One Night to Nice

December 9, 2012

The world was just the windows of the cars

No further

Canvas sky and dipping lights

The world was the words we spoke

No different

If we were gods life would be heaven

Shooting stars would light our way

Signs we made so clear in the night

Our incubator held us ideal

Left us dreaming and happy

Beyond who are there are galaxies and milky-ways

Our minds were settling, tired of wondering

We were the true to one another

We were the best to what we were

Honesty, generosity, trust, and humanity

Outside these windows we are not what we were

We wear a different skin

We could be predators

We could be shooting stars

We are what humans are to humans nowadays

Meaningless, indifferent, priced, and owned



October 24, 2012

She sat there as she bled like a draining faucet, and to her that was usual and perpetual. She sat there waiting for it to rest thinking about how strange it is yet a part of her nature. She always talked vigorously about her femininity and how it was treated throughout history and present, but just now, looking at herself bleed, she figured, I bleed for a life, and he fucks for one, what a pleasure.


Don’t mistake now, she saw it as divine, as holy, as she is the carrier of life itself. She was given the spirit to bear, and hold where else but within her own guts. Comparing this reality to the reality of treatments she gets that disregard her true carrier nature, she despises.


Residing in thoughts, she accepts.


As she took a seat in the yard bench all warm in layers, she unpacks. Beginning to settle, it beings to drizzle against her wish. She huffs and puffs wallowing right back into her dusk, beaten.


She sits hand cuffed by reality and her thoughts, staring endlessly into whatever meets her gaze. As abstract thoughts can be is as abstract reality is. Fiction is friction. Dreams are reams written with musk.  


No one is here, nothing is forcing. It’s all her that plays this game of backs and forths. She consumes the air and compresses the time she has, to whisk what else is left within her that dwells.


She calls upon this opulent life to come pouring its sorrows to her, to come and confide in her, because to her greatness is brought with great grief. She is willing to be life’s place of peace. Though she is not, she owes the creator of life. With what?! She never chose to even know, and that’s not even for her to suppose and assume. She comes and goes, just like the rest lifting shoulders upon shoulders, heads upon heads.


May 6, 2012

Haven’t you always wondered how some people were able to hate others for a life time? Have you ever considered yourself to be one of them, not that you have spent a whole life to even begin with hating someone, but we know for certain we are all capable of it.

It begins with the feeling of being used by a person which then is manifested by thoughts and compared to the physicality of the relationship, then an urge to stop this feeling arises and it calls on to be implicated upon the notion of that person if not the presence of them.

It is a bitter, black-hearted urge that growls on with suddenness and sharpness; feeding it’s self on vengeance and anger, though at times it is met by sadness to be realized by the grudge holder, but thou is only blinded as hatred of self-pity grinds on the weaker heart.

You have to admit there is a side of pleasure to it that comes strolling when the clouded bites back knowing it will be bruised and remembered. Another pleasurable effect is the strong ability to remember all that has been said and done by the hated, which when remembered will be inflated and flamboyant.

To come to think about it, you may hate a person for eternity only when knowing that you were truly done wrong, though humans never been creatures with a good memory and we’ve never minded it too, so the whole eternal hatred thing can’t work for too long. Likewise, the grudge weight lifting and the complicated emotional workings always steals the stamina and leaves you dried, so that won’t keep you alive for too long.

So it’s figured. If you stop hating, life will be lighter, things will seem brighter, and it’s pretty conclusive that forgetting the hatred will make you remember the love that is left.


April 30, 2012

She forges ahead and accepts the consequence

She entices the visitors with her edge

She is to be shut and held at arrest

Though they never had a clue of her attempt

Of what she plans to do instead

And running is not an option on her list

She was never the one to start the fight

She clearly wasn’t a one to take the flight

She will stand her ground and shake the land

When all is oblivious to the twist in the clan

It will sure be changed and put at hand

Many may disapprove of this righteous stance

She knows in time it will all be revealed

She knows how hard it to stand without a shield

She will not let this cause be put to sleep

It was hard enough to get untwined

To get the true facts in line

But to change a whole life

She herself alone was unable to unbind


April 25, 2012

I am unable as well as I am unwilling

I cannot give you what the rest do

Not that it is beneath me, nor that I’m blinded

I see no heart in it, no soul, and no honesty

And I can never bring myself around to it

Here is where we fall

between the morning ray and the evening breeze

Both are clear and both are bare

But neither incline the other to change their way

I can ask you no further than the space

between my head and face

To decipher the engraved

The lines, the wrinkles, the heavy colours

Those blackened eyes of mine are but for a reason

In which I dwell and remain tempest-tossed

Squalls may arise of which I am obliged to abide

Never fear though, those are only mine

So here I avow the very same reasons that cast me aside

Only to be acknowledged that I’m not so much afar

More of a lantern in a flameless town



January 19, 2012

I’ve read Ani Difranco’s lyrics of her new album (Which Side Are You On?)

It made me think again about what I’ve been trying to verbalize since the revolutions began in the Arab region.

I thought about it, and I wanted to write a whole article about how the world is now, and how the change is a reality, not some fiction we heard from our parents.

I wanted to write something articulate and sophisticated, and I thought about how it will be criticized, and I thought about the sentences and the perfect words to portray the most eloquent and precise thoughts, ideas, theories, and philosophies that riddled around in my head.

The words were calling out for me, everything was settled in its place, it just needed to be written.

But all I have now in my head is a swarm of gusty dust blowing in my head ever so constantly. I lost it. I have it no more. I am upset and unsettled. I thought that I can finally write a worth-reading and unique piece of literature for an amateur.

I guess it is not time yet.

Nonetheless, I pushed myself to express and right below I wrote a poem about how drastically dangerous it is to have this feeling of forgetfulness.


Words fail me

Memory fails me

who else is there to blame

but me

The gems of words just vanish

The gems of worlds just vanish

all what it leaves is traces and scraps of what could have been one of the greatest signs of change

I thought about it

I dreamt about it

is that all that there is for it

a thought

a dream

a vanishing ghost

that lives in my head

that hunts my actuality

. . .

I am short of existence

I am short of words

I held so dearly on the thought of writing

that I forgot to manifest this dust of a thought into a gem

. . .

I am now short of existence

fluttering with those few left feathers

as a naked bird with nothing but wax on

and a few withering dusts

I do smell the weather before it comes

and I do know what is yet to come

but all I do is mutter

and mumble until I forget what I ever meant

My City

December 13, 2011

Your people have gone

left you stranded

and estranged

I will watch over your streets

as I stand lonely with you

keeping your company

with these empty balconies

. . .

As the light of day

begins to stray

lights from afar

come to life

green like mosques

yellow like streets

pale white like walls

pink like cloud

and grey like pavement and dust

you are painted

and left to stay

Your people have left you

and set afar

settling in nowhere

. . .

But I will call

and call and call

until I’m heard

and you are revived

with golly songs

and beating walks

you will be built again

as I want you to be

as we want you to be

to be relived

as the past has done you wrong

and as the present will not accept

this coldness and dissonance

. . .

You will be rebuilt

You will be relived

Being Great and All

November 12, 2011

I know not of what I will become

nor a single lantern of what I could be

but millions and more of light

that shines from open TVs, missed calls,

alarm clocks, shooting stars, planets

and planet dust that lights the night.

The source though does not differ

it all comes from a reaction,

whether manipulated like a home-made fire,

or untouched by us like the sun

and the dying stars.

. . .

I for now have an unspoken of source

that lights my dark, deep filled head

causing my eyes to light instead of perceive.

I want to be a source.

I want to be lighting, untouched by them.

I want to be full, but never filled.

I want to be a vessel

that holds the reaction of great minds

pushes and evokes greatness to be born from a spark;

an ignition to a motion.

. . .

I, from the rest

don’t ever want to stand

unless all, we stand, side-to-side

For I will bow, thank, apologize and cry.

I’m secretly dating Dawn

sneaking before every morning

when all is asleep

to fill my eyes with her

to fill my skin with her

to fill my lungs with her

Oh I’ll wait for her every night

and when I lay my eyes on her

she awakes me

present for a day empty to fill

and then she shines so boldly

without a shame

waking the world on us two

and I can only blush as she meets my cheeks

with sunshine kisses so sweet


Yet again she hides before every night

playing me like a foolish lover

that longs for a drip of taste

she twirls and dances around in my head

keeping me lusting for a longer end

but she’s so heavy and sweet

like syrup around my lips

that I dare not ask for a longer sip

as her taste will ooze

and linger for the day

I cannot but wait for her courteously

and patiently

for she will only come when I please her to

Heavy Drunken Sleep

October 24, 2011

Heavy drunken sleep

I call upon thee every night

and if I don’t

Yee will come and steal me

like I want

make me forget

that I ever was

for I never wished to live

nor dared to die

. . .

I dream before I sleep

for I don’t sleep to dream

but to forget

. . .

I wake hung over


Until time wakes me

to my promises