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.