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