ll look in the eyes that have seen it all,
That have wept with joy, with grief’s long call,
And with pride I’ll gaze on this body worn,
For it held my life and weathered each storm,
Each battle, each scar, each darkened night,
Hundreds of times I fell—but I rose each fight.
For sometimes it takes just one to stand,
No matter the odds, to heal the land.
One steady heart, one soul with fire,
One life to lift the others higher.
One life, one will,
One fate, one skill,
A spark passed on, a curse made still,
With green eyes to pierce through the mist of time,
To see beyond, to end the line.
And when I am left with these silver threads,
I’ll see them as crowns on this old head,
I’ll laugh at the life that slipped like sand—
Such a little thing, yet changed by my hand.
In Polish / po polsku:
PROJECT: Prose
Kiss my ass. And then...
I have a mantra in life. Simple, almost magical words that get me through the day (and, frankly, keep me out of jail). Words I borrowed from Tuwim (a Polish writer and poet):
Kiss my ass.
I say it when everything starts piling up—people, noise, expectations, responsibilities. I say it when I hit boiling point. These words are my pressure valve. My way of knowing I’m this close to snapping. So I throw them out there and then… well, w’ll get to that part later.
Example.
I slept like crap. My throat is sore, my nose is running, I’m falling apart, my period just started, I’m bloated, dying in real time, but… I get up. Like a warrior, I dress, slap on my war paint (makeup), and head to work. Two women walk behind me, whispering about my shoes “weird“. My hair “weird”. My outfit “who does she think she is?“ And apparently, I wiggle my ass when I walk. I think, deep from my soul—kiss it, then. And just like that, I let off steam, and these women get to live another day.
And then…
Lunch break. The one that should’ve started hours ago but didn‘t because everyone else‘s hunger was somehow more important than mine. Because someone was late, someone forgot, and someone else had to rearrange the universe, pushing my needs further and further down the queue. My stomach is eating itself, my brain is fried from overstimulation, my inner rage demon is screaming for caffeine, and my legs have given up.
And then… a homeless man. Arm outstretched. Asking for money. My hard-earned money. Money I barely have the time or energy to spend. Money I dragged my exhausted body through the day to make. I think, kiss my ass (this is the Karol who’s definitely not going to heaven). And only thanks to that, I don’t say something cruel.
And then…
After work. I drag myself to the store, just trying to grab something for dinner. The entire city, apparently, had the same idea. The aisles are blocked by people admiring groceries like they’re in a goddamn museum. Staff are unloading deliveries right now, obviously. And some over-teased banshee dives under my arm and snatches the last crusty roll I was eyeing. She looks so pleased with herself. I think: “choke on it, you hag“ (yes, this is the Karol who will never be sainted).
And then… the queue.
Behind me, a mother with three small kids, looking like she hasn‘t slept in a decade. Two are screaming in the stroller, their shrieks drilling into my headache. The third zooms around on a mini scooter, ramming into me, my cart, my soul. The mother? Checked out. Done. I’m about to snap—tell her to control her kid, raise him properly. Or maybe, just maybe, not have a fourth one if the first three were already too much (no, Karol is not winning Citizen of the Year).
But instead… Instead, I think: kiss my ass. All of you—just kiss my ass.
And just like that, I don’t scream at a stranger. Just like that, people around me get to live another day and go off to annoy someone else.
And then… something strange happens.
Those same words—the ones meant to push the world away—start pulling me back in. They force me to pause, to shift perspective.
The women behind me, whispering about my outfit? Happy people don’t do that. Truly happy, fulfilled people don’t waste time tearing others down. They don’t even think that way. Something in their own lives must be missing. I turn, flash them a big, disarming smile, and step aside to let them pass. “Have a good day“. Just like that, I’ve broken the cycle. They can‘t keep sneering at me. And suddenly, I can’t be mad at them any longer.
The homeless man? I look at his hand, outstretched, and then at my own. My hands aren’t begging. I have that much. And then I look at his face, really look, and I don’t see a homeless man anymore. I see a boy—someone‘s son. Someone once held his hand, wiped his nose, combed his hair before school. And somewhere along the way, life collapsed around him. I ask if he wants to join me for lunch. We get coffee, sandwiches. We talk.
He used to be a carpenter. He had a wife he loved her deeply and lost her to illness, lost himself to grief. Started drinking. Lost his job, his home. He istrying. He’s been to rehab twice. He wants to get clean. It’s hard but he won’t give up—he says. And for some reason, I believe him. He tells me if I ever need something fixed—doors, a table, a chair— he is my guy. I tell him if he ever needs a coffee or someone to talk to, I’m his girl. I tell him if I ever walk past him without noticing, he should slap me upside the head because I was probably lost in my own bull*hit.
And just like that, I can’t look down on him anymore. And he? He has one more person quietly rooting for him.
The lady who stole my bread? I think kiss my ass—and then I just start laughing. ”Nice reflexes“, I joke, and she suddenly realises what she did. “Oh my God”, she says, embarrassed. ”Did you want this?” She insists on handing it over. She practically shoves it into my hands. I thank her, and I can‘t be mad anymore. And she? Maybe thinks twice before shoving past people next time.
The mother and her screaming kids? I high-five the one on the scooter each time he approaches me. He loves it. Laughs so hard it infects the entire line. Even his mom snaps out of her daze, exhales, sees her kids again. Picks one up, soothes the other. I watch them settle, and suddenly I remember my own son at that age. The public meltdowns. The screaming, the flailing, the vomit (yes, from screaming). And I remember—people raised me, too. People had to put up with me. And they’re still alive, and they don’t even hold a grudge.
And here’s the thing—lately, I don’t even say kiss my ass anymore. I don’t need to.
Because the truth is, there’s no me vs. them. There’s just us. All of us. On the same goddamn ride. Tired, hungry, overwhelmed, stressed. Trying. Failing. Getting back up. And sometimes all it takes is one small shift—one smile, one joke, one moment of recognition—to wake people up. To wake ourselves up. To remind us that none of us are the villains in our own stories.
And then? Well, then magic happens.
All from looking at life from the ass end first.
Polish version / po polsku:
THIS GIRL CAN! - campaign designed for women
Website content
Description of the services, list of features, core info (address, contact) plus actual offers.
I combined the copy with my own design.
Business card with deals and offers. Not only basic information but also a lot of calls to action, concise descriptions and relevant tagline.
All wrapped in my design aligned with corporate identity demand.
FIGHT CAMP LANDING PAGE
Persuasive descriptions, offer embedded, calls to action and relevant tagline. SEO friendly, user friendly.
Again, my own design.
To compare, social media graphic with absolutely minimum info on it, to attract the attention but to not overwhelm the receiver. Relevant tagline in place.
Landing page with the Halloween Deal. Calls to action, "on spot" description of the deal, offer and terms & conditions clearly stated, combined in the design.
A landing page was created for the THIS GIRL CAN campaign. Encouragement, persuasion, calls to action, taglines, very clear brand voice.
And... for the grand finale...motivation station.
Motivational quote, wisdom, smart words, food for thoughts, social media copy
Motivational quote, wisdom, smart words, food for thoughts, social media copy
