a Stream of Thoughts

I'm stalling,
Standing in lines to buy time,
Using ryhmes to explain emotions that are hardly mine,
I'm running around from running out of solid grounds,
They say faith is mandatory but what do I do when it's nowhere to be found?
I search for little things in late night prayers that I could believe in,
reachin' for the stars just to distract myself from the fact that the basis I stand on isn't as solid as i was told from the start,
And until the truth unfolds and reality falls apart,
I'm stalling,
We,
We're fallin in love and then immediately out of it,
We call ourselves misfits just because we like the sound of it,
And we indulge in playground roles that we find it hard to snap out of it,
And so we grab our wooden swords and we wrap capes of paper around our throats and line up words pretending they're bound to save the world.
You see we're playing make belief in a society where everyone fake believes,
carrying the badges of a prophet,
And we know there's no gained profit,
Only more lies to kill the time we buy,
And it's never enough,
All of this nonsense we mumble and absolute bluff,
Is lies,
Denying the fact that we actually deny everything within the sight of our eyes,
Each one of us forgot that they're acting and dived too deep in their role of this theatrical play, and that's kinda nice,
But like... everybody is programmed for a certain set of lines that they got memorized,
And would never let go, like how you go:
-كيف، تمام؟
-FUCK NO, I'm tired of the pretense and I'm sick, and I'm drained, and I'm starting to worry that I'm falling apart and that I'm going insane.
I'm afraid there's too much I percieve and it's terrifying, these mounts of struggle and grief that we smuggle in her eyes, and his face, and your words,
انت كيف؟
Huh,
it all shows in those exceptionally well written roles that are full of contradictions and broken metaphors and linguistic flaws.
And it makes me wonder...
Should we really believe that this love poet's heart is captured and punctured and that his knees really did fall apart, and his soul rained and he was struck with thunder when his and his lover's eyes met?
Are there really dusted demons stashed in some corner beneath my bed and that I can say are the ones to blame?
And are the remaining bones of skeletons hidden in the pockets of the clothes lined up in my closet are the source of this hesitating voice that whispers my name,
What a shame,
What a shame,
I could be the thoughtful child that maybe sees things through his glass eyes that do matter and exist,
But instead my brain will insist with the constant thought that all the things we think makes us nothing but frauds,
That our emotions are delusions,
And our map for the route is a mis-decyphered code...
Oh well,
Oh well,
Hold that thought.
You could sell it for a penny now, or for a dollar when I'm dead, but they say money weighs to naught,
So why not get rid of it instead?
I think we're adernaline junkies dipped in a bit too much curiousity
Taking leaps of lack of faith disregarding the physical laws of freefalls and velocity,
Chasing down our dreams but being held back with anxiety,
We just hope that somewhere during the fall we'll be able to percieve things from a different point of perception,
But... there's none,
I think we've wasted all of our possibilties all while we're too young, and too wrong, and too lost in the decieving thought that we're a little too strong.
So it's all gone and whatever is left wouldn't be there,
soon,
The moon will crash into earth and the sun would burn away before we reach the grounds and put an end to this falling,
But until then,
We're stalling.

Bear with me

Bear with me
My tongue is dry and my veins are drained
the letters in my mouth taste a little bit strange
And I aligned those lines but theyre still deranged
So Bear with me
If I stood and my knees cackled like silver spoons
And the vowels held on to my tongue and tripped over my teeth
And
every breath that I breathe felt like my lungs were clogged with flames
and my thoughts fossiled in my ventricles, and I suffocated on your names
and I let you down where I should've stood tall with you on the ground
Bear with me,
I tend to make excuses, I tend to lose things occassionally so I guess I'd say that I'd done done lost my faith thats why I started losing people's faith in me.
Bear with me,
I'm clumsy
and I must have stepped on a truth and tripped over a few promises and accidentally broke them. But I swear whenever I hear promise I think about the reassurance at the beginning not the let down finally and not the anticipation based on absurd truth in between first and eventually.
Bear with me,
I forget things,
You tend to be forgetful in times of war,
I'm always at war
And Sometimes I forget what cause I stand against and who's army I fight for,
Sometimes I forget to put my arrmor on,
And I know that's obscene in your culture but I feel a lot lighter when my armor's at home.
Bear with me,
I'm the kind of a person who pushes people away only to regret it when they end up alone.
Bear with me.
I'm an anchorstone,
I'm that metal bar that brings the thunder upon your ship,
I'm the ice bergs standing tall against your titanic trip,
I hold you back.
But have my back,
bear with me,
I have no sense of fashion or directions so if I one day dress up as the devil, hold your right hand and take you to the wrong way then bear with me, I swear I don't usually mean to.
Sometimes I indulge in blasphemy
And my vocal chords defy the voice of the law.
And sometimes my thoughts defy what's divine and that's not defined by the fact that the delusional poet I am thinks his metaphors are shelters enough for him to hide behind.
Bear with me,
Because I write and I try to express and not expose
And impress without having to pose
But I suppose I'm a little bit out of my mind
Because the words I eventually align are sets of thoughts that were never mine.
I guess that makes me a pathological liar,
Or a conman,
Or the Frankenstein of truths and lies,

And I'm sorry if my heartbeats are thoughts that keep you up at nights,
Or if you thought my pets were monsters that were to hide beneath your bed to frighten you,
Or if you ever thought that I was there for fighting you
Bear with me,
We sometimes give each other black eyes and I know you caught me a few times cutting open your stitches or tryna push you off bridges
But people do that to themselves sometimes.
Bear with me,
It won't be long before I choke and I run out of ryhmes.
And my train of thoughts derails,
And I run out of adrenaline to find,
So I take a leap of faith..

But until then...
I'm alive...
I survive...
Right?

A dose of Hypocrisy

Man, I'm sick of poets writing poems about how dope their poetry is,
I'm sick o'them forcefully dragging emotions along with them to freak shows just to show off their fucked up senses of metaphorical fashion.
I'm sick o'those painting their faces with nonmatching colors o'passion a desperate call for approval.
Yellow smiles, red excitement, and tears too blue to be true.

I'm tired of love poems.
And I guess love poems are tired too,
Burdened with so much wordplay, so many tongue twisters, and way too heavy metaphors for a love poem to still look, feel, and sound like a love poem.

And, I'm getting tired of words,
How they betray their creators and turn against them,
Shred the writer apart and take all the messages they were suppoused to deliver and burn em,
What good is causing a stage mayhem if it wasn't you behind the mic?
What good is writing a thousand bloody lines to explain what something feels like when you don't even know how it feels?

But I don't blame them,
I don't blame words, writers, pens nor phone screens,
I don't blame metaphors, rhymes, nor word schemes,
I don't blame music, singers, bands nor solo musicians,
Not the media, not the west, not aliens, not even the illuminati,
I don't blame us. I don't blame me, I don't blame you, and..I don't blame our parents even though we're only taking the steps they once took before...

It's a marsh after all,
And it's... less of a civilization more of a freak parade.
Can't you spectate? Look around you...
There's a set of definitions for normal that we all work our asses off to live up to,
Yet no one reaches it.
And if you can't make it, you fake it,
So I guess that makes us less of a society, more of a masquerade:
Manmade massproduced humane flesh that we pay so much to buy just so we can glue it to our faces just to look human,
And man, should you be careful...
Make sure that you pour enough glue on that face,
Nail that mask to your eyelids, lips, and cheeks,
For if you fail at keeping that mask on, if the temptation of flashing your face to strangers overcomes your willpower to remain lowkey,
Then you'll end up like us, you'll end up like me,
Buried in names and labels, locked in between descriptions and definitions...

Society's unwanted children, its blackest of sheep, adernaline junkies too indulged in their little selfish sins,
The posers, the fakers, the sinners, the pretentious brats and the misguided fucks,
Look at them, trying with what seems a little too hard to fit between misfits,
Rebellion's brakes, tranquility's rebellion,
The stains of mediocrity in literature, the stains of shame in time...

And in time... we end up isolated even from isolation,
Looked down at and frowned upon,
For we're the ones historians trash the most and wipe off the records, and...

I'm getting tired of words,
Getting tired of poems that take us nowhere,
Tired of revolutionary songs and passionate love speeches,
Of the monsters that we hide behind those masks of humanity and their constant screams and screetches of objections... and...

I'm tired of this.

The Frustrating Teaspoon of Love

See when it came to writing lately:
ALL THE FUCKING METAPHORS SOUND USELESS AND USED,
ALL THE POEMS UP HERE ARE CRINGEWORTHY,
all the ones about your eyes,
your face, your lips, your thoughts,
All the similes of how you walk,
how you talk, and how it all puts down this...
this pile of piles of intersecting loopholes, newspaper shreds of crosswords solved wrong and explosives full of damp gunpowder that fails at being it self,
how it puts down this linguistically poor sad excuse of a metaphor into...
(I DONT KNOW THE WORD)
see that's the thing:
It feels as though all the language I learned since I let out my first unintelligible shout of objection is severly inadequate and that no matter how many dictionaries you go through you still wont find a word that says what you want to say.
I KNOW that words are suppoused to be mere complexes of voices that can hold any meaning but that's not how it is
how it is is how no word has enough syllables to hold off what weighs on this che- mind.
And then all the words I always were familiar with turned themselves into tongue twisters I only heard for the first time and my tongue grew heavy with  speaking hardships
Thats why every I love you I say sounds less like a word and more like a sigh,
because I love you doesn't really say it.
I love you doesn't even live up to the standards of a phrase that would say it.
but I settle down for what little that tiny teaspoon shovels off my thoughts because the closest thing to how I feel about you is holding up a dr.Suess' book everytime I look at you and my heart feels as if it's flooding in a strawberry milkshake and my dark face flushes into darker shades of red and quoting something irrelevant to the context of love.
So I'm not sure if this makes sense to you but when I say I love you what I mean to say is...

"walter Witter called a waiter: "Waiter, over here!
I want some water, waiter. Water, waiter! Is that clear?
The waiter brought some water. Walter Witter shouted: "WRONG!
This water's really watered-down! I like my water strong 
The waiter brought more water. Walter Witter was upset. 
"This water's dry!" said Walter. "I like my water wet! 
Bring me wetter water, waiter!" Walter Witter said. 
The waiter brought a pitcherful and poured it on his head."

you feel me?

شماعة: وماذا بعد؟

"النهاية."
انتهى تدافع الحروف، تزاحمها على السطور، توقفت ركلاتها المستمرة لعقبيه، لم يعد شيئا يرغمه على التقدم... لم يكن هناك مجالاً للتقدم على اية حال.
ما أسوأ ما قد يحدث؟ الموت؟ ابداً.
ما أحلى الموت مقارنة بهذا المصير، أسوأ ما قد يحدث هو ان تعلق.
ان تنتهي قصتك، ان تنتهي الرواية التي كنت بطلها، وتنتهي أصوات ازرار الآلة الكاتبة التي كانت تفاجئك حرفاُ تلو الآخر، واصوات همهمة القراء، وتتوقف الاحداث عن الحدوث وينطبق الغلاف الأخير على الورقة البيضاء الأخيرة هو أسوأ ما قد يحدث.
ربما كان مصيره أفضل قليلاُ إن مات اثناء الرواية، ولكنه عاش طويلاً جداً. وإن عشت طويلاً جدا لتشهد "النهاية"، فما اتعسك، وانا اقترح عليك ان تبدأ بندب حظك، واعلم انه لا شيء اجدر بأن تندب حظك لأجله.
وصلت به "النهاية" الى الحافة، لم يسقط تماما، ولكنه يقف هناك، لا مجال له للعودة لأن الحروف وراءه تشكل طريقاً وعرة جدا، وان استطاع العبور على اغلبها، فإن الالف واللام والطاء بعصاتها يقفون له بالمرصاد، جدران وراء جدران تسبقها جدران، وهو يعلم جيداً انه سيء في القفز، وان الهاويات بين الالف وبقية الأحرف واسعة جدا ولن يستطيع ان يقفز عبرها...
هو يخاف السقوط.
هو يخاف كل شيء.
انتهت روايته وتجرد منه لفظ البطل وأصبح لا شيء سوى نفسه: جبان.
لم يعد شيئا سوى لا شيء، لم يعد شيئاً ابدا.
وقف على الحافة، عَلِمَ ان الهوة امامه تنتهي بالحضيض، وان لا خيار امامه سوى السقوط، ولكنه سيأجل ذلك قدر ما استطاع.
أراد الجلوس ولكن فكرة ان تهوي قدماه الى الأسفل معطية الجاذبية الأرضية فرصة لسحب رجليه مُعجلة بسقوطه ارعبته فظل واقفاً.
سيقف هنا حتى تنهار الأرض تحت قدميه، ذلك الحل الوحيد. هو سيسقط، ولكنه سيقسط فقط حينما يريده الله ان يسقط.
بياض الورقة الناصع يؤلم عيناه، يشعر بالحنين للسماء الزرقاء، او المعتمة، وهو لا يريد في اللحظة سوى بعض النجوم، وبعض من هي...
كان يحملها بين اضلعه، تذكر ذلك، النشوة غلبت الرعب للحظة، والتفكير، ادخل يده في جيبه، اخرج المفتاح وفتح باب قفصه الصدري، واخرجها.
هي لم تنطق، كانت تكره ان تكون سجينته، ستعاقبه بالصمت، ولن تدعه يملأ جفنيه بسحرها. هي تعلم سحرها، وتخبر جيداً قدرات كلماتها على اسعاده، هي تعلم ايضاً ما يحدث له الآن، وهي غاضبة جدا، تركها في صدره المهمل ولم يعتني بها، لم يعطيها الاهتمام الذي تستحق، ستجعله يندم.
تحركت هي بكل خفة، رفعت قدمها عن الأرض: خطوة. وضعت قدمها اليمنى، ورفعت اليسرى: خطوة. كررتها عدة مرات، صارت خلفه تماما. تبدو أقدامه غبية امام اقدامها، تشعر قدماه بالإحراج من نفسيهما، يريد الدوران، يعلم ان لا قدرة له على الدوران، تعلم ان لا قدرة له على الدوران.
يعلم انها عنيدة، وأنها لن تأتي امامه، وأنها لن تنطق.
لا فائدة، سينهي هذه الفوضى وسينتهي.
خرجت الحروف من فمه متقطعة، كانت الكلمات محتارة الآن، خصوصا وان "النهاية" تقف خلفها، وهي تعلم ان لا مكان لها بعد النهاية.
قال:
إ
د
ف
ع
ي
ن
ي.

ارتسمت ابتسامة سادية على وجهها أرسلت قشعريرة في جسده.

ل
ن

ت
ف
ع
ل

لم يكن خطئاً واحداً الذي ارسله هنا، بل مئات. خطؤه الأكبر كان ايمانه بالنهاية السعيدة، وثقته العمياء بالكاتب. لم  يكن يعلم ان الكاتب كان يمقته، وانه أعطاه كل ما أعطاه فقط ليأخذه لاحقاً. لم يكن يعلم انه ليس سوى وسيلة لتفريغ موجة من العدوانية اجتاحت الكاتب في يوم سيء.
كل شيء ضده، والله هنا لن يقول للأرض ان تنهار، ولن تدفعه هي، ولن يحدث شيء، بعد النهاية كل شيء ساكن، وسيقف كل شيء هنا، يسخر من وجوده.
لم يكن ابداً بطلاً.
لن يكون بطلاً.
هو يريد القفز، ولكن الكاتب جعل فوبياه الوحيدة هي المرتفعات.
امال رأسه وارغم بؤبؤا عيناه على النظر الى داخل الحفرة، شعر بالدوار، فقد توازنه، وسقط.

والنهاية هنا ارغمت السكون على السقوط...

وظل يسقط.

"البداية."

Into The Rabbit's Hole

1-
Let's all agree that I'm fine.
I know that because I still know the few steps to follow to get inhaling done and how to exhale what I breathe.
and if that's because of something then it's because I've never been as breathetakingly in love as I would desire to be.
It's because I never mistaked her scent for air and air for heroine. I never got addicted enough to refuse exhaling her away.
So I'm fine.
My insides are clean.
My organs are in place and I feel like my ripcage is doing a great job keeping my heart intact, and that the rhythm my heart makes is not yet off-beat despite the few trips and skipping it childishly made.
I know that my stomach still functions the right way and that it digests everything between its walls and makes use of it, including the butterflies she sends in me everytime our eyes meet.
see I know that being in love is having cupid piercing your heart with a needle then injecting your own blood through your veins and fooling you into thinking that it's a drug.
See I was told to beware of Cupid. That he's a redneck and asshole and when you stop paying him enough attention he puts his bow and arrow aside, tears off his wings, then strokes his beard.
he shoots you with his shotgun, runs over you with his car which is usually a tractor, or a starship, or a... bloody dinosaur, then buries you in the back of your head and justifies what he did by telling everybody you trespassed on his grounds.
I'm fine.
I still know how to pump my very own blood through my veins,
I manage to keep a distance from things like drugs and conangels like cupid,
So I'm fine.

2-
I lied.
I would love to say that I don't know what it feels to have your inhales and exhales dressing up as suffocation and sighs,
That I do know how to get rid of the sweet hint of decieving words stuck at the tip of your tongue but...

LOVE(a):
is an abyss. You standing on the edge of a cliff with eyelids too tense to drop, feet too held to the ground to drop, a heart beating too fast to stop. A coward who wouldn't take the leap of faith on his own until he
finds a cowardess whose hand soothes him enough into falling in love.

LOVE(b):
Falling in love is exactly like falling in the rabbit's hole from wonderland. It may not be as significant as it is pictured but its rockbottom catches you off guard once you stop believing in its existence, too.

LOVE(c):
There is no joy greater than crashing on rock bottom. Love is starting to mistake pain for pleasure and heartaches for euphoria and blood for wine.
Love is losing your sense of time and you mistake the years you wasted staring blindly into their eyes and waiting on your broken bones to bend for the one second you blinked and broke eye contact.

LOVE(d):
Love is using your bare fingers to scratch the tiny rocks of the walls around you just to build a cozy room in rockbottom because deep down here it feels like home.

LOVE(e):
Love is not blind. Love is a sadistic manipulative sick motherfucker, and that's okay.

LOVE(f):
Because of her.
Everything she says sounds to you like the hint of passion in the sighs of a love poet.
Every imperfection she tries to hide you'll find just as fast enough to have one more reason to be in love with her, and it's not like you need any.
She'll look to you like a metaphor a poet should be proud for coming up with.
She makes love with all the cruelty it beholds and the ugliness it hides between its letters worth a try.
You wouldn't want to go home when she's around because home is not home anymore.
Home is not a place anymore.
Home is where she is.

This Poem is Called the Greatest Love Poem Ever and I Apologize in Advance Because it Isn’t

Whoever dares to write a love poem about you must write the greatest love poem ever written or not write at all.
Also if someone was capable of writing “the greatest love poem ever” they must write it about you or never write it at all.
Let me put it this way:

The greatest love poem ever would probably not have a beginning, an end, a chorus, or a bridge and maybe no verses or lines at all.
It could be a mess that begins in the middle of a sentence.
Then ends with a preposition.
or a loud shout that comes out of nowhere.
Or a whisper that is only heard if everyone stopped breathing for a while.

Either way, because of you, the author’s heartbeats had already made a sound loud enough for its waves to hit the boundaries of the extending universe and echo for eternity even if the source stops beating.
And there would never be enough silence in the universe for people to hear what he completely wrote.

The greatest love poem ever would sound so good that the ring of it would awaken Lennon, Freddy Mercury, and bloody Mozart and make them resurrect their instruments and compete on who can compose a melody damn good enough to be played as background music while the poem is read.
Yet no music would be good enough to interrupt the greatest love poem ever.



For the greatest love poem ever would sound like the holy mess that would occur if the blasphemous voices in your head signed themselves up in the choir of a church.



The greatest love poem ever is going to be a biblical cheesy mess;
So full of metaphors and clichés that were wrongfully used to describe people who weren’t you.
because you…
you really do have eyes (GOD BLESS) that resemble the reflection of moonlight on an ocean.
the way you sound is like the way a person would sound if god forged their vocal chords out of stars.
And sometimes I happen to wonder if god dipped his brush in the shades of your skin to color mahogany, rosewood and ebony trees.
And I know…
I know this not an exaggeration because if you look close enough you can see that the strokes of his brush look so much like your eyelashes.

And I’m afraid I’m not yet lost enough in you to write the Greatest love poem ever…
So I want you to drown me in your existence and sink every ship I ever anchored close to those ports beneath your eyelids.
I want you to stick your fingers between my ribs and release whatever I hold a prisoner in that cage and clean it up.
I also want you to entwine your hand around mine and lead me into a maze from which I can never escape.
Stare into my eyes in all the right ways so no wrong can come out of my mouth.
Redecorate me wholly, and build me up, so that one day it would be I that writes about you...
The greatest love poem ever written.