would you believe me if i gave my truth?
the inner joy i found on my path,
simplicity and happiness over wrath,
kindness and love breeding faith,
all the glory i've rediscovered,
blessings overlaid by bedcovers,
intelligence beyond Harvard,
and the devil I smothered,
people i empowered,
my life has transcended the norms,
shifting and shaping itself into new forms,
rejuvenated and rebuilt broken homes,
so i've found peace,
meditation or pray on my knees,
so the heart can smile and pump with ease,
freedom is complete,
magnificence is the projection of my nature,
expansion of the soul to talk to the creator,
human essence is the nomenclature,
i am the light,
with a faculty of extreme might,
perspective is never oblique,
cause i see with a different technique,
and apply the philosophy of the ancient greek
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
you pulled my hand with such a slight effort, like you were taking a teenager for shopping, you were the girl with a sapphire bandanna, and your hair lacking composure, not ready to be stroked by the Roman ghosts, which for unreasonable tenacity have always created a war between your hobby and your will to die, and the peace treaties on the shelves of your heart have compromised with the guilt under your fingernails, and transposed to eulogies I always read from your lips when you said 'Your perfume smells like graveyard poetry festooned with dead roses', because this is exactly what you subjoined on the last line about your deceased father, you never understood the reason why i didn't want you to get in contact with my collarbones when we hugged, and apparently I wouldn't let you sleep leaning against the headboard as you told me about witchcraft and ancestors, you remember the skim milk we used to have? In the afternoons of hopeless radiance, when you reached for my ribcage, and whispered it was the only bulletproof jacket you'd wear if bullets had to fall in love with you, all this because we believed in the prophecy of 'us against the world'
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
The things that seemed important,
Ribboned gifts and designer pants,
My credit history of extravagance,
And fake passports as a freelance,
With several courtesy cards,
Shopping guns in Baghdad.
Then I gained influence,
Enslaved christian clerics in Africa,
Muslim brotherhood was dense,
Slaughter people then head to Mecca,
The routine of spilling blood,
Then go repent to God.
Family never came first,
Devotion was in the heart,
Heart of terrorism and hostile radio calls,
Satellite technology was radical,
Launching missiles to the US skyscrapers,
Hijack jetliners and victims calling helpers.
Human sacrifice was the norm,
'Bismillah Allah hu akbar' then slice the intestines,
Or hold hostages and bid ransom,
This is the life risked on landmines,
Embedded by Soviet Union,
'Conspiracy' the presidents say in unison.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
My dear, this is my admission of guilt, I never meant to break your clock hand, despite time being our best friend, that match stick we lit, trying to reinvent a bonfire, for the hell that only harmonize with us, I whispered bible verses to you, a hint that maybe you'll see the faith under my rib cage, but you thought I was sterilizing your ego, I've always let the tap in the sink run, believing the fish bones will swim, and we'll never have to go fishing, I'm sorry for depriving you the freedom of learning, I know we used to let open all books in the library, and let them stare us making love on the floor, hoping every moment was documented, I'm sorry for smoking at your dad's funeral, I know cigarettes caused him cancer, and your sisters adored my lunacy, oh poor girl! I'm really sorry, please come back home at 2am, I have fixed the clock.
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:40 AM UTC
I woke up this morning, and I thought I was in Bethlehem, last night I had a binge in Beijing, I remember breaking my side-mirror, in what seemed to be a steeple-chase, on the derelict boulevards of France, the finish line in Vatican, then made a toast with the dead popes, as the holy grail circulated, we sipped the blood of Jesus, in the process of my anointing, to be the Messiah of Poetry, and give sermons in Shakespearean sonnet, establish ministries, and surpass prevalent religions, till my ordeal they shall crucify me, on a fiery cross.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Describe my imperfections,
In a trained diabolical voice,
Fill in the cracks on my skin,
With tender blessed nuzzles,
Search for all the scars,
& make them tell tales,
Of me being the intermediary,
Of the constant battles,
Of angels & neighborhood demons,
Siphon blood from my veins,
Make a libation then taste,
Then tell me if it's pure,
I know I have flaws,
I don't have habits,
I have deviations,
My bones are rusting,
I have spiracles on my spinal column,
To breath the breath of the sages,
and my teeth fear the tongue,
So the wording is usually prolific,
I have hieroglyphs on my chin,
Because it's shaped like a pyramid,
My poems are imperfect,
My word-crafting is iRreGular,
Now change me if you can.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
We saw the crosses
And the dozen of roses
Each for the 12 graves
Every tombstone reading
'Jesus Saves'
Then an open bible
With a funeral verse
That sounded like a fable
A flocking mass
All in black with poignant faces
A bald-headed reverend
Howling ashes to ashes
Clouds change to thunderhead
And the airstream consoles
The bodies that have lost their souls.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
we've been in a hot persuit with sorrow,
tempted death with playful beckons,
not fearing of tomorrow, as we instigated war between angels and demons,
then compared pumpkins with melons,
the art of a dedicated farmer,
who only begged for his seeds to grow,
day in day out during summer,
we scampered at the beach then ended in the dhow,
the consquence of a missing skill,
then some of us wept under the moonlight,
with brokenhearts that never heal,
i remember i was hounded by a fright,
as i read the 4th line of this poem,
something beyond my physical potential,
a performance you cant even mime,
then politics, business and anything commercial,
a mere embarassment, traders were mean,
and just to rest the case, 2013 is over,
we have mobilized better schemes for 2014,
we are the movers and shakers.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
This is a poem of a brokenhearted girl, the girl who hunted butterflies, with her boyfriend tattooed on her left breast, holding a japanese quiver, every launch of an arrow was a beautiful shot, She had fallen in love with butterflies with broken wings, She had been striving to be the only colored fly, her boyfriend,
the only man who was sitting in judgement, was in conflict with the racing chariots, that rehearsed across his door every 4pm, every move of his was diabolical, then he thought....he thought about the envelopes that came with stamps, stamps that glowed at night and transformed to wingless butterflies, he had now become so suspicious, like the caricature of a man with gout, ****** would work,
this was the jealousy of a stupid boy, who never knew about the tender acts, the acts of shooting butterflies, the beautiful girl had been plucking the small wings, of the shot butterflies, and had planted them under their bed, and now she had grown two beautiful wings, her only dream was to fly away with her boyfriend, she looked herself in the mirror,
the moment of trying the new outfit, she looked like a giant butterfly, our poor boy, the child struck with anger, waved a dagger,
like a bird she chirped and flew away, through the window she was gone.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
I am the son,
The son of a beautiful woman,
Who has endeavored to obey the law, the law of laying hold of her offspring, in the midst of high-pitched cries in baby towels, and sometimes the foolish laughters, as she washed me with baby shampoo in the warm waters, playful like a tamed cub, and yelling 'tha tha tha' like I never was to say 'mommy' one day, or like I was never to accuse 'daddy' for not bringing more toys, but crying myself to sleep became a mandatory option, demand for breast-feeding, demand for balance coins later, then she said I was to learn how to earn my own, I was made to believe going to school will make me own real cars, she said I was never to lay in baby baskets anymore, so she opened the door, then "Go my Son, be a Man"
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 6:17 PM UTC