1986 -   
i write about butterflies, and the way they glide through the stratosphere. it's quite the love affair, between the flaky wing and a backdrop of clear skies.

i write about the days we determine what is to be thought in a system of opulent transgression.
i write about butterflies, and the way they glide through the stratosphere. it's quite the love affair, between the flaky wing and a backdrop of clear skies.

i write about the days we determine what is to be thought in a system of opulent transgression.
Rasha Omer
Apr 19      Apr 20

We are not quaint.
Deformed and distant like beaten up mementos -
Echoes of tired dialogues.
We are tendencies of aspiration.
Saved by an abundance of correlation.
Dancing along to the frantic motions
of the perils of self-help.

The scripture is loud.
Revised as we drive through drenched tunnels -
Vying for admiration.
Praying for the jubilant penetration -
Into stale dimensions of all that is
Worthy of a second-hand perception.

We are not selling.
We are in the business
of craving to perspire.
Tasting and testing
the competence of turmoil
and exchanging fragments
of our being
for profitable desolation.

We are growing up,
in slow motion.
Drunk on trajectory interactions
of the menial day-dreams.

Rasha Omer
Dec 8, 2014

The pain is music. It pushes & pulls with notes - sometimes intense and sometimes subtle.

I worry about the way I feel things, or process simple emotions. I worry about going through the motions, like everyday is the same goddamn day.

The pain is a tricky concept. It attacks you, when you feel the safest you've ever felt. Like a thousand daggers caressing your skin at once.

The pain is a tricky dance, which you can't master - even if you've memorized the steps and the notions. It's an uphill battle, which sometimes, just sometimes - leaves you at peace.

I sit by my lonesome, contemplating intricacies I've never cared about before. Watch the sun set on the idiots, the wanderers, the fuckers, the lovers, the dancers and the fiends.

I get so hypnotized within the pages that I forget to look up and maybe just scream for a little bit of air.

And "you turn to god, while I turn to you."

Rasha Omer
Dec 7, 2014

It's all very tough to digest. Actually, I haven't even began to realize what has happened yet.

How did I get here?

And, most importantly - where do I go from here?

The pain is temporary. It's fleeting & fickle like the moments themselves. The memory, though. The memory is a son of a bitch.

I'm sitting here, sipping on an overpriced energy drink. Inhaling all of the nicotine that I could inhale before reality settles in. A reality, so heavy and daunting. Like the sound of army boots stepping on abandoned cobblestones.

Like slipping into a vast space of sorrow & heartbreak.

The pain is inconsistent. I wish it was painful, because that is the only way I could actually begin to feel.

Rasha Omer
Dec 7, 2014      Dec 8, 2014

I can drink alone.
I can enjoy the undertones of life alone.
I might moan because of wishes...
or the Way I want to see things.
But I can sit alone.
I can drink alone
I can write alone and I can
Decipher your confusion alone
I can lend you advice alone

& I can let you know that I am
Alone.

I'm not afraid to be lonesome.
But I'm afraid to discover loneliness alone.

I'm not afraid to walk alone
I'm built to be alone.

But you're scared of my
tendency to be alone.

I can dance alone.
& I can breathe alone.

I can drink with you.
But I drink alone.

Rasha Omer
Jul 8, 2014

It has been 20 something years.
And on a single day within layers of hours.
I've felt a shrug for the first time.
Like pins on the pillow you have
left behind when all the dust have settled.

The ball has dropped. A million times.
And then some.
And on a slope slippery and distinctly
overwhelmed.

I've felt a beat within my rib-cage
slightly loud that it has shaken me
in sleep.

The dust you have left to shrivel
still dances around my plethora
of emotions, unsettled.

And, I'm standing here, surrounded by
what could have been
but should have never been.

Saved by frantic clicks
on a keypad. Typing into the existential
delusions of your listless memories.

I have stood here, unshaken, by the mistakes
we have accumulated down the polarizing roads.
And the dainty trickling down the drain.

I am standing and withstanding
a shootout of the most frivolous nature.

Like the pins striking this pillow
in a poetic wave of dissonance.

Rasha Omer
Dec 28, 2013

Well polished shoes
Walking well polished tiles.
It's almost time for the escape.
Yoga.
It's all yoga.            

In the evening, within the cracks
It's the sound of calm
Going against all that you believe in.
Like yoga.

Frantic needles and nonchalance
Reflecting upon your reflections of
Truth
And the myths of self actualization
All in yoga.

Well groomed thoughts
In a well groomed world
Waiting on yoga.

Put your face between your thighs
Wake up to transcribe your lies    
All for yoga.                  
      
Fists uplift your desire
To dance with yoga
Freak with yoga
Get down on your damn knees
And be inhaled by yoga.

Grate your smallest desires
It's just yoga                      
And bite the fat on your thighs
For the love of yoga.

Rasha Omer
Dec 7, 2013

The shields and the mellow
Borders passing the time
In our tantalizing memories
Of running and falling apart.

In the riots off the pavements
And the times I passed out
Floating atop of perfection

In the decisive turns of token
Relationships and the despair in your exhausted exhales.

I toss and turn in inflicted bliss
As I slowly decipher the exquisite dalliances all around us.

I sit uncomfortably whilst I twitch in the famished dissonance.

In the pauses and the gaps. In the strides and the tirades. In the flights and the clauses.                  

I sit back in the deja vu of the night.

 
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