There are two things in this life that if you practice, you have to be extremely cautious while using them: Speaking and Writing.
I, as a writer, seriously thought of killing my ability to write, or perhaps just write every once in a while and avoid getting into deep, detailed or controversial articles. One of the very main drawbacks of being a writer and a thing that renders me sleepless several nights is the fact that words are as dangerous as silence, equally dangerous. They're a double-edged weapon, and if you're a writer, you have a knife or a rope right on your neck, and once you say something provoking, you unintentionally let that rope/knife slay you. Yes, responsibility that is.
The media; the tv and the internet. Those two have played an essential role in getting people so mystified that it now feels like the words people heard have cast their shadows upon their thoughts, their views and their minds until a heavy dense cloud befogged their existence, until everyone now wants to just, survive- not to mention that surviving has become a great achievement these days.
I don't think those who appear on tv realize how crucial and important their words are to the society, and like those who are and always will be silent, those who talk will always blabber, just for the sake of it. Both are diseases that have the same symptoms yet a different result.
Either way, what you write is spoken aloud, and what you speak is read in silence; it all leads to the same conclusion, but the question is, how much do you give and how much do you take? Because you can give one tiny thing yet it would provoke a whole nation, and give a thousand things that are usually wasted. Impulsiveness Vs bullshit.

Let's be honest here, people talk more than they do, so at least if you're talking and not doing, let others hear some sane words, and let yourself raise the doer, directly or indirectly, or just shut up and spare the world your never(s), spy talks and forever doomed(s).
Let the sheep decide and let the free be free, because after all you don't really care about the sheep nor the free, it's you who matters the most to yourself, and that's just how corrupted it is, always has been and always will be.

They all have been waiting in that infinite space. The talks lessen as time carries away their excitement, until the tic tocs are the unbearable sound filling the room with too much impatience. The destinations vary, sometimes even purposes in the same destination differ, too. The facial expressions shift from enthusiasm to bewilderment and mystification; words become devoid of meanings, as if they are some sort of a time machine, to waste time rather than fast-forward it.
Who controls the silent can control the poor. And who controls the rich can control the ignorant, and finally the end is one: a fine depiction of the coward crowd.

And the waiting is pointless.

©Euphoriaofbritt @ dA.

Cities of guilt and chaos, cities of anarchism and ignorance. Cities of you, cities of me, with too many feelings that are our own, only our own, alone. Selfishness.
Rivers that carry words; awash, words that can no longer resemble us. Words that can no longer fly in our lands carrying freedom. Nothingness. But they are not trite, we're the archaic. Ageism.
Seasons don't change. Wait, they do, just not in our colonies. Everything is the same here. Today is a replica of yesterday, and a mirror of tomorrow. You think our lives are a déjà vu? No. Repetitions.
You're not hallucinating. You do not even exist. You. You're the remains of your dreams, the remains of your memories, if there were any, in the first place. You're the figment of their imagination. And you don't know who directs the puppet show, because you just can't see above when you are the puppet itself. Despotism.
You ride the wave yet you can't be going with that flow, because you ride their wave. You talk but only from their dictionaries: We live and we learn and we obey and we support and we die. You die. But those who live forever, are never remembered. And you who live, don't die. Manumission.

Discolored sentences
Cross bridges between you and them,
And the traffic of words is
Unbearable to deaf ears

(The nonexistence of you)

They, long ago, burned down bridges
That could lead to you, or
Maybe they feigned they did,
Yet you believed

(The age of the diseased)

And they reigned their own colonies,
With rules on walls of
Your nonbeingness,
And papers of their ego

Oh, fever of the self



Written 12:57 AM. 11.16.11

Note: This was supposed to be talking about Solipsism (Yes, the philosophical concept) but it somehow took a kind of a political direction.

Sell my dreams
To the wildest oceans,
And I'll never reach them
for I'm a thalassophobic.
Drown my thoughts somewhere
Between forgetfulness and denial
So that I may suffocate with
The ignorance of my being
And their ugly pride

They have the shackles to restrain you,
Me and them, to let those thoughts,
fade and perish, slowly and slow,
So that all that is left would be,
a mere wish to have a dream
That would save us all, and heroes,
And all that we'll write along the years
would only be dead wishes;
The remnants and ashes of our dreams.

Image Source Here

Written 8th of November.11. 1:30 AM.

Sometimes you don't know whether silence would be more hurtful than words or the other way round. You just don't know if that silence would be decipherable or would it leave you mystified with too many thoughts soaring, sometimes none of them is even close to reality. You just think. And think.
Sometimes words are unnecessary yet you find yourself saying anyways, in fear of what? Nothing, probably being accused of apathy or indifference. Does it matter? deep down inside it really does, but on the surface you’re all confident nothing’s worth it. Don’t worry, we all have those insecurities and the need to be loved with our imperfections, no matter how perfect we try to act.

My current situation with life makes me too burdened or blown to speak, I can’t write (don’t mind the fact that I’m writing now), my poetic life has become this ridiculous way of expressing before all those huge events happening lately, you know? It’s like whatever you’ll write and whatever you’ll feel is just a tiny bit of dust and ash that the world doesn’t need. So you prefer silence. This time silence is heartfelt and true, however, until when are we going to keep out words because they would add nothing to the world while they could add something to an ordinary person that might run into our words.

Is there something more than words to this world? Oh yes, patience. I think patience with prayers is a great, holy escape that makes everyone feel relieved at heart. You know, the older we grow, the harder it gets with patience; it’s like a harder lesson everyday that you cannot seem to understand, yet life doesn’t wait for you to get it, it just passes you by, and you either hold on to your patience, or you’ll never, ever, get it. Only Allah does.

I have been reading so much recently, in bed or at my office at work, cross-legged and comfortable, with the most terrible psychological aches ever; the ability to read and feel yet the inability to really feel or get involved in something that would be of any use to the country. I do understand that we all feel this way, that’s exactly why I’m writing this, to let you know I feel for you and ask you to smile because I know you feel for me. It’s just that we need patience, whether with words or with silence. I know that we have a terrible attitude when it comes to waiting, but if only, if only we knew the reward of what’s happening. At least daydream and smile.

I’m not really trying to cheer you up because I can’t cheer up myself, I’m just expressing something we all are feeling at the same time – and it might not be the same for you as it is for me, but I want you to know that this will pass, it has to; nothing lasts like this forever, impossible. So no matter how old you are, how strong or weak you are, no matter your religion, your race or your stream of thoughts or your feelings, at one point, you feel me and I feel you. And this is a test for patience, a test for life.

Shine on so the sun can rise again underneath your feet.

And you could not rise -
For your words imprisoned you,
and silence lingered.


It's a Senryu piece, a shitty one. I'm just pissed off and needed to write something very concise.

So here I am again, with my in-depth confessions and my own killer: words.
We all get those feelings when we really really want to write/play music/draw/artivate yet it's either work that gets to us, or it's procrastination--and I say the latter wins the fight!
I have been so burdened with some thoughts, some really different and various thoughts that probably have nothing to do with one another.
First come dreams: dreams are a huge pill of insomnia for me, or in other words I'd say a big part of the burden I carry inside. My death dreams are visiting me on almost a weekly basis now, each time differently. Sometimes shot at heart, sometimes bleeding on bathroom floors, other times just me dying without actually knowing how. Now the question is, will writing really take it off my mind? I don't really think so; I'm really starting to doubt life and I've been experiencing twitches of my whole body on a mere thought of death. This is just so weird..
Please don't prejudge and say I'm a pessimist, death is not pessimism, it's reality!

Second come words: If you know me pretty well, you'd understand the effect of words in my life, and it's partly why I really wanna be a writer, a published writer to be quite frank. Words are underrated, and they're a world changer, either positively or negatively. And although my poetry and prose are not all positive, I still think inspirational sayings within my lines may change the way someone feels about writing or about life. If you carry some wisdom in your words, you're a world changer :)

Third come the thousands of topics I have in mind: I think about stereotypes, about the invisible world, about racism and sexism and extremism. I think about bombs and how the shock waves are what really causes the real damage in the world, not the bombs themselves. I think about the society and the ignorant thinking and all those theories of conspiracy and capitalism. I think about politics, how people are using the words "The revolution" only to say the world is coming to a stop and everything's been worsening more and more. I think about just too many things that I'm always left without talking about any single thing of them. And that's the worst of all.

Being a writer, I think I'm meant to suffer with the words I'll want to say, I think I'll die with so many words left unsaid, stories left untold and reflections buried with me. I'll just keep fighting to change the world somehow with the thoughts I can free out loud, until maybe, just maybe, one day I'll be able to make someone write, to make someone truly change the world if I never had the chance to, and then I'll stand before my Creator and truly feel like I've done something worth living for, and worth even more dying for.

May Allah guide us all to a peaceful, world-changing soul!

Dear all,

Don't freak out, I didn't delete my work, all my poems and prose pieces are drafted because the Publishing House needs exclusivity on the book so they have to be nowhere else other than the book insha'allah. I might re-publish them when the book is out, until then..

Stay tuned and pray for me =)

Thank you!

Before reading, please read these words at least twice:

This post is from the deepest depths of my heart, and I probably will never write something again so sincerely and wholeheartedly.

Now go back and read it again if you may.

My main problem lies in those two words: I do not have writers block. I don't. I have something else, not sure better or worse, I just know this thing hurts.

In the previous post, you already read that I have been writing since I was 14, but..never have I thought nor ever felt this way before, never have I felt that words hurt, with the literal meaning of hurt. My words, I hate to think I could write them again, I hate to write them even in the first place - it's a feeling of wanting to suppress everything inside, let it die and rot inside of me, maybe right then my soul will take that battle for me, not my pen; my poor pen and my precious feelings..I wanted to keep them. I didn't want to let so many insecurities outside, they were just too many, and yes, I prefer to call them insecurities rather than any other word I refuse to remember.

When it first happened, that thing, that terrible thing that put all my ease on fire and let me burn with my bruised emotions -- no, I'm not that emotional if you ask me, I just care about my emotions just as much as I care about anything else within me. Back then, my friend Ibhog told me to pray excessively, and that's what I did. I felt like I couldn't do anything more than praying sincerely to the only One who can save me from all of this. I pleaded in every single prayer, I couldn't be more persistent and hopeful that Allah will save me somehow. What on earth was happening? That, I don't know, or it's why I came here in the first place.

About a month and half ago I read a novel I think I will never forget in my entire life. It was about books and words, about writing. The narrator was death, the protagonist was a girl who started writing just a little younger than my young age when I did. I don't know how to explain this, but this novel made me feel like I can't write anymore, as if death will visit me soon, as if I'll just write my last piece of writing on this earth and it will be so influential that the next motivating thing for people to live life truly, will be my death. This novel has cast a heavy black shadow on me. Words, how useless they are, in a world where hunger, politics, corruption, colonization, war and so and so on, acts of severe hostility are everywhere.

I don't know, ever since I felt this way, the day I wrote this quote and then made it a status on facebook, that said:

"I want to die free. I want to die free. Even if imprisoned or enslaved or tortured, I want to die knowing that my thoughts are unchangeable! I want to die free, even if from the outside i'm oppressed and full of shakles and handcuffed. Inside, I'm a slave to none, only an obedient to God..."

This quote is one of the quotes I expressed sincerely and brutally honestly, and I still want to die free. I think about being imprisoned or enslaved way too much, and how would I react upon this, and then I go like "Death, martyrdom, the purpose of life, heaven, hell" and a series of dark yet real thoughts pours itself, with the most burdensome one "in an infinite universe, what am I? Truly? a speck of dust, why is it that we think too much of ourselves?" and in the end I just want...The later life, not this.

But then again come the words, how easy they are, how easy they have always been. This past week, I couldn't think of anything but this, and my words, where will they take me? What about the next word I'm going to say, now, will it benefit, or harm? I'm a writer, I'm a very troubled writer, and I'm a tired thinker. I sometimes wish I would really just give up the process of writing because lately, it causes me so much pain, why? Purposes haunt me. I don't want to be just a writer, I want to be a writer who makes people do. I'm a selfish writer, so please don't read my words in vain, otherwise, please just don't waste your time on my blog.

Yet, I remain with too many written paragraphs, and not a single emotion expressed rightly.

Again, words..

I don't believe in coincidences. Lies. I write nonsense. People love me for whom I'm not. My body twitches on the thought of death. I'm impulsive. You can't fight my hard-headedness. I have sleepless dreams. I'm an insomniac. I have some kind of sea phobia (Thalassophobia). Crimson. I hate birthdays. Cliches. I'm a paranoid. ADHD. I want to visit Italy. I think art is a masterpiece by God. I don't believe in words, what good are they -question. I'm a geek blogger. Twitter changed my life. Tahrir is the only place that makes me internally at ease. I believe I'll die in a car accident. I'm against Secularism. Sometimes showing emotions is the hardest I can give to some people. Planning Fallacy. Books heal and hurt me, sometimes in one single moment. I have three ugly stitches in my left leg. My first piece of writing was at the age of 14. I sucked. Illusory Superiority. I believe books should not be on shelves to decorate. People say I'm mysterious. I love to read about the Roman Empire. I zoom out when I pray. I think borders between countries should've never existed. I'm not a feminist. I hate ACs. I think the color black is royal. Conspiracy. I'm against sarcasm even if it makes me laugh; it's just a synonym for "Su5reya". I once thought that if you touch me you'll know what I'm thinking about. I'm honest, which to people means I'm rude, so I am :) . You won't ever see me cry unless I'm completely, completely torn apart. Privacy. I love long walks. I'm allergic to scents I don't know until my chest starts burning. Consumerism. I'll never be a good family member. I don't name inanimate objects, except for my netbook Zuzu. Salvation. Quotes will always make me think deeper. I don't watch a lot of movies. I'm a great time-waster. Illusion. I wake up everyday thinking it's time for Judgment Day. I'm a tired chameleon. Closures.

My words don't and will never resemble me, I'm only a passerby writer.
am I?


Inspired by this.

Finally, I updated the blog (duh). I don't have copyrights over the background; I took it from the website wallbase.cc

This blog is going to hold blabbers pretty soon insha'allah, since the personal one will be abandoned.

A letter of hope is worth a thousand pigeons flying,
in all seasons of words;
yet one climax of absolution.


Source

I had a weird dream last night;
You were flying in my bare, obsolete skies,
and I was sinking in your cerulean oceans.

The first steps on fire are always the hardest,
then fire becomes ice, and you become the fire.

























Source

If the only thing that can stop you from addiction
is death,
how far would you go?
And when would you stop?

Part of loving all the lessons of life,
is embracing all the aches of death.

If you can't depend on a mountain to cry,
You can't ask a flower to shoot bullets on springtime

It was the light that blinded me,
the sound than deafened me.
The colors that bled with each hue,
leaving only black
and white

It was a hurricane when survival was
old; a habit - a breath.
A flood of emotions that
never killed.

It was an addiction
to love you
by hatred,
and to color you,
by naught.

An obsession, to forget
by remembrance,
and bleed
by living..

I have always thought that ears are the worst way for words to wade through.
Choose the heart, choose the soul, just don't speak with your tongue, and please..don't listen with your ears.
There's more to hearing than just the sound..



Blogger's note: I have a severe problem with words and expressing recently. They're a killer, if you only listen with your ears..

I wonder if you ever rob me of my imagination,
How much of a writer would I become?

Heal me, may you?
Of all the opaque moons that had failed
to shine within me;
Of all the caged birds that sung
of despair and misery.

Color me, will you?
With the shades of pink and
the hues of everlasting green;
color me transparent like water
running free in streams.

Free me -
of the winds of December
and the coldest stones;
of the pale of seasons -
The cliches of the unknown.


And kill me so that I may live
naked of all the lessons,
until you come crawling in
once and for all.




(I suck with endings lately..)

Why would you see me in black and white if you're so colorful to me?

And if together we fall,
how many would rise again,
when divided?
How many would gather the pieces
shattered on the roads?
The untrodden and forgotten
within the winds of struggle.

How many words would fade,
unsaid and buried within,
just to drink the toast of
disturbed liberty?

And how many would dream,
when thousands lay insomniac?

Just how many?

But my words sank beneath your horizon,
unwilling to fight the transfixing silence,
with a single beat of echoing lines

For between your melodies
and my stanzas
rest the eternally unfamiliar ties
of passion.

And the oceanic nights
of sleeplessness.


Written April 23th.2011 8:51 PM

For you, because you know...

© Dust and Lyrics by ~Joni-Kay @ deviantArt

Grow,
beneath the tidal waves of sorrow,
within the hopeless looks for light.
Prosper,
in the shimmer of sane words,
amongst insane glares,
frenzied hands,
and lackluster minds.

Speak,
slowly but drive them mad,
walk as a hero and they'll call you..

..

A coward!

Rise with the sun,
amble on the moonlight
and be still-

Only when they accuse you of their sin.

Written March the 23th.11 9:38 PM.

I bled within you,
without mercy; profanity
was your grenade,
and like a fragile rose,
you plucked me out-
Oh, impassivity.