Write about patriotism, about victory and defeat. Write about revolutions and rebels and prisoners and wars. About emotions, of love and hatred and disappointment and regret. Intangible love and uncolored hatred and heartbreaking disappointments and abysmal regrets. Write about the seven deadly sins, about stealth and murder and gluttony and greed. Don’t forget to write about saints and sinners all the same. Write the poor and the rich using the same words, make them equal for once. Write about mothers who lost their children, about those who never had to lose; I challenge you to tell me which hurts more. Write about darkness and light, about light in the dark and darkness in the light. Remember to write about lost friendships, about those who never found a shoulder when life shut its lights dim, or those who kept the secret to their sadness within. Be fair to them too. Remind the world of those who always had someone to love but not someone to love them back, craft their nights and dreams carefully. Don’t forget the writers, who keep promises with words and silence. Be subtle. Be warm. Remember heartbeats and heartbreaks. Remember everything, remember all, equally.

And then let the world remind you: Words will never be fair to whatever you write.

You raise me up and break me down and keep talking like nothing’s happened. You build walls and break silence with a question that leaves doors open and windowpanes shaken in fear of a storm. You quietly create a new time frame until all the clocks of my mind break the moment you step into my space, and smash me like I’d been sent to exile in some place where you, alone, control my hours. And then I am sent to the frame of “before”; I’m not sure whether you want me a memory or you want me ‘in’ your memory, although I can’t but comply to your rules.

You’d think I’m in love but I’m all out of my reign, so how can I be? Even the words frozen behind my pursed lips never seem to melt and tell you..I don’t know.

I’ve given up trying to say that I know what to say to you, because in a time frame like yours, I’m walking backwards to point zero, I’m breathing your words and what you want me to not say. Your silence isn’t fit to the space in my soul, it would drown in my own, and in the end I’d speak my own silence in you.

The cobwebs you carefully design and the chess pieces moving around me only make me create another reign in your own, until I am your time frame and you are barely the guard.

Time will make us both gasp for some calmness inside out. And you’ll quiver with what remains of you to get hold of what will remain of me. You’ll weaken my heartbeats with your fingertips until I can no longer save my heart with a borrowed beat. But I’ll kiss the air surrounding you and let go.

You shouldn’t have raised me up tomorrow.

12/28/2012

7:26 PM.

Please forgive me, Sir

For having taken an empty oath,

And instead of telling your truth,

I told my own.

Words slipped like a stream

Because truth also has

An hourglass.

And then it’s set free

You looked at me,

A crowd; alone

And yet my tongue did not

Shiver.  It wasn’t me, talking.

-intertwinement-

Kill me, Sir -

Outwardly, I'd be bleeding

Whilst inwardly, I'm too,

too strong to fall.

Another version of an old piece entitled "It Never Happened".

I feel like a stranger to my own self. Like a hater to the words I say, I don’t feel my existence within, I don’t even know what resides within. My soul is the battlefield of my words and God-knows-what resides to conquer me. I fear questions because my own answers might break me, I’m not sure I want to discover myself, not in this state of mind. For I don’t know who I am, and if I ever knew now, I’m scared it would be my label, forever, for a temporary state of mind, soul and heart. I don’t want to know me if I were outside myself. Not now at least. Not today.

I'm the tear that falls

On the face of a fool

pleading for acceptance

In life's daily episodes

Quivering

Shivering

I'm the kiss between two lovers

The silent sound of a snide love

Approaching like a storm

In a pale winter night

Awake

But fake

I'm the bird that flies

In the sunset, above the horizon

Trying to collect falling feathers

Of a nonexistent nightingale

That tires

Sun's fires

I'm the owl of the night

That groans in silence

Flying over a cold moon

And the shade of paleness

Is whiter

than a puzzled writer

I wrote this poem on the 7th of May 2009. I don't know why I never shared it, it does look like something I'd still write today.

حيرني سؤالُك

وأجبت فيحرتني إجابتي

ثم تمنيت أنك لم تسأل

وأنّي لم أُجِب

وأننا لم نَكُن

أنت و أنا

اتركوني أنصرف

اتركوني أختبئ

تحت طيات السنين

بمَ في أهترئ

فلم يعد للقلب لونٌ

لا خريف أو ربيع

لم يكد ظلي يشٍفُ

ليحنّ لماضٍ فقير

فلا ماضٍ يطوله الذكر

ولا حاضرُ يكفي النحيب

بينما ضاع مستقبلي

بين صديق و غريب

أطلقوا روحي إلى

بحر أسئلة بعيد

فيه أين و كيف و متى

يتحرر العبيد

اذكروا لي وصفةً

دون موت السجناء

علّ شمسهم تحرق

أرضي أرضُ الداء

أو قولوا لي ماهيتكم

قد يدلني فكري الكفيف

حيث تقطن ضالتي

لأحرر بها الضعيف

اتركوني...

10:49  24 سبتمبر 2012.

Courtesy here

It's funny how when the pain lessens,
the heart knows the reasonable reason why.
Only then. You'd stop to stare at your depth;
"Why haven't I found the answers in my core".

I'm sorry, you were just indulged in the
moment. That one that lasted a lifetime
And the rest lasted a bit more than you.
You. Faded. To ashes.



4:38 PM

They've got their eyes fixed on me, staring at me, scrutinizing my breaths, looking at my gestures, my facial expressions. And I want to scream. I feel naked.
I
feel
naked.
They put their hands on their mouths, eyes still gazing at my depth, though all they stare at is the emptiness that I manifest. I'm no illusionist but I'm not an open book either; open books rather carry the gloomiest pages. I try to hold my breath, to let the sun ray penetrate my being so that all they'd see is..is..someone else, not me. I hide my heart beneath my chest, I'm not really sure where, probably in the deepest depths of my soul, so that when the sun shines no more, my heart and soul would be one. And I'd be but the reflection of that which I chose to show.
My heart would be my cloak to hide what appears to be what they want it to be, not what I am. What lies beneath me. They create me inside their heads. They name me. A fool or an ignorant or a clueless child. Sometimes smart or arrogant or even selfish. And when they're proven wrong, a series of new names comes pouring down like that first. And though I don't know what they call me, my heart pulsates like it's been pushed into living, into re-living, except that it's dying. Your heart doesn't always beat faster when it's in love. Fear does that too. And hatred.
I'm not sure when will their eyes abandon me, but I'll have to push my heart and soul back into their places so that I can be, fearless, what they'd never thought of me.



11:57 AM.

Photo credit to Knukkohed

There is a difference between
Your loneliness and my
Aloneness

You were meant to be by yourself
Like the last fallen leaves of 
Autumn
While I chose to be

Alone. Even with you. I chose to
Own my being. To be.
Because to be with people
Is to not be.

I wear my pride, cinnamon brown
After a fiery red. For it has
Faded away. Grown old. Jaded.

-But they say the older you grow
the more stubborn your thoughts are-

We were destined to be
Together and apart.
But I'm sorry - I can never give you
An antidote to loneliness
With my devouring aloneness. 

Photo credit to PorcelainPoet @ Deviantart.

I'd rather be poor to my bones 
than be rich with your money
that is like a trigger
ready to be pulled in my face

For Syria


I find a way
between my thoughts
and your soul.
A single line, thin and starving,
Like that of a horizon, in a pitch black night

I walk with my extremely long shadow
(Yes, long is the word),
Though I'm short on thoughts;
I'm barely reflecting,
I'm probably just deflecting

From every thought, but you,
Calling in for some hero to
Save you, to embrace your anger
Because it's only fair - 
It's fair for you to be angry enough
To scream, to break the horizon
between us, and make us
-You, I, the world-
One

No, this is not  a love poem
Wake up
From your emotional imprisonment
your sentimentality,

Wake up
Because cowardice is an ocean,
it comes fatal like a single wave
And sometimes so cold,
So tepid you can hardly
feel it on your feet -
Yet it lingers

Breathe in
Breathe in, for the sands of time will
immerse you in dangerous feelings
Like getting used to statistics
Not souls, taken away in half a blink

--

I'm going to break this line even
I'm going to make your soul my thoughts
-My soul, your thoughts-
So we don't recognize
Sea from sky

And your shadow will no longer be
Be heavy on me.
I'm going to make me you
You, me,
And right then,
We will, they will
-the world will-
be free.




*I found myself inspired by the darkness of the sea at night while I was walking with my long shadow ashore. Many parts of this poem are based on real events.
*The last part was not intended, although it appears to be, inspired by Neruda's poem "Perhaps not to be is to be without your being".

Photo Credit to Nonionik

"Poetry is a constant revolution against every injustice"

No no no no, don't seal your lips and widen your eyes as if they're heavy with all the words your lips did not dare utter. Half-close your eyes and pour as many angry words as your lips can carry. And as many heavy feelings as your face can say. Just don't give them silence; I may be able to understand it but they won't. Everyone will condemn it. Like wordlessness over a crime - it's just like committing it.

You can talk about silence, okay? Seal your lips and open them again. Let the pauses and breaks between the two crash the tepidity of the audience, of the world, and burn the coldness of the faces watching you. Just don't allow their expressions to intimidate you, as if they knew you. Never reveal who you are in your words because it's like revealing the secrets of your soul, of who you truly are. And believe me, there is no point in that.

Poetize like you know them, and what they need to revolutionize against. Recite as if you can see your dreams from a distance, trying to get hold of them but something's blocking your way. See how you'll stretch your arms as much and for as long as you can to reach them, to hold them, to fulfill them. Then recite.

And fight, even if you can't seem to find a way to separate your lips.

Unyield.

 Photo© retro

I wish I were the one to write you, with ink, rather than with my inconstant thoughts. I wish I wrote you like I write myself, like I write the world. As if I exist in the very place with my thoughts, not apart, not a single step away. I don't know. Perhaps I was consumed by the fear of succumbing to your presence that I didn't want, yet desperately needed.
I wanted your disappearance, so I wrote you in third person. Like you don't exist, here, with me, with my thoughts, with my being, with too much a burden to bear; the burden of the want to escape, with coward feet to move me from your ground. Which is mine, and yours (sometimes, when you're here). You, are in me, somehow, and you continue to possess everything I own. With a look of "You own me". How elusive!
I was writing and I didn't mean to invoke you like you exist, in second person, I wanted you my third choice; third person. And if there were ever a last person, it'd be you. You, who forever keep my company to possess my entity. To possess me. And abolish my existence.
To leave, with a question. Which one of us takes control?

2:51 AM.

ولكنها لم تَعُد أرضي

..فقد وقعَتْ فكرة في عقول من لا يستحقها

كالفريسة

لغتها أصبحت أجنبية عليّ

كالسائح

دعْهُم  بغرورهم

فيوماً ما سنستردها

بتواضُعِنا

Let's talk about nothing. Look me in the eyes. I'll swim into yours. And we'll just smile. Enough for the whole world to crash behind us.

شيءٌ فيكَ تغَّير

تحت ظلِّ البلُّوط

كَتغيُرِ المواسِم

تسقط أفكارُكَ كأوراقِ شجر

الفرق أنها تسقط حيَّة

توهَنُ مع تنفس نسَمَة الخريف

إلا إذا التقطتها واحتويتَها

في أنفاس ربيعِك. في كينونتِكْ

هي لك مُنقِذ  و أنتَ لها عُنوان

تتخلل أطرافك كلمسَةِ طفل

تُحييها أنتْ ، و ترى في شرايينك

طريقاً لِروحِها. قلباً لقالِبِها

تُغذي هَوان عَقلِك

وتتّخِذُك ملاذاً لها

تروي قلبها بماء أفكارِك

و تتحول نوراً في ظلماتِك

شيءٌ فيكَ تغيَّر

ماتت لكَ فكرة

كما أنت

لم تتغيّر حُزناً لفراقها

ولكن لا مبالٍ بموتها فيك
وهي مِنك. و لك. و أنتَ هيَ..

12:42 ص. 

1. They say a Haiku poem tells too much in too little. I guess I'd wish to be it some time.
2. Once you have fallen for the wrong words, you will be sentenced to death.
3. Everyone's happy with the fullness of the moon but the moon itself.
4. "It really, really hurts.." -She said. "What does?" - He said. "I don't know. I have no idea. But it really does.."
5. The plot of my life is really bad. Can I make it better in a novel? Please?
6. Your train of thoughts should never be interrupted by those who follow foolishly.
7. And in the end, you'll be little specks of truths and realities that waded through my life to make me a different person. Not you. A person.
8. The desert in your eyes fought the wind of my autumn. I wonder who would ever win.
9. If you look me in the eyes long enough, you won't find those poetic sentences in my pen.
10. I shouldn't make sense to you, in the same way you shouldn't make sense to me. And that's how we make sense with each other.
11. How can you not lose the depth of your intention?
12. Fill me in with yet another emptiness. Just a new one.
13. Uttering your name is already like telling you you're beautiful. And I'm too shy to say that aloud.
14. Trite things come beautiful from fascinating people.
15. It was as if I didn't want to see you so that our eyes wouldn't have to meet and you'd realize you were in my dream that night. Except that it wasn't a dream. It was in broad daylight, but called a nightmare.
16. Believe me, you don't want to know..

The pictures seem the same. With slight differences in colors. They don't smell of anything, though. But the words underneath, they are always similar. No matter what the memories hold.



*You know when you look at pictures that have similar colors but each have different words underneath? The words become similar, too.
~Inspired.

How can you read words and sleep to wake up to another day just like that? I mean, how can you not let the words, the stories, the novels dwell, linger, breathe in you until you can no longer speak, read or write, or even live. Can a day pass without the effect of the words you read, on you? And what good would words be there? At the bottom of your being, breathing yet not breathing. Until their face appears on the surface, a strange being, something you cannot fathom; just because you gave them no chance to survive, to evolve.
You can't possibly want words to make sense if you just keep reading without breathing. Read and breathe in between. And give words at least half the amount of oxygen you give to yourself. Let them evolve. Let them prosper. Let them be. You. And I. And the world.

I sometimes want to write about nothing. You know, just write. Not let your idea slip from my mind into my pen to finally reach my paper. No no. I just want to write about not writing you. I want to be nothing like you. Okay, here I am writing about you again..
I want to dig deep into the nothingness within me and hold its hand to pull it to the surface so that I would look like I'm a superficial object (not a human being) to my world. What is my world anyways?
I cling to leaving, which is like a mirage, I just can't cling to something that requires my walking behind it, we'd both be running in endless circles. If that makes sense, you know?
I died once, from thinking of too many things at the same time that my mind nearly exploded and my thoughts were seizing inside of it. I died inside. I was hollow. Although somehow, killing every thought was a victory. Like being reborn to right what was wrong all this time. I just felt the dreadful pain of a seizure. It was horrible.
I don't really know who I am now, I just want to think of nothing for the moment. I want to let you guide me to your simple thoughts, at least the ones that appear on your face.
Oh, you again.
I don't know how to talk about nothing. I don't know how to be nothing without pain, without agony. Full of pride. I wonder how some people live proudly ignorant.
I wonder. This is not me. This is not me.
Hello?


How can you be so good at  running away from yourself? No. I'm not okay.

العدم كلماتٌ و ليسَ كلمة. فاللاشيء عدم. و الفراغ عدم. و السكون عدم. ولكن ليس السكوت عدم. السكوت عكس العدم. السكوت هو معجم لم يتغلب عليه علماء التاريخ أجمع. الصمت و الكَلِمُ ليسا كالشيء و عكسه. الصمت هو ألف كلمة لم يسعها قاموس عالمٍ انتصر جوعه  المادي على جوع كلماته. فأصبح كلامه يموت بطيئاً ، كطفل المجاعة. و ألف كلمة يهزمها الصمت. ولكن لا يهزم الصمت قوة أحرفٍ   متكررةٍ اجتمعت على هيئة كلمات. لا.  فقوة الحكيم في علمه بجهله. و قوة الحليم في إدراكه لصمته. في نفس الوقت.

الصمت يُكتَبُ و لا يكتُب. فكل ما لا يدخل الأذن أقسى. أعمق مما يتخللها. الصمت مشدود ثم ساكن. ثم ساكن و تتبعه كلمات لا تكتب. هو حرب أحياناً.  كالسكوت على الظلم. كسلاح ذو حدين. فسكوت الشهيد دليل إدانة الحي.

فإذا وجدك صمته فلن تنام مرة أخرى. أو تصحو. أيهما تريد.

 طوقني شريط أفكاري القرمزي

حتى كدت أصبح شهيدَ كلمات

لم و لن تستسلم لما أهوى

....

أتموت الكلمة عند تحررها منك؟

أم تعيش لتتنفس في أعماق

 من لم يتنفس من قبلك؟

A speck of thoughts
scattered, bruised, in tiny pieces
collapsing in my land
Like a strange land, an exile.
Ideas once flourished
Now hardly beat, thrown aside

Oh, how much it aches
More than physical pain
As if heartbeats are being
plucked out of your core.
Death. Is easier

And worse, my entity,
My "almost" entity is subject
To your black statistics.
Not even a number but
The "nearly" before it.

You killed me,
You killed me before murdering
My core.
And yet  my thoughts
will still flourish in another being

My soul
Will, always rise
In the face of
Your dim titles
That cannot even
Embrace my death
Or the idea of it

Imagine being the "nearly" in a death statistic.

Dear all,
I'm sorry to say that I'll have to stop writing for some time. I'm forced to do this because, well, I just can't, and words hurt like never before.
On a paradoxical note, writers know perfectly well how silence is the greatest answer at times.
I don't know when I'll be back. I just want to figure out myself with writing so that I'd stop if it really will always hurt like this.

Thank you all, I hope I can get back soon insha'allah.
Pray for Egypt.

If I knew wearing black would make me shadowless,
I would wear it for eternity.

أحياناً

اختفاؤك يصبح كقوس القزح

و عودتك..كشمس السراب

هي شمسٌ ولكن

اقترابي منها لا يقربني إليك

صمتُكَ ليسَ هدوءً لما قبْل العاصِفة
صمتُكَ عاصِفٌ بين عيناكَ و عيناي
صمتُكَ هو العاصفة

أنا مجردُ رمادٍ لأفكارٍ إحتوَيتَها و أصبحتْ مبتذَلَة

أنا الإبتذالُ في أعماقِ كلماتِك

أنا اللاشيءُ الذي ينتمي إليك

..وتنتمي إليْه

An empty paper lied there. It felt like it was dangling from the table on the corner of my eyes, exactly southwest  my thoughts. Everything I wanted to say rested there, blue lines, silent words, nothing more. Words were breathing somewhere between my pen and that paper. I can hear them inhaling meanings, exhaling silence.
And on the other side, I can hear myself unable to breathe. How can words kill you when you're not even talking?

I guess that's why writers always have that touch of downheartedness.

Remember when I told you let's talk in silence?

Yes, that.

Can you translate the changing colors of the moon? Can you say that it shies away from the night to hide behind the clouds, because the moon is scared to light the nights of people like you?
Exactly.
You can't.
Don't label the moon.
Don't walk down the streets with hope that something will light up your life. A savior. Because those whom you give names to, are those who will refuse to save you.
Accept, for once, that words are just a point of view.
Words are a relative thing.

Times like these,
I just want to bury your entity
And pretend people don't care.

And I can't hold you and faith on the same palm - my right one.

One of you always slips away without the other. unfreely.

I was exiled to the one country I belong to.

You looked at me as if contemplating a godly creature you did not seem to fathom. I held still so you wouldn’t notice the insecurity pushed into my heart and out. I closed my eyes.
“Tell me  about a dream” –you crushed the silence.
“What? What dream? Why?"
I couldn’t understand you.
“Well, let me explain; Some dreams stay at the back of your mind for days, and each time they rush back again, it’s like you want to take hold of them and go back to sleep to complete that moment vanished by wakefulness”.
“I guess I just enjoy exploring my dreams a little while after waking up and then things run back to reality”.
“you’re wrong!” –you suddenly said, and it felt like you were trying to save me from insanity.
“You don’t enjoy because you like it, matter of fact 90% of your dreams disappear from your mind ten minutes after you wake up”.
You stuck me as quite persuasive so I nodded.
“Ah-huh”.
“Well then?”
Your facial expression. Something between a smile and seriousness, or maybe there really was a thing called a serious smile? I made that move again; I shut my eyes, yet this time I let myself think for you. I could’ve just told you, you know, the truth. Could’ve just expressed my fear towards that. Or maybe I feared you’d ask the why as well. And I didn’t want that to start.
I held my breath for a moment, sighed and let words guide – to where? I had no idea.
“It was really dark, in the dream, I mean. Fear was ocean-deep. And I was actually floating in an ocean. I was floating and drowning at the same time. I didn’t want anything more than leaving the abysmal water underneath my feet. Every time I remember the dream. I drown, once again”.
Right then, you let the air stand between us like a carrier of silence, and many other things in between. A moment of nothingness was our passerby. But I was drowning in everything. Not just a dream.
“So?” –You said.
“I’m losing air underneath again”.
“See? That’s exactly my point. Somehow, in dreams, emotions are tripled. It feels like reality struck us with too many things that everything, every emotion, surrendered to repetitiveness, lost its true essence. In dreams, though, you feel like living things for the first time, every night. Whether the moon was full or half lit.”
A pause.
“I know. I know that you think of dreams sometimes so much that you don’t know whether the next thought would come from reality or would be just another shadow of dreams. Your life seems to be like a mirage. But…”
I think I let you talk a while afterwards. But me, I only looked at you as if I’m seeing your words to save in my memory. I was like some enticed lover whose words were taken out from their heart to reach the world. You. You understood my “why”.
Then I closed my eyes once again, and let you talk.

Tell me something. Anything. Tell me that our thoughts dive in the same oceans trying to make it to the shore of, what? I don't know. Survival? Or maybe to be buried for good. At least, there they would find a mutual world where things would seem close to sanity.
Let those worms eat at their depth so that the surface would still pulsate, and maybe make it to another thought, deeper. And maybe they would dive again and finally kiss the sunlight on the surface, a deeper thought on the surface. The paradox we need.
Let them find the mutuality above. Let us connect somehow with thoughts, without getting caught. Without false accusations that we're driving the wrong ideas. Like sinners. Let us breathe into this mutuality to leave the good we could revive. And live the worse we could set right.

You slip through the tip of my fingernails into a breathless city of forsaken dreams, lost in heavy-hearted boulevards.

Wading your way into every vision; you know where to find your end in this darkness - though the light of faith is always sinking within the clouds of treason.

Shaken. Frightened; you take a step into the first alley:

A different kind of sky, agitated, and screaming buildings of terrible shape carrying angry dreams of the poor, having one scene in common: a just life in the eyes of the decayed..

At ease, you carry the most horrifying and reach the end light, escaping the most saddening colors to get to a city where black is an alienated vision.

The greenness and the free air paint a pure blue sky at daylight, and a barely cerulean view at night. A sun that kisses the moon with its amber light at dusk, and a bird that sings of no defeat. A still life, a surreal piece.

But dreams? You're almost through without a thing in your pocket, only miserable ones of the needy.

while at the gates of the city you find yourself soaked in another alley, of the starving and the severely brokenhearted. You beg your feet to move, but hungry skies hold you captive, pour their nation's dreams and free you; drunk on semi-dreams, semi-nightmares.

And then you pull yourself back to me, asphyxiated by dreams and pleading for my words to say it all, to save you.

But my pencil, it shivers.

And their dreams, they hold up, for the moment to rise.

Written August 3rd, 11:53 PM.

Image Source

Explore,
Like a blurry photo
sometimes you have to focus on the blurred parts rather than the clear image.

Here

Their thoughts are like poison 

rooted in the depth of their minds

blossoming rot, only to

Paint pathetic smiles

Every word comes out as if

someone's pulling the trigger

with their ignorance

To shoot your ideas

Didn't they tell us you could not kill an idea?

Let's just eradicate their rivers

And although our oceans are salty

Nothing looks unoriginal than 

A beautiful stream

With no depth

At all.

Tell me what you didn't dream about. Tell me that your colors in reality never made it to your dreams. Tell me about...things that never happened, like you flying over my empty space to deliver a letter saying you're my hero. My savior.

Or, talk to me about the things you always wanted to embrace in your dreams yet your imagination wasn't vivid enough, or never did your subconscious have space for big dreams.

Tell me that the you in dreams isn't the same I know. Maybe. Just maybe, we'd synchronize our dreams and meet up in sleep; a different you and another I. And we'd sit there somewhere in the middle of your thoughts and the chaos of my mind. A place where we'd fall into wordlessness without needing human interaction.

Surprise me with your undreams, your non reality, that thing in between, the thing you want in life and never have in dreams. Everything you really wanted and never had the courage to fight for.

Everything that makes you cower from life.

Tell me more, tell me..

Written 9:53 PM. Today.

Credit here

Face to face

I to mirror

A breathless image

Against a tired self

Words hit reflections

Like ugly songs to the ears

On the other side, life looks different

Another definition staring at me

How do you see two persons

with one reflection?

Or maybe mirrors often evoke

A personality disorder

Let me shatter the glass

Maybe I'd know which I exists

The real one or the fiction

Written 10:09 PM.

Why do you keep letting me gather my words from the ground like I've been only exhaling emptiness? As if being a well-hated child who blabbers the truth which you loathe. I imagine my words flying up the sky and reaching your deepest core but instead, I'm swamped in your empty thinking like a push from the deepest oceans to the ugly surface of the earth.

Why?

The Book Thief

Silence is a great companion when words are devoid of meaning.

If the sunlight can thaw my frozen words to make you understand

how much it leaves me stranded,

I'd get a sunstroke for every time I talk to you.

If you observe the pace of my breaths,

You won't need to listen to me talk.

The pauses between the words people say;

those are the things you really need to listen to.

Write when you least feel like it,

Because that's when you write best.

You pass me by as if

you're the sunset;

I don't know which kind of night

you're going to leave behind

within me.

I'm changing the link of the blog with the blog title (remnants-and-ashes). FYI.

Enormous skies slip from your thoughts into my own, like a huge riddle or a mass that invades my brain and lifts me off the ground. Sir, where are your thoughts taking me? It's like you're degrading my reflections or sending them to exile, punishing me for having allowed my imagination to swim, and you preferred to rather make me soar, in your everything, and my nowhere. Happy?

I don't even recognize the colors in you, they breathe into me like a rainbow, except that I can't breathe; can a rainbow choke you into a coma? I'm not making sense. Shock me awake, please.

The upper I fly, the more depressing it gets; that doesn't happen, are we from opposite worlds?

Or maybe I'm deflecting.

I'm not making sense. I'm not making sense.

Sir, are you there?

You are lonely not when you desert people

You're lonely when you talk to too many people.

1. Can you choose your dreams before sleep?
2. How can you guarantee the ending if you cannot even philosophize about the beginning?
3. When the sky turns amber, is it really a sign of anger or just a vague ending for the day?
4. Does not having war necessarily mean peace?
5. How is an issue tackled with silence?
6. It's really hard sometimes to distinguish words from silence, isn't it?
7. Would you judge me if I said I'd judge you by the book you're reading?
8. How many lines did you read and never felt? Or shall I ask the opposite question?
9. Did you ever wish for colors to resemble real emotions?
10. When was the last time you really, really, thought about your death?

Felt that? Read again. Simple math.

Sometimes it's clowns that laugh at the crowd not the other way round.

I'm the word in bold

and you're the word in italic,

I wonder which one of us wins.

I write words down on paper to kill them, or so that someone else would be brave enough to save them. You can say I'm a words killer - and sometimes a poet.

1. After seeing people like you, I'm pretty damn sure you won't feel sympathy in your heart over my death for this country.
2. Stop the whys and ask the hows, please.
3. It's a bit ironic to say that the best things I write are always when I don't write.
4. You might have learned your lesson, but you're acting upon it the wrong way, which pushes you back to point zero.
5. Insanity is bulletproof, too.
6. Let's be honest here, we'll never agree to disagree.
7. When governments disagree, only people pay the price.
8. To me, you walk anticlockwise.
9. I judge you by the book you're reading
10. Being a writer sometimes makes you wonder if you're a prisoner of words or words are a prisoner of you.
11. Sometimes things that don't make sense in this life are the only things that make sense
12. you've gotta run out of your "if only's" one day.
13. The more people you know, the more faces you will have to deal with in your own persona.
14. I don't know how you do it, but you do. You inspire so beautifully that it's so devastating.
15. The worst part about growing up is not when you don't understand people's behaviors, but when you don't understand your own.
16. Do not expect more, expect less. Or better, expect nothing. At all.

Those are some thoughts written on twitter, I thought I'd save them just for a memory :)

It's raining stupidity

Oh, I envy the ignorant.

Their bliss.

1- Questions that will free you might have answers that will imprison you again.

2- Not everyone talks in words.

3- Black is not always a color.

4- Sometimes you write a thousand words to explain one meaning that everyone else failed to explain, too.

5- Dance with your shadow; it's the only way you'd make peace with your true self.

6- You'll get angry with the wrong people, you must someday.

7- Your brain is a double-edged weapon.

8- Have you ever given something without truly, truly, wanting something back?

9- The only way to risk being you is to risk not being you.

10-Sometimes it's best to shut up.

Before you finish your statement

I was already choking in mine because

you couldn't let me say the truth.

And I stumbled as you thrive

in defeat