Trigger Warning

They ask you to testify, 

Tell them your side of the story,

As if talking about the evils you witnessed will cure you,

Or the world,

Or put your unease,

Or anyone's,

 at peace.

"Who killed them?" They casually ask,

"Did you see the devil?"

"What did you do while they crucified christ?"

"Did they really rape his mother mary on the road?

"Where were you?"

"What were you there for?"

"How many miles did you run for?"

"Who fired the bullets?"

"Who was hit by them?"

"What did you think about?"

"Who were you scared of losing? Who was scared of losing you?"

"Did you run towards death or did you run for your life?"

"Is your skin still scarred?"

"Do you wish you weren't there?"

"Did it change you?"

"Did you bleed?"

"Did you die though?"

"Are you grateful for making it out alive?"

I am not the enemy,

Survival guilt is.

It catches you in blissful moments,

Then curses them. 

Blames you for missing the bullets,

For not looking back, 

For not falling,

For not holding more hands along the way,

It does not care that you only have two.

Survival guilt irrationally blames you for people's death,

Calls you a Grim reaper,

Says death follows you everywhere because you once wished for it

Aren't you an old friend of azrael?

It enslaves you,

Condemns you to carry dead bodies on your shoulders,

From one dream to the other,

In your wake,

It whips your back,

Wraps a leash around your neck,

Drags you around on the bloodied pavement until your skin is scattered all over it,

And when you're finally deformed,

It tosses you back to the world.

So you apologize to the world,

Reintroduce yourself into it with trigger warnings.

I'm not the person I'd promised you I'd become, or nor the person I spent a lifetime wanting to be.

I'm sorry, I..

spent a sentence in hell,

And came back with burnt speech. 

They ask me to testify,

But what do I testify for when I am not the same man who went through what I'm testifying for,

 

No man can step into hell and walk out of it the same,

For, after that, hell lingers within him, 

His skin only an imitation of human,

His body a vessel for trauma,

And his brain hindered by the phantom of who he once was.

His presence an embodiment of sadness and grief.

I am not the enemy, 

The sadness within me is,

I say sadness because I know no better word,

to describe this

Contamination,

Like cancer, it grows over everything else,

Spreads across your limbs,

Tarnishes your emotions,

Breaks your heart into fragments,

Dips it into black ink,

Paints abominations on the walls,

Shouts profanities onto your ears, 

Then through your mouth. 

And when it's done making an abomination out of you,

It hurts those it finds by yourside...

Through you. 

I try to forbid it, 

But I'm merely its slave.

So,

They ask me to testify but I take a vow of silence first thing in the morning,

Then break it first things at night. 

I am not fit to testify, 

Or speak, or be spoken to. 

Not one to be accompanied or walked by,

Or dealt with. 

I am only a memory of what they ask me to testify about.

When terrible happenings take place, 

Terrible results occur. 

And I am but a terrible result of a terrible happening. 

Terrible, terrorized, terrifying, traumatized, terrified, and tired.

 

They ask me to testify,

Again,

And I ask them this time,

"Am I as hideous as the things I saw?

Do these bloodstains on my hands scare you?

Or do the stories about death on my face bore you to death?

Are you tired...

Of these repeated syllables

Of my repeated speeches,

And promises,

And broken vows of silence?

Terrible, terrorized, terrifying, traumatized, terrified, and tired.

I'm worn out, 

Tired of being wary,

Of tracing back my steps 

I'm scared of foolproofing my testimonies,

And of repeating them the same,

Until they have no meaning. 

I'm guilty of all the things they want me to testify against.

They ask me to testify and I ask you, 

Do not hate me,

Do not abandon me,

Do not leave me alone,

And,

Forgive me,

For not giving a testimony.

10 Steps Towards the poet's Awakening

Desclaimer: Everything the poet does is a poor attempt of composing a poem in which he finds peace. 1.The poet wakes up, before he opens his eyes he tries to Find out which world is it this time, The poet is experienced with worlds, he can tell by the feel of the pillow beneath his head, Is it mattress, pavement, grass or a hospital bed? the movement of air in the room, the sounds of chants, the purpose that chose to take his heart hostage this time. The poet collects these deductions and adds them to his courage, puts his pieces together, then opens his eyes. in just the right pace. Because in case makes the mistake of opening them too fast, his pieces fall apart. does he open them too slow, his pieces fall apart. and sometimes, even when he opens them perfectly, his pieces fall apart, still. the poet is rather fragile, vulnerable, He is easily breakable, decombosed, redefined, transferred, torn apart, And Easily flammable, sometimes, the world sets him on fire, most times, he burns himself. Yet, he is here, Still, falling apart, still Or standing still, Still, The poet does everything, Sometimes right, sometimes wrong, But he does it eitherway, one step at a time, one chaos at a time. one blow at a time... he survives. one crash at a time, he heals. one maze at a time, he finds a way out... And when he finds a way out: 2.The poet leaves the house, takes his steps slowly... His feet explore the grounds before they touch the ground, they inspect for mines, avoid to step on barricades, they're wary of corpses and remains, His feet forget that the pavement unlike him, does not hold on to memories. The poet sometimes gets the urge to use the wings on his shoulders to fly off the ground, but the phantom of chains around his feet keeps him down. Neither the wings, nor the chains are real. 3.The poet looks at his watch, and sometimes, his clock tells him the time wrong, the date is all messed up, the hours are rigged, so he blinks twice, takes a deep breath, and tries to change his watch's mind. sometimes, he succeeds, sometimes, He watches as the watch changes his mind. The poet grows thin, Feels like too little butter spread over too many bread crumbs. The poet grows tired Goes where his home is, Then the poet sleeps. http://6.In his journey from a world to another, The poet stumbles around looking for muses, He chases dragons and confusions, He inspects damages and bruises, He watches the healings and moniters the growth of roses. Listens to the whistles of the air and feels the vibrations of bird chirps, The poet... Looks for metaphors within heavens and warzones, Realizes that there are wars in heaven And fragmented heavens hidden in warzones Sometimes, bullets miss the poet, But the metaphors shoot through him. 7.When the poet wakes up He feels guilty, When the poet's mother looks at him, As if he was something precious, That she wouldn't bear losing him, The poet seeks a metaphor for what he feels. But his tongue breaks. 8. Cringe aside. The poet writes for himself, But he also writes to another, In poor attempts of expression he tells her: "When god first decided to make you, He also created love, Then he had to teach man language, So that when we collide this many millions years later, There'd be a way I could try to let you know how I feel. And in the most complex miracle You'll understand, And feel it too." ... The poet has a lover, he thinks she is the answer sheet to all the unansweable questions. Believes that all the reasonings to the question "why?" And Every methodolgy of "how?" reside within her, Metaphorically, His lover Is the one place that every question "where?" leads to Is the being that every "what?" tells him is, She's every "when?" or "who?" That which they're ever answered with. 9.The poet collects poetry in his throat until he is on stage, Refers to himself in third person, Tells himself it might help him put his emotions into words if he uses another person's tongue since his is broken. The poet wants to say everything at once, He wants to cough away the poem stuck in his throat, he wants to speak of the essence of life, He wants to mourn the painful irony of death And how futile it is for one to not fight for their breath, He wants to put the knowledge of the worlds into words, To speak life into man To manifest healing into poetry, To chant freedom into the space, Speak the truth through poetry, Dodge bullets through poetry, Build barricades using poetry, Cast broken bones... with poetry, Resurrect the dead, with poetry, 10.the poet wakes up, Sits down to write, Shoots his shot, And misses all the points.

Suddenly, (In Giyada)

within the right circumstances,
if ever you were born into the right timeline,
went through the perfect constellations,
lingered within the halls of eternity for enough.
You would have witnessed it:

a familiar song of strangers running into each other in an ever running ground.
a stranger tone in familiar grounds.
a song of strangers that left nothing but familiar strangers dancing around
to familiar melodies with nothing but familiar fantasies to fantasize about.

and I wonder if all the atoms were this ecstacic when they were one before the bigbang,
I wonder if this is how god felt when he first took a look at the finished product of earth.

I wonder, and I wander,
and I steal joyful moments from time,
and victorious laughter I plunder.

suddenly,
غني يا خرطوم غني...
you're a love song to Khartoum,
the lyrics khartoum would sing
if it were to sing.

You're a wave crashing into two lovers' legs,
suddenly,
you're a joint passed around groups of friends,
you're a guitar tone,
a whisper,
you tender touch,
you forbidden ritual,
You godwritten poetry,

is this the kingdom of heaven,
god has promised us?

Suddenly,
you're rebellion,
you're a million voices
making harmonious noises.

you're the turbulent nile,
the sensation of chills it sent on the winds,  across your spine
the first night you spent on its bank,
you're that edge of quaking earth on which the agigtated water crashed on.

You're all the songs your parents made you listen to
on that pentatonic scale,
Your ears haven't yet gotten familiar to.

you're all the Curses your mothers muttered as they pushed you out of their bodie,
into this body
of 6een ba7ar soil.
youre siblings of sidir,
climbers of neem,
bubbles of dioxide climbing up a bottle of steem.

you're the جنى habboba meant to summon when she lullabied you as a child,

often times unapologetic, seldom afraid,
Sometimes shaky, yet usually loud,
could get a little bit tired, but always proud.

Suddenly, we're individually lost in conformity,
Suddenly the letter I falls from its space,
as you fall into spaces of the collective mind's embraces,
anything beneath is to be bequeathed,
this bee hive is only made for the worker bee queens.
Suddenly,
we're in a state of euphoria.
dreaming dreams the universe tailored specially for you,
we're the colors spread across walls we weren't supposed to paint on,
we're the footprints left on grass we weren't supposed to lay on,
we're...

soldiers,
on battle zones we weren't supposed to be on.
fighting for our own utopia,
and before that.

I didn't know that there were battles to fight even in heaven,
there were barricades to defend,
and die on.

even in paradise,
satan's off spring lingered on trees at nights,
spat venom on our knights,
and asked for sacrifice

even in peaceful evenings,
they sent their hails from hell,
and fired reversed shooting stars into our skies,
that fell upwards,
just to take our wishes away.

And suddenly,
Hell is empty and all the devils jinjaweed,
Who shot fire when they were joyous
Shot fire when they were scared,
Shot fire when someone held on to the weed

And suddenly,
we're flammable tires, 
and brick walls,
and burnt roads.
we're war chants,
and defensive formations.

armed with friends on our arms,
with pieces of peace signs,
covered in fireflies,
fire in our eyes,
bandages on scars,
wishes hung on stars.

Suddenly,
you're death,
you're a human shield for your lover,
and loved ones,
suddenly,

You're a pagan monk,
praying in long nights,
To all the gods and goddesses,
perhaps one of them would listen.


Suddenly,
You're joy,
suddenly,
you're despair,
Suddenly,
You're laughter,
you're high,
you're here,
you're there,
You've been one too many things,
and this is the most complicated game of make belief you've ever played,
You're a hero,
or so goes the pretence
You're a menance,
sinning in innocence.
you're frequency
consistently seeking a resonance.

Eventually,
You're tired, but can't lay down,
You're fired at, but can't walk anywhere but towards the bullet.
can't be scared of bullets when you're a scarier bullet.

once a poet,
resurrected a sphinx,
a night guard,
stronger than almighty thor of asgard.

once a monk,
resurrected a dancer,
a painter,
a builder,
a soldier.

Once a raindrop,
Resurrected a rainstorm,
a martyr,
a color.

once a lost boy,
resurrected,
a lost boy, with a compass,
with purpose,
with comrades.

False (with Hardallo)

(Gaki)
God (n.):
Myself.

I try to believe in myself,
Thus, I imitate god sometimes,
"يا عبدي كن ربانيا"
He told me when I was a child,
So i grew to become a terrible replica of the image i have of him:
Hard to believe in.
Unreliable,
Burdened with the hopes of people i can barely live up to.
"I'll be there, my friends, I'm closer to you than your own veins. I'm only a phonecall's distance away, i promise." I say,
Then i ghost.
Realizing that I'm lost and my compass is rigged and I cannot lead anyone down the right path without misguiding them,
Cannot linger within a group of people without dividing them,
Cannot stand in a field of sunflowers without making the sunlight in these flowers fade.

But

I dare not give up on the broken bits and pieces of the remaining faith I have in god,
Just because i dare not give up on the broken bits and pieces of the remaining faith I have in myself.
I think therefore I am,
I perform miracles therefore i exist.
But at nights this existence becomes too quiet,
These miracles deafen me,
Pain me,
deprieve me of sleep,
So I pray,
"God, do not let my lack of faith in you be the death of me."
Hoping that these prayers aren't just drunkenly staggering onto walls
Screaming onto pillows,
Clenching on bedsheets and begging them for comfort

God,
Perhaps the one difference between you and I is that you do not fear oblivion,
Your throne doesn't tremble at the thought of forgetfullness,
Your memory is safe within the hearts, books, eyes and prayers of your believers.

I would rather be a believer than a god,
But I am afraid I ran out of gods to give sacrifices to,
Perhaps that is why the pagan I am started referring to my lovers as goddesses,
That is why I build shrines too heavy for the grounds of my lovers to hold,
Perhaps that is why my temples insist on collapsing down on my head,
And I always end up suffocating on ruins and sins.

Sin (v.)
I do not desire death anymore,
It'll come to me anyways,
Death is inevitable, survival isn't,
So I seek the latter now.
I keep on rolling the dice,
For I care not about the outcome,
Because when death comes to me,
It'll only come after I've had too many dices to roll,
Too many duos and sixes,
Wins,
And losses,
And unlimited coin tosses.
I always sought survival,
I could've been, or could've not,
But I made it this far and my knees are too deep in the mud to try to take any steps back,
So I'll seek survival
In small bottles that my mother can't help but catch the scent of the moment I step into my house
Seek it Between the lips of a lover who wraps her survival stained tongue around mine in prolonged kisses of despair.
I survive therefore I sin, pray, doubt, believe, walk, jog, run, climb, fall, shout, rebel, call, stare, glare, love, drink, blink, feel, peel, breathe, heave, leave, cry, weep, laugh, forget, forgive, forsake, stand, crawl, trip, fall, stall,
I survive therefore I live
And within this life I'll seek survival in get togethers were I end up cracking jokes with cracked words and terrible punchlines.
And I'll find survival within the appalled looks of everyone in the room telling me how bad my joke was.
Fuck yes,
My jokes are terrible but at least they've made it this far!
They're here. They're now.

(Hardallo)
Gaki,
There is no joy in outcomes, only in the making of them
 I fear,
The kingdom of heaven is not a place but a time,
I am afraid of the kingdom of heaven because I cannot imagine it, because I could not imagine it, I am In love with words, how can I not love their maker, we are in an age where God is in our words the age of miracles has passed,
For both me and humanity, I live in memories of them preaching them in my words, my words are your only link to me and I am the رب of these words,
But I can not breathe life into them,
I can not even make them rules, I do not know all the rules,
I do not know how to bequeath peace unto them
I am in need of a benefactor myself maybe
Maybe survival is more important than happiness, you can only get survival wrong once unlike happiness,
You have many chances  to find it and lose it, and find it again, sometimes
Sometimes realizing it is happiness after it was I gone I am tired
I am tired of chasing those dreams that are not mine,
the rules are vague,
So is vague universal and I don't know when this plague of circumferential thought pillaged my soul it puffs it on fire and pass

(Gaki)
Puff, puff, pass, a friend reminds me as he passes me the survival,
But I steal two more puffs than I should just to make sure that I survive for a few more seconds within this moment,
I pour myself another shot of survival even though my friends tell me that I've survived for a bit too long this night.

(Both)
Note that
Survival and existence are not the same.
I cannot be within all of this dread without having to tame these wild moments of existence with a treat of survival.
It's the only choice i get to make,
So when life teaches me its ways of survival,
I'll ask for more,

(Hardallo)
I trick or treat survival, I break down in little pieces and I grind those little pieces, take out the thorns of despair, pick out the seeds of resentment sewed in haste, and I roll my remains up and light a fire and smoke them,
My lungs burn with the sickly sweet taste of fear of committment,
I have a fear of the fear of commitment, but i will commit to this,
Taking shots of my pain every night till I can drink them like a sailor,
Drinking my insecurities under the table
And I hang them over the fire at the end of the night. I don't wait til morning
The light of the morning does not come soon enough
You think I smile because I am less things than desperate
But desperate is a state of mind and I don't make statements
I confess by omission
I digress, accidentally on purpose and I hope to confuse myself first,
Confused people are not liable to any damages psychological, emotional and  or existential
I introduce myself with disclaimers
In the dance I linger, longingly leering at what came after,
Objectifying my pain,
Making love to it and leaving in the middle of the night,.

I cannot bear to look at myself in the morning,
Why would anyone else I
Shamefully walk home,
To nothing
To nothing
And although I fill my nothing with meaningful, it's a practice I inherited like my religion
And I must explore my faith in me

(Gaki)
For i am lucky.
For if it wasn't for luck then my feet wouldnt have led me to the melancholic voice of abu alseed,
I wouldn't have fallen in an abyss in which I had to dance my way out of it to the cacophonic guitar strums of arctic monkeys.
I am a survivor,
And I'll drink to that,
For the sweet burn of dirty liquor brings only joy as it drags its flames across my chest,
So god,
They told me I could be anything so I chose to be a flawed version of you,
So hear my survival, within you, for it is as eternal as you are,
Beethoven placed it in his sonatas,
Mercury in his rhapsody,
David in his chords,
My survival is what pushes winds ahead,
So god,
perhaps if you'd listen hard enough,
You'll find them within the goofy laughter that fills the open air of a starry night miles away from home with strangers that make survival a ton times easier because
(Both)
 together we do not await on the sun to rise,
Because even if it didn't,
We'll all rise on our own ,
Amen.

22:22/10:22PM

22:22
"Glory to Satan, lord of the winds
Who said no to the face of those who said "yes"
who taught Man to tear apart nothingness
He who said no, thus did not die
And remained a soul eternally in pain."

no, my confinement was not solitary,
there were always songs of the devil playing at the back of my head.
I smile at his consistent presence,
Making sure I was okay,
Like the caring brother he's always been,
He who was abandoned before I was,
Who very well understood my pain,
Explained to me how it was eternal.
That our father who art in heavens made it so.
He taught me tricks to numb it down

With razor blades to inspect that the blood in my veins was still red,
With burning cigarette buds that gotten familiar with my skin.
My body often felt ablaze,
My existence persistently burning in flames,
So Lucifer
taught me how to fight fire with fire.

22:22
Patience is your last virtue as you await your turn to hang.
So I patiently wait on my executioner,
His familiar face draws a faint smile of grace as he prepares the noose that'll bruise my neck and hold my isolated body as it dangles,
The wind will tackle my chest as my body swings,
I am ready,
Death is my long awaited lover,
This overdose
will take me home.




Azrael greets me like an old friend,
"Son of Adam, lover of demise" he says,
"I apologize, but it is not yet your turn."
And then he disappears,
leaving me hanging,
As I dangle in disappointment.

22:22
For two thousand, one hundred forty eight hours my existence was only within the limits of this black mirror.
My physical being invisible,
Limited between the borders of my bed,
And the hideous thoughts that made a colony of my head:
Self-doubt, self-distrust, self-destruction.
self loathe, self harm, self abuse.
Self denial, self delusion, self depreciation.
Self occupation,
Talking to my self conversations, self immolation, and self condensation.
For ninety one days I had to stay in isolation,
Watching through the window of this lighthouse prison as the tides and waves of the sea outside drove my ex-lover away from the shore and I had nothing at hand to do but wait on matching numbers on the clock to wish for my memory to stay in their minds.
10:22 PM, 11:23 PM, 00:00 AM.

22:22
The messages I didn't reply to until Azrael got ahold of the souls of those who sent them will always haunt me.
My friends,
Come back,
You were not to die before I do.
Cling on to life like the naïve people you've always been.
I'm yet to tell you about the lovers I let down,
These damsels whose hearts I didn't mean to break,
And those who broke mine.
My friends, stay for one more year,
Just one more year.
Steer away from death the way death avoids me.
Come back.
You're yet to kiss your lovers,
Finish these conversations we never had,
And Walk down roads you've always dreamed of reaching.
My friends, I am broken, I am fed with futile sorrows.
I am full of grief and I cannot bear drinking one more cup of tea that tastes of blood.

22:22

I see divinity in the eyes of one I can sense but barely perceive,
a Fellow prisoner in a cell that looks different than mine but probably feels the same.
And I pray to her
Through the walls of this jail cell.
Hoping this forgotten goddess can hear prayers coming through seven layers of hell,
Seven levels of earth,
And all the way to a forgotten Babylon
Where her divine soul dances in prison.

Glory to her eyes,
Ishtar who holds heavens in her hands,
Who the stars align to flirt with her light,
Whose lips spoke spirit into man.

O'Nocturnal goddess of the broken and the barely living,
Those breathing on the edges of their lungs,
Goddess of taking one's breath away.
Whose glory would make mountains kneel,
And oceans stay silent,
Save me.
Say the words to remove the nails that pin my limbs to this cross.
Ease my pain with your presence,
Place your lips upon my wounds,
Brush your fingers upon my skin,
Help me regain my wasted yesterdays.
Lie to me so that I'd stay for one more painful tomorrow.
"You'll be okay." Tell me,
And I'll believe you,
The way a man believes in the holy words of god.

Flawed goddess who barely believes in herself,
You and I are not the same species,
But your pain and mine look to me more alike than any other.
And my pain is in love with yours,
My scarred arms need nothing more than to hold yours.
Save me.
I believe in you,
I believe in your flaws and shortcomings.
Every hint of fault you think makes you less of a goddess,
Every wrong you think tarnishes your holiness,
Is divine.

22:22

Freedom is a state of mind,
And I wore shackles around my wrists for too long that I still feel their phantom bruising my skin even when they're gone,
My legs will never run around like they could.
They will always drag the memory of chains behind them.
I cannot unthink what I already thought,
Cannot unfind what I sought,
These colonies in my mind won't go away,
The blood stains on my fragmented body cannot be washed away.

No man ever steps in the same river twice; for he is not the same man, and it is not the same river.
I am neither the man that was free before imprisonment, nor the one that slept on a bed inside a cage,
I am both of them.
I am more.

22:22
I will be okay, and so will you.

The Last Speech

Tearing my index and middle fingers off cause fuck peace signs.

This pen in my palm no longer lingers for a peace of mind;

But with lyrical napalm,

I'm tryna blow this piece of my mind, 

into fractions of lines and phrases of syllables aligned

For one last speech in hopes my words are armored and well-stranded this time

since empty handed ones let me down before on the grounds of this mental civil war.

One last speech, 

Then I leave, 

My chest heaving with sighs, 

Hoping my eyes carry enough goodbyes. 

I leave, 

With a tongue twisted with poetry 

and a mind void of prayers 

I leave, 

not knowing where I'm headed, 

what I'm leaving for, 

or why im going there. 

All I know is, 

I'll leave, 

cause this house aint a home anymore. 

So I'll stand back to stand by in shadow, 

And I'll take my coffin and grasp my gallow,
And leave. 

I once Said: 

“Sometimes I forget to put my armor on, 

and I know that’s obscene in your culture, But I feel a lot lighter when my armor’s at home.” 

Well I was wrong. 

Should've barricaded some dreams round that illusion of a bed, 

Took my precautions, 

cause with such a disturbed head, 

Can't get too comfortable in the illusion of a rest.
I'll leave away, hoping to lead those monsters astray,
I'm tired of how they strangle me with my own hesitant vocal chords, 

tie them into skeptical nooses that leave reluctant bruises, 

Ones I cannot see in my reflection in the morning, 

but cling on to my muffled words, 

so I can later on notice. 

There's nothing I seek so I hear, 

but I do not speak. 

The world is pretty grotesque and I'm terrified, 

but can you shame me for fear? 

When hell's kinda empty and all the devils are here, 

Backwards Men in uniforms with futuristic weapons, 

Ready to fire if you ever protest. 

So I'll leave. 

And you can keep the trains of thoughts i missed when I was contemplating, 

retracing my footsteps, 

hesitating, 

awaiting on miracles, 

Reciprocating between self loathe and self medicating. 

Eyes bloodshot, 

pupils dilating, 

Tryna find sense in the world but numbed senselessly, 

Gasping for words I once spoke effortlessly, Seeking a truth that could perhaps echo endlessly. 

But... everything I am became everything I wasn't And everything there is became everything there isn't. 

the truth wore a gown of lies and was put to sleep, 

Joy brought a pack of sighs carrying memories. 

Ones to exhale away, and inhales to keep.

He who stands out becomes stood on, 

instead of understood, 

So I stand back to stand by in shadows,

Wear my coffin and wrap the noose of my gallow.

One last wish? 

There's nothing I seek, 

So I see, I hear, but I do not speak, 

one silence at a time, 

I'll pass my turns, 

And as I am hanged in shadow, 

I'll watch my world burn.

Somebody Else's Poem

This is not my poem to write. 

Those are not my words to recite. 

for I lost ownership to those thoughts long ago when I tossed
them at the back of my head

and the guy who had them faded into a person that doesn't think like me,
 doesn't look like me anymore.

those are shivers that ran across my spine during passing conversations that sneaked themselves onto my ears on random afternoon walks

Shivers I never bothered to give second thoughts.
these are the poorest of metaphors,

the helpless mothers of words that had to abandon their children of definitions to die on cold pavements for the lack of capacity and empty slots.
these are the lonely lines that found no company to finish themselves into poems.
The psuedopoems that I had to tame down because I once felt were too insignificant to be written,

Too personal,

Too terrifying,

Too ugly,

Too stupid.

These are the neverminds and the 'nothing much's

those are shy ryhmes, ones convinced that they're too insignificant to be written yet my fingers itched too significantally to let them remain unwritten so they were only ununwritten in a way that never gave them their fair share of poetic messes.

This isn't my poem.

not my child.

I'm but a mere stranger burdened with it.

It's full punchlineless jokes,

halfassed metaphors,

And lists that never made it past the number 1- 

And they're not mine to recite, but I'll say them anyways so...
1-..

Song Of The Lonely Devil

If the streets could talk,
They'd tell me they miss me.
They'd stand by the windows of hell,
And speak of how warm my clumsy footsteps felt on their asphalt.
"We forgive you," they'd say
"For putting out cigarettes on the pavement."
Come out,
Come out,
You never were one to be imprisoned.
If the streets could walk,
They'd come into my house and beneath my balcony,
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw your strings of thoughts!"
I'd hear when the lights go out,
And I'd let the streets in through the window,
We'd smoke cigarettes like old friends
And reminisce on memories we never made.

But they can't.

So my balcony remains unattended,
and my story untold.
For I'm not worthy of "once upon a time"s if no magic is to partake its role in my play.
My play is not a fairy tale,
Nor can it be a Shakespearean tragedy,
or a Greek mythology,
For no one wept for my spirit,
And there's no one to avenge for.
There's no magic here.
My eyes will never be the sleepless moons they thought they'd become,
And standing in dusty storms will not turn me into mars.
 I'm the bastard bearing of Gaia,
The child Uranus would never claim.
Yet I'm their only heir of despair,
Their solo bearer of war.

So if solitude was evil,
I must be morningstar.

So I'll play me the first tune Lilith ever played for Lucifer,
Sing myself satanic lullabies;
Perhaps they'd put my loneliness to sleep.
And when its dawn,
I'll wake up to finding that I
Made me a swing on the forbidden tree,
And I'll name it after myself,
I'll call it rebellion.

And when our father who art in heavens comes back home to find the mess we made,
We wouldn't think his wrath would far exceed his mercy,
But it might,
Yet we wouldn't mind being exiled from heavens,
For there's freedom in descending.

Unbeknownst to me,
There was no magic on earth.

I'm not one to be saved by a fairy godmother,
Or a biblical miracle.
My prayers aren't heard,
And my existence unnoticeable even to god's gaze.

I was there,
When King David passed by,
I was there.
But as he walked through the valley of the shadow of death,
My calls went unheard,
It was then when I realized,
I was the shadow and the valley was mine.

If the trees could talk,
Maybe the ones that fall in the forest and no one hears would matter.
And I would weigh to something.
But they can't.
So I am here,
And when I hang myself in the forest,
And no one sees it,
And no crows feast on my corpse,
And the wind refuses to scatter my skin,
I am not really there.
I'm nowhere to be found,
Not in books or campfire stories,
Not in winds or oceanic waves,
Not in forests, nor in hangman nooses,
Or shrines, or ruins...
But in my unattended balcony,
Where neither god, nor magic are present.

Matthew 4:4

How do I...
How do I begin this poem
When all my intros had already came to their conclusion.
How do I think of words when all that's in my head is composed of delusion
Tell me, how do I put these letters together when the strings of thoughts I used to tie them with are twisted and tangled in confusion.

Help me paint this picture...

How does one scribble down a holy scripture with hands so smeared in sin with a pen that carries not ink but blood within on a paper made from a tree that only grows fruits forbidden.
I'll hand you the pen, write down something while
I close my eyes hoping to see something stunning or surprising, something that'd help my sun at rising.
Something worth writing about,

 a vision i could ride around.

To my right,
I see Christ,
frozen and starving to death on the side of the pavement,
Grasping for breath, too late for the saving,
Using whats left of the air in his holy lungs to curse  poverty
since he's only sleeping on the floor cause the bank confiscated all of heavens property.
To my left
I see his mother Mary.

Her face was on the paper, stripped in her blood, murdered after seven demons attempted to rape her.

And in front of me,
What a revelation,

The lord that was once high above all nations,
Was hanged upon the entrance of the city, a divine strangulation.

Blessed used to be his name,
But blessings he sent lead to annihilation.
And now that the sun had burnt down and turned to ashes
Mass bombing flashes, death, famine, and plane crashes and nuclear creations,
We proceed in devastation. Driving this truck into inevitable damnation.
And so the lord's name that was to be praised.
Is now often mentioned but barely remembered,
They speak of unity, but they're self centered.
Our faith remains shaken, as we the children...
End up foresaken.

‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’

And so the world goes to an end for not a word was to be heard from the lord
And so the devil said
 let there be silence.


I open my eyes, my sweaty palms are shaking, and i'm pressing the tip of my pen on the paper until i cut the paper and i feel the pen breaking.
I look around my room and the ever so impending sense of doom that lingers on the walls
 hoping to grasp something, anything,
Anything that i could write at all...

And it hits me,
It's not
How do I ...
It's
Why would I

Why would I say something that wasn't said before,
Just for my saying to be lost in the air and ignored?

If I could've, I would've.
If I could've stay silent I would've stayed silent.
I would've  stopped writing when a reckless poem crawled up from the back of my hollow mind and forced its way out of my mouth for the first time.
If I could strip my self of ryhmes, pile em and burn 'em like they did to my thoughts in that mental asylum,
I would've.
And speaking of that,
If I could've maintain my state of mind I would've refrained from going insane.
I wouldn't have allowed myself to recite my insanity into existence.
If I could stay I would've remained persistent.
Wouldn't have moved in waves, back and forth between chilling in cloud nine and stressing  my grave.
And at last, if I could believe in a man above
 I would've prayed for him to make my love last.
But the nice things in this world,
they build up real slow, just to fall apart fast.

If i knew of some other way I wouldn't have so heartlessly turned myself into poems then abandoned them on the shelves of time where mediocre literature tends to go forgotten.


So tell me, how do I begin this poem when all my intros came to their end,
For this isn't a writer block, it's an apocalypse of the mind,
Annihilated thoughts lay on broken roads as whatever words survived descend.
If I could shout my hopes aloud like i used to, i would've.
But my heartbeats are as silent as a mime.
And in time...
It becomes implausable,
And walking down memorylane seems impossible,
Everytime i try to take steps back or proceed ahead,
I find roadblocks on the timeline and it's a dead end;
What I mean to say is that
I tried writing about yesterdays since my sense of them seemed better, but even my happiest of memories looked dusty and blurred and tasted less sweet than bitter.
So I tried picturing tomorrows but the short sighted pessimist I am couldn't see anything beyond grief and sorrow.
And today? There's nothing to say about it. It's yesterday's disappointing tomorrow and tomorrow's spiteful yesterday and there's no way around it nor a way out it.

I want to write this poem,
And you could ask
if the instrument is mute, whats the point of the strumming?
And I say,
Cause writing used to mean something.
It was the essence to the person I once was and I cling to it, hoping I'll find a trace of him as i dive into it.
Because in the past, writing felt more than milking your dry pen for no other reason than the reciting.
And writing
 was the only thing that's exciting at a point in which an earthquake would shake and break the grounds beneath me and I'd go unphased.

Am I crazed? Disgraced? Lacking faith and unable to embrace the good things around me and god's amazing grace?
I am.
But there was a time when that wasnt all that is there to me,
So tell me,
Will I ever begin this poem?
I'm unsure,
But if I ever do,
I think if I look closely between the lines,
I might find a cure.

Don't put yourself in my shoes

I appreciate what you do.
Gently tapping on my shoulder, saying that you'd love to help me out.
But paranoia is a bitch that makes it sound as if you're saying that my face beholds disappointments too nasty to just walk by without getting them off of the road.
You stretch out your hand for me,
 struggle to break my shackles and perhaps set me free, and
You're probably sincere about that,
You stretch out your hand
 but I can't help but to feel like I'm another job you need to get done for your mind to reward you by telling you you're a good person.
 don't.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, don't try to slide my socks on your feet, don't look through my clothes, and leave my closet alone;
There's far too many skeletons in there than I think you can bare.
And... Nobody likes razorblades, three centimeters deep in the soles of your feet, and...
Nobody likes a sense of defeat haunting your day gleams and night dreams.
Nobody loves cuts and burn marks, reminders that you've once been to battles you eventually survived.
Shut the fuck up.
Don't tell me survival is a bliss when I have reminders that I lost all over my forearms biceps chests and wrists,
Don't put yourself in my shoes.
Cause that's paralysing,
Don't place yourself where my feet should be. I'd rather have you standing there away from me criticising who I am and telling me who I should be than see you stand failingly trying to take my shoes off of me.
And if god forbid, you do.
you'd finally realize you could make progress, but you'll confess,
had you felt a new razor blade cutting through your skin with every step you took, telling you that you're a disgrace to your kin. you'd choose to stay by my side, right here...: behind.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, I'd hate for my unspoken miseries to be yours.
Come to think about it:
You can't even wear my shoes, they're missing their laces.
My browser's history goes:
Top ten easiest ways to die.
Can I hang myself with my shoelaces?
How to make a hangman's noose...-
Dont put yourself in my shoes. Who'd want that anyway? Why would you want to be a victim of both verbal and physical abuse, self loathe, political mayhem, god's wrath, and words written by the haunting soul of Sylvia Plath.
 Why would you want to have a bruise across your back and burn marks on your arms that you'd have to come up with stories to cover up every time you're asked.
Perhaps, if you told so many lies you'd eventually forget why you truly have them.
It's complete fucking bullshit of a  mayhem
pinned down to dull medical terminology and repeated mythology.
When you only see heroes in villains and seeing zeros in billions you're said to be pessimistic and psychotic,
And that is somehow erratic.
Mania and depression are two sides of a coin that can neither be separated nor compared.
What made me like this? You thought as you stared at my bloodshed feet and you tightened your grasp on to my defeated arm to stop me from causing any further harm.
And I gently ask you to step away, but it's a bit too late since you're already one foot deep inside my shoe.
Do you still believe I'm making a big deal out of it now that you realize how painful wearing them is?
Now that you're not blind anymore to the fact that my footprints are indistinguishable since my footsteps leave earth quakes behind?
Don't put yourself in my shoes,
I'm afraid for you. Guilt would mistake you for a throne and place itself on your shoulders not paying attention to how you weigh almost nothing compared to its to weight.
Should we happen to be walking down the same way you'd realize how my slow footsteps are keeping me behind, but don't wait.
I'm used to walking alone anyway.
Second grade,
 I was six in my gymnasium class, there's a soccer game. Soccer is a game that's loved to be played by all my classmates, and I never minded being chosen last cause my team had no other option.
They knew my shoes were harmful to the ball. So nobody put themselves on my shoes and ignoring my existence was easier for them than to deal with my persistently bruised feet.
I'd slowly walk home alone from school, and all by my own, I'd think about how I'm deemed to see my father drink himself into oblivion with a face stained with defeat, my mom, would try to defend him, saying:
Try putting yourself in his shoes.
Little does she knew  is that I grew to be the man I aspired to be since I was six, seven or perhaps eleven.
 that it was never way too early for a kid my age to realize alcohol was good for wounds and that my shoes, like my scathed knees and bruised forehead, and the pink mush inside my head all loved the touch of razor blades.
I was thirteen when I first purposely cut open my skin, and I'm afraid it was a bit too early for me to realize that pain much much much was better than nothing at all.
...
There's so many stations I've been through and since my memory lane is too damp with nervous sweat to walk down without a trip, slip and fall.
 I can tell you this instead.
It sometimes occurs to me that I might bs perhaps dead.
Nobody beat me up as much  as I did.
And I always thought that if maybe life found me bruised it would leave me alone but little did I know that if life finds a blade buried across your wrist life loves pushing it deeper.
Sometimes, I can't tell whether I'm my worst enemy, or is it God.
 for I have always been too busy taking care of myself to be my brother's keeper.
Don't put yourself in my shoes. I'm too young.
Too young to be this bruised, too young to sing this many blues.
There's battles ahead waiting for me to fight them, and sometimes I find myself too tired to find them so I await for them to arrive as the one man army of, I think, the dead,
For there are razor blades in my shoes, but I can't feel them, doesn't that mean...
I'm not even alive, but what other words can I use?

the veridect.

This has been going on for far too long to pick a point to start from without being unfair to other beginnings.
So let us rather continue than begin, all in favor, say I. Any questions? Good.
Let the hearing of the jury's verdict of the trial commence.

Your honor,
Jurors,

There will come a day on which you'll wake up to silence.
Not even the music banging through your ears would make a sound,
You're lost in an island unfound...
Without a voice that brings you to any common grounds.
Your breaths and heartbeats will echo in the hollow auditorium your ribcage is.
The archenemies in your brain's cages will put their shackles aside and the battle going in your mind will come to a halt.
Your skull is an empty marble hall,
And you've never felt this much scared before.
Silent!
In silence, you'll hear the running streams of spilt martyr's blood as its redness crawls across your limbs,
Your thoughts are on a strike,
No trains of thoughts, no planes, no bikes.
No words to be muttered to the mic.
The corridors and allies of your brain would be left abandoned.
No strings of thoughts are tangled,
No voices screaming, just images of you, hanged and strangled.-
Everything goes to a moment of silence to honor the rebels you once prosecuted to have them executed.
I've had enough,
The jury have heard enough.
Silence, silence in the court,
The verdict;
Hear the silence that precedes the storm that exceeds the norm.
Fear, Fear The tribes inside now know their one true enemy, you.
Migraine is to turn into an itch that you can only switch off by banging your head against the nearest wall.
Your legs will now shake and miss their steps, meaning for you to fall.
You asshole.
Then
Drink, drink, drink, drink from the poison you poured inside your rivers to intentionally fuck up your liver.
You think you're self destructive? A nihilistic rebel? A maniuplating  seductive devil?
Well you're not, not yet.
You'll now witness havoc as you've never seen it before,
You thought you were winning but little did you know about what you had hidden for yourself in store.
What were you destroying yourself for? Self loathe?
Constantly wearing your self pity your sleeve and getting dressed sheep cloth.
Thought you were deceiving people, but it's only you you truly deceived.
Now you're grief.
Weep and cry yourself to sleep, you imbecile piece of shit.
Regrets won't save you.
Your slaves of thoughts will now enslave you.
You're yourself's worst enemy even though you always said that it's the circumstances.
Gunshots, rocket launchers and war dances, all aimed at your mental palace.
So now you're standing on stage, telling it to people just maybe they'll give you solace?
Well...
You're guilty.
Go fuck yourself.

Nothing

One puff...
Two puffs...
And the bluff goes on...

This has been going on for way too long for me to choose a point to start with without being unfair to other beginnings 
 so let us rather continue than begin.
 All in favor, Say “I”: 
 Any questions?
 good.

 I see with my own mirror reflection eye to eye, 
yet he still looks down on me. 
There’s hatred hidden behind his dilated pupils and bloodshot eyes that he refuses to show, 
a lot of mail in his box, invitations to places he knows he’s suppoused to be at but he refuses to go. 
Ey man, what's wrong?

He tells me there’s stuff that been going on for long and he thinks he’s had enough,  
says his chest holds this constant feeling off something being off, 
and one puff, 
Two puffs..
he enhales first to let out a sigh that takes it away but it stays inside, 
One puff, two puffs, he exhales...
Huh, nevermind this bluff. 


One puff,
Two puffs,
I run out of cigarette boxes but maintain my position
I..
 I’m constantly reminiscing. 
Getting high off melancholy to come down everytime and realize that while I was too busy running away from ghosts...
I lost... ...one more person that would listen, 
but hey. 
What would they listen to anyway when I have nothing new to say?
all is said and done and I kept getting wasted for every time I wasted my sound constantly repeating what sounds like:
 a. The world is changing.
 b. People are hypocrites and double-faced n’...
 c. Everything is shifting shapes, 
 d. We all decended from apes.

One puff...
Two puffs...
I bluff, and you do too.

So what’s up?
Well I…
I have got numerous problems and they’re more than ninety nine, 
I have a problem with being asked a question for which the expected answer is a fucking lie,
cause my answer is everybody’s answer and it’s never suppoused to go any further beyond “nothing much, you?”
Well, fuck it.
I don’t think you’d know what you’d say if I say that what’s up with me is that my metaphorical fingers fail to grasp my rhetorical strings of thoughts, 
And I can’t find my metaphorical shelter in which I rest and linger, and I’m afraid I’m lost.
And my metaphorical feet has grown weary and cracked and they can’t drag me down any more roads untravelled, 
there’s no statement to be made and no truths to unravel. 

you know things aren’t truly changing. 
They might be moving but even the movement is static, 
so I’ve been floating through days and nights like I’m on a pilot automatic, 
and that is kinda problematic,
and irrational and erratic.
Because the floor, it moves, shift, shakes, and breaks but only beneath my feet.
And while I'm slowly fading into nonexistence only to be replaced with my sense of defeat.
My mind chooses to form images to which the council of the voices making noises in my head hadn't agreed.
And it keeps me up at nights,
And faded through daytime.
One puff...
Two puffs...
Let us carry on these forms of cultural hipocrisy and social bluff,
What's up?
 Nothing, 
What's up?
Nothing
What's up?
nothing,
What's up?
 nothing,
nothing worth telling but that my suppoused mastery of my vocabulary is gone,
and correct me if im wrong,
but...
What use do you make of a master of puppets that fails to perform since hes lost control over his dolls and gotten arthitis...
 but nothing?
What does a kid thats suppoused to live young and free when he's locked himself behind a way too early middle life crisis suppoused to grow up be..
but nothing?
Well it's fucked up.
Sup? Nothing much here but dullness and despair
and things that turn to nothings,
losing their sole purpose of being there.


 "What's up" you'd ask
and as a nothing i'd answer,
with words that dont come out of my throat
the way they used to do,
and a voice that clings to my insides
and wont leave without putting up a fight
before speaking to you.
Saying:
"i think i found a sanctuary in solitary,
and it could be just another phase but this doesnt feel like it's temporary,
I'm kinda scared for myself,
for there's always been silence but it never was clearer,
atleast there was more sense in my conversations with the mirror.

But now even my conversations with myself kill themselves with the poisonous "nothing much. You?'s
that we're forced to use.

But it's nothing, really.

One pill,
Two pills,
My thoughts could be running,
But my reflection on the mirror is standing still.

So what's up?
Its nothing much
but that im feeling like im dumped to be uncomfortably numbed,
nothing.
For im neither saddened nor joyous,
and there's nothing out there for me to walk out of victorious,
im neither excited nor afraid,
and not anticipating anything to be happening, thought of, nor said.

One pill,
Two pills,
Funny how you asked me what's up when everything's downhill.
Nothing much happening,
and nothing much to remember.
Its been nothing since January and it remained nothing on December.

One puff,
Two puffs,
And goes on the bluff...

My version of the Truth

Pardon me if my thoughts sound like blasphemy 
and here’s an appology in advance in case my words carry some sort of unacceptable herecy that ruins your rythym and makes you unable to dance.
I want you to know that I mean no offense to your cause,
and I hold great respect for everything you offered and lost to stand by what you stand for.
you can choose to ignore what I’m about to say,
It wouldn’t be the first time,
if you plead me guilty,
and mark my head to be slain.
It’s alright, if by the end of this, you start calling me insane
it won’t change anything, or affect the fact,
that the thoughts I’m about to state are ones you’ve already had.

It's sad,
But there's nothing to do about that.
So try to pay attention for the lines that are coming
And turn my mic up louder I’ve got to say something:
You’ve been given a pair of eyes, set in there for you not only to optain sight, but also insight.
So inside,
It's time to shake whatever unshakable beliefs in your mind.


Yes,
the world has grown into some hideous set up.
but hey, I’m not here to be one of those that tell you to get up.

For starters:

your shouts of objection all do not matter,
your revolutionary talks wouldn’t neutralize the intoxicated soil and cleanse the polluted water,
I’m sorry to stand in the way of optaining your cravings,
but there’s nothing out there that is worth saving.
there are bits of poison in every bit of sand,
and it’s out of our hands.
you see,
it all doesn’t matter,
for this existence we're cursed with,
was offered to us on gold and silver platter.
Then we, as a kin,
Became the poor outcome of our father’s first sin.
And we're doomed to carry the seeds of a fruit forbidden in between our flesh and our skin.
The hideousness of the murder his first sons committed,
was injected in our blood to always feel it and relive it,
and we’ve carried their wrongs in our veins all along.


we’ve been left behind to believe that we’re right,
but the thoughts that we carry, no matter how strong,
and the beliefs that we hold no matter how solid.
are all invalid.
and will forever be subjective to the vague concept of what’s right and what’s wrong.


you’d care, 
I guess,
but I confess,
That to me, 
it all doesn’t matter,
it’s sad,
but 
change is a fairy tail and its always been that,
peace is a myth sold by merchants of war,
And freedom is a fraud we're fooled to fight for.

we’re guilty,
our finest of men wear suits,
that may seem clean,
but are deeply filthy.
we sickened mothernature,
she’s turned pale and gray,
disappointed father time, 
he’s turned his back on us,
then we blamed on a system we created to obey,
I don’t think that’s okay,
it’s sad,
but we crafted it into a way it can’t be anything but that.

and look at we ended up as:
we create civilizations that are bound to crash,
and we tear each other apart to save the unity of a piece that tears itself on its own.
and we preach bloodshed to the knees in the name of divine justice,
and peace.
Then I see people raising hell in hopes of making it to heaven,
I see marks of angels carried by people hell driven,
minor causes making riots that aren’t worth the fuss
just so unholy demons could declare wars for the name of christ and the cross. 

There are strings on our busses
Bikes,
Roads,
Inside our markets,
Our shops,
Our clothes,
Countless numbers of invisible strings
Controlling us in shadows
As the puppeteer sings.

It's sad, and a grotesque mess,
But I guess we've made a habit of settling for that,
Since mankind is a species that's never been kind.
Just prophets, sent to this land just to drive it mad,
And cold.

It's funny,
How science helps us see things,
But we're oh so blind
And we think we're moving ahead
But we've been stuck behind.
It's the age of telecommunications
But we're mute and unheard,
High quality graphics,
But our vision is ever blurred,

Everyone's a victim,
And everybody is at fault,
For after all the religions,
And the many gods we Sought 

we ended up worshipping:
money, weapons and asphalt.

The Clickety-Clack

I know that I am way too young to set things right, too naïve to write, 

Let me write,

And I gave myself the permission to think that your elderly eyes need to trace back their sight into the rabbit's hole you once loved to hide inside. 

To think that maybe your skin is craving the pixie dust you could only get from wonderland to which you lost the way.

Let me write because I think you may understand the reasons why I'd put my feet in those shoes that are much larger than my size..

So hush, watch me as I bind those tongue-twisting thoughts into senseless words; tie them to paper so they wouldn’t be jumping around in my mind, 

Let me pretend for a second that I know what I’m saying because maybe the clickety-clack of my keyboard buttons could be loud enough to fill the cruel silence of night.

I think that the noise of nails on a chalkboard awakens my senses,

that scratching paper with a pen is the only way to cure my itches.

So let me give myself some worth by deluding it with the thought that maybe the angels on the shoulders of the universe are too busy doodling sick images on the margains of the record books and somebody should be writing.

Give me chances to be vain enough to believe it’s me.

I know I’m probably bluffing, stuffing blank spaces with blasphemy,

undressing words of their meanings and using them senselessly.

But let me bluff.

Let me write about love.

and I am aware that I’m probably way too young to know the first thing or two,

Too lost to figure my own way through,

But I've read enough love poems to know that love is none but your own series of taking wrong ways, tumbling on misunderstandings, repetitive crashlandings, 

and overusing cliché images everybody uses:

pitless holes of misuses,

broken hearts and body bruises.

So let me mistake love for lust and admiration for obsession and then crash into the awaiting deadends of disappointments I can already see without your “I told you so”s turning the signs the opposite way just so I could follow your concept of right. 

Let me write. 

About the long nights when your heartbeats beg of you to translate their rythyms into rhymes.

When you failingly try to stuff the bullet holes in your chest with words and so all of your breaths come out as sighs. 

“Inkstains, flashbacks, hidden prayers in disguise, 

Silhouttes, sandstorms, the mixture of colors in the skies, 

melancholy, solitude, moonlight and sunrise, 

Revolution, gunpowder, spilling blood, and demise.”

Let me tell you about how it felt for a historian to carry the burden of the memories of the conquests, the crusades, and the Great Fire of Rome in a chest that grew tighter than a bottle's neck,

And excuse me for using you as target practice but maybe your skin needs to feel the heat of a flame for you to realize that the warmth running beneath your feet is that of blood shed in a battle,

and I know that you can see that my face isn't scarred enough to know the meaning of the word,

and my hands are too shaky to know what it's like to unsheath a sword,

But let me write about war. 

About the ceiling that crumbles and falls upon your head six bloody thousand times through one eve,

about the smell of burnt concrete and melted steel that lingers in the corridors and allies of your chest and won't leave,

about waking up to the remaining walls of your neighbourhood dyed red with the blood of who you were told was your friend,

About the lights that shone bright but casted nothing upon us but darkness,

See I looked for the honor of dying in a battle on the faces of those slain knights,

but I couldn't find it. 

I tried to withstand the glory in being a piece in someone else's chessboard but I couldn't withstand it.

There's nothing logical about patriotism.

why fight for a piece of land? That, I wouldn't understand,

I mean look at what “home” does to you: 

kicks you down and dusts you...

Yet, I still wear my home upon my sleeves,

wrap it around my neck and have it circulate the7 bottom of my ringfinger,

it's where my nightly thoughts linger, 

it's where my devil cannot reach,

and my angel cannot preach, 8

home is a truce that puts the battlefields on my shoulders at peace,

it's an arm that's always stretched, ready to collect me into one piece.

So when it occurs to you that my heartbeats are too quite for the echo of the world to repeat,

And you can see that things are too wrong for me to set things right on my own...

let me write. 

writing feels like home.

المعلقة (Safa7, Ahmed Gihad & Gaki)

وليل كموج البحر أرخى سدوله..
علي بأمواج الحنين ليبتلي..
فقلت له لما تمطى بصلبه..
واردف اعجازا وناء بكلكل:
الا يا ايها الليل الطويل الا انجلي.

Music isnt but cacophonic sounds that carry the prayers too heavy for us to admit aloud,
The vulnerabilities that we hate to face that we constantly think about,

Like...

-Aint no sunshine when she's gone-

Huh, Aint no shit when she's gone,

She, the rythym,
And the ryhme,
The Conviction,
The haunting guilt,
The resenting prayer,
And the crime,
The vibration,
and the tone,
And the thought that conquers when you're alone...

She bares the complications of speech and the terms of language within her ground...

She...
a pronoun..
A preposition
And a noun,
The hidden images between the lines that are hard to be found,
The little secrets of the universe that makes the planets turn,
And fire burn,
And our minds concerned,

مهفهفة بيضاء غير مفاضة
ترائبها مصقولة كالسنجنجل
And I'm her necklace, as close to her heart as i can be, reflecting her happiness of my face shining as the stars.
She is my sky, my universe and beyond.

She's a melody that inspires the sun to wake up every morning to cast light upon this waste land..

Fuck that..
She is the sun..
And the sun is not really the sun..
The sun is just the moon that only reflects a fragment of what she represents..
And the moon is nothing but an irrelevant stone that got caught in the midst of all of this..

تضئ الظلام بالعشاء كانها
منارة ممسى راهب متبتل
And I'm the priest at her temple
She is a goddess, making me pray to her to keep her in my life to worship
She is a goddess, making me sacrifice my words at her alter, making my soul commit suicide every night so i can sleep peacefully by her side.

And she's even more,
And I can't spill ink on paper tryna trace the features of her memory without my papers getting stained and my ink running short,
And nothing I aim for describes the wrecked up train I get aboard when I think of her,
So it's kinda absurd,
To follow our tails around tryna get there...

So..

This poem is not about her..
None of my poems are about her..
All of my poems are about my incapability to write..
But I can help but to write..

Like a dark knight on the darkest night, I write..
Set the lines and take charge..
This pen has been my nobel stead on the front lines, I'm in charge..
مكر..
مفر..
مقبل..
مدبر..
كجلمود صخر حطه السيل من عل..

Like it's war, I'm pulling the hackamore..
Or maybe the steering wheel of a fast car..
Or even a bike with some handlebars..
I handle bars..
Like a mean prison guard, I handle bars..
Like Eminem on rap god, I handle bars..

BARTENDER,
Pour me some of that lyrical ink,
Cause these needles in my head they're starting to sting,
And it stinks,
This shortage of words drains me dry
فدع عنـك لـومي فـإن اللـوم إغـراء
وداونــي بـالتي كـانت هـي الـداء

فان كنت لاتستطيع دفع منيتي
فدعني ابادرها بما ملكت يدي

Allow me to die on the paper making my rivers of blood dye pictures of the battles of my thoughts and my pad.
How i handle bars
Walking proud with my battle scars
How i dissolve foes to evolve and transform into a revolv-er..

Roll down these ballistics..
Put down these unrealistic misfits in a coma..
I'm grown ma..
Watch as I flip this ancient school flows to futuristic..
I faced the ugly truth without no make up or lipstick..
I brought my wounds to the dark side and rib apart the stitches..
The child's play is over..

Bartender,
Fill up my glass,
And I'll pour it down on history,
My palms are sweanty,
Knees weak,
But my steps are steady,
Towards victory,
I carry the league
Of the greatest,
امرؤ القيس، malcom x, and Mohammed Ali,
Move like a butterfly, and sting like a bee,
Words are my stingers,
Shooting grenades of trigger fingers
I'm dressed in my armor,
My thoughts loaded and harbored,
I'm faded,
My ryhmes integrated,
So pour it down, concentraded,
Let me stay this way,
Unrated,
Maintain my spot on my ground,
My esteem may be low but fuck, I'm hella proud,
These looks of awe wont make me grow,
These finger snaps make me snap,
But praise the loud, my prayers are loud,
venting, resenting, detesting the crowd,
I walk alone,
Those times are gone,
Where you unsheath them swords,
So I barricade my metaphors,
And I sharpen my words,

Bartender..
Overdose me on that blasphemy so I can blast my rhapsodies and let them linger..
It's like..
I'm volcanic eruptions..
Demonic deceptions..
I'm an Armageddon meant for personal functions..
I'm the fucked up version of pulp fiction..
Fuck son..
It's a cold world..
And I'm hulk mode with an ozzie that weighs a ton..
But I ain't angry this though..

Bartender

Serve me a shot of that lyrical vitamin
Open my third eye to the power of Suleiman
Grant my mind the gift of speech
Make my soul talk to the ancient kings as they call out for me
Pouring my rhymes into a bottomless hourglass
How the time expands as i drink from the knowledge glass
Placing stars in place as i guide tribes
Forming galaxies and black holes
Colliding dimensions, sending gravity waves at your dome
Pulling your conscious close as you listen to the creator of your world

Bartender partake in this mixture of flavours call it a demonic cocktail, a devil's pie or fucking lucifer's birthday cake..
I made mistakes..
I had my share of being fake..
So this is not for Satan's nor God's sake..
This is for getting wasted fuck a mental state..
This is for the sour taste of being great..
So in the name of this liquor..
Watch these lines get thicker..
Get sicker..
For this tongue will no longer hesitate..

Bartender,
Hand me the fucking bottle,
Pour me one for the road and two for the battle,
You think your bar's unholy,
So I'd take it wholly,
The Creator's complex,
The writer's block,
And the bartender's curse,
Your counter's my alter,
This bar's my church,
spit bars when I mumble,
I handle bars as I walk,
This table is temble,
I'm the tibet monk of singing along,
The catholic priest of doing wrong,
This mental image made me a priglimage,
But I'll stop before I end...
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,
Then pour me a glass to drag me to my senses,
I go further than I should,
and I aim better than I shoot,
So judge me by means and not the way act,
I'm blasphemous, but I blame it on the words, in fact,
My poems are intact,
But sometimes I lose contact,
To whatever's in my head,
So Bartender,
Bring another bottle,
Instead of eyeing me with dread.

Bartender..
You see a bottle..
I see the dwarf in the flask from full metal alchimest coming outta of it..
I see why life exists..
I see me taking risks..
I see the blooming bliss..
Of me not giving a shit..
You see glass..
I see revealed reflected reflections revolving around crucified cross sections..
I see names and questions that should not be mentioned..
You see a liquid flows to cup, I see a river's flow leading my road to redemption..

BARTENDER
Call the owner, this is a hostile takeover
Releasing ether bars,
Time passed,
We dressed in black with white clovers
Rewind that and bring in the yellow tape
A lyrical homicide is in place
I sting like a bee
Like I'm a killer with a face of a ghost
In the impediment of your worst nightmares
I'm the werewolf on silver bullets
I'm Jupiter with Zeus's spirit
Screw your mental limit
I'm reason of your writer's block
I'm your fear of failure with every tick tock
I'm the vampire's pope
Twisting your hope and Evans faith
Say my name three times and I'll appear
Talking to your chaotic conscious
Carving holy hieroglyph on the walls of your dreams
Shining upon your road of redemption and and sins
Im the mob, the king, the god
And you are a damn believer
So believe in greatness
Shining from the heart of a warrior
ملأنا البحر حتى ضاق بنا
ونحن البحر نملؤه سفينا
With endless flows and metaphors i'm repeating history
Standing in the middle of the battlefield declaring victory

ولقد ذكرتك والرماح نواهل مني
وبيض الهند تقطر من دمي
ووددت تقبيل السيوف لأنها
لمعت كبارق ثغرك المتبسم،
So pour me my latest sip and maintain your spot,
These battlefields conflict with this peace of mind the constant thought of her inflicts in me,

My thoughts shift in these..
Lands..
Filled with these.. blood red sands..
And unmarked graves..
And war slaves..
To a place.. where the red in sand turn to roses..
And I lose focus..
And I don't mind in my mind to slit my veins in vain..
If you would notice..

The effect you have on my mental state
How i walk like I'm under hypnosis when i think of your face
Your grace I'm nothing but warrior but I'm aiming higher
I know i bring you disgrace but..

Who wouldn't desire being a sire..

Who wouldn't desire being lifted up higher..

Who wouldn't desire being inspired..

Still..
This poem is not about her.

Gaki who?

Wikipedia tells me this vessel is composed out of 65% percent of Oxygen,
18% of carbon,
10% of hydrogen,
3% of nitrogen,
The rest is calcium, phosphurus, sulfur, potassium, sodium, chlorine and magnesuem,
but, it doesn't feel so,
It doesn't appear so,
It doesnt seem fit,
So is it?
When I carry this chunk of meat and make my steps to meet my reflection on the mirror in hopes of seeing the truth clearer,
I see a pair of eyes, ears, nose, hair, teeth, flesh, arms, birth marks, a new pair of shoes, and one unfading bruise,
See that could be the truth,
But it also seems a bit far.
So I close my eyes cause maybe what we see is not what we are, and maybe my vision is what makes me blind to that truth that lies behind,
and I see dreams, memories, thoughts, plots, unfathomable floating colored dots, numbers, dates and schemes and a little bothersome child that constantly screams questions that I find no answers to.
So maybe that's who I am to me but who am I to you?
I've been told so many times I look like I have a soul too old for my body,
That people see potential in me that I'll grow and become "somebody",
That I give some people the vibes that yes I am young but I also seem wise and this person once said that I creep them out because I seem like I'm not afraid of demise,
And so...
But that also doesnt feel like me,
So is any of that true?
When I look at you and our eyes meet do you really see my soul?
But is that a bunch of bullshit that we've been told because the truth is a bit too dull for our liking?
Let me stop right there because there has always been more questions than answers,
And I've always been calling out for somebody who has further knowledge but no one ever answers,
And it tells me on the web that throughtout history no one has ever answered,
And so...
Everything that we'd say or think is weak and brittle,
So I guess I'll settle for what's little and that being nuisance, silence, fiction and nonsense.
And I'll carry those along in my pack to support me when my words lag and my thoughts lack and rhymes turn corny and whack everytime I'm asked who I am?
Damn...
I don't know who I am,
But I'll tell you what I think?
I'm 70% percent my thoughts, 15% my state of being alienated and lost, I'm 7% disgusted and grossed out of the world and the rest is this vessel I carry and you percieve:
As that guy that returned home to escape war but now thinks home is what he should've escaped in the first place,
That fella stuck in a society that thinks of him as a disease and disgrace,
I'm misplaced with no right place,
And I think why I bother so much with what I am is because I bother so much about where I should be,
You feel me?
You ever stood amongst your people and still felt alienated?
Wanted to cuss at the world but was told not to complain about what was fated or you will be deemed insane?
So many quotes tell us to stop and stare but it's impossible and unfair because we were unwillingly born on a fast lane.
Funny thing is,
I don't know what's right and wrong now that I'm grown,
And Growth is relating more to the joker less to bruce wayne,
And in the process you'll find yourself working your ass off to avoid being a loser like superman and eventually become lex luthor.
You know?
I don't know anymore,
I just think.
There's only one truth:
I write; therefore I am.
And I think that what I write and I are kind of alike,
Because...
Poetry is lines, ryhmes, thoughts, schemes, syllables and words.
Also,
Poetry is intense expressions, confession, sighs, metaphors and lies.
Poetry is i dont know man its that thing that some people do.
Poetry to me is not poetry to you,
and so...
And I am water, flesh, clothes, an old soul that is fresh
I am that guy in the mirror, on the road, in my head and in your view,
I am "I've never heard of him",
And I am to me is not who I am to you,
And so...
oh,
This was a mess,
I've always been a mess,
And this poem was me, being spoken.

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.