Love is a mysterious thing.
It can have you love something so much about a person that you'd never had loved otherwise.
For me,
It's the way she crinkles her nose when she tries not to smile,
Or the way she unconsciously drools on my chest when we're laying together.
It's honestly the most beautiful thing in the world and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

three young soldiers
talking about the women they love
one Friday night, in September

"i love animals and I have-"
click
"you can impress me by taking me-"
click
"don't message me if you're just going-"
click

whats the point of building up my story
if there isn't anyone that can read it

**** me, man
am I really that different from the me I was
8 months ago?

Suicide, Suicide be my guide.
Show me if its time.
In my room.
These retched cries.
Hear me scream, hear me cry.
My thoughts that torture me.
The ones I hide.
Tattooed on my arms.
The scars of a thousand knives.
My tears have finally run dry.
As I cry, on this silent night.
Suicide, Suicide. be my guide.
Show me if its time.
To stay or to die.

i'm in the sort of mood
where i feel i should be able
to write the most exquisitely torturous poetry

i'm in the space between my memories
in which i see the cracks in time
and the cracks in my future in
to which i could so easily slip

and
yet

i find here a barrier between my torn
and throbbing heart
and my brain
much like the opacity between my
last experience here and today

what words could possibly describe?

How did the Greek Pundit mark
The middle of a storyline
If time, space, and self are handmade,
If language is borderline,
If a lover knows not what love is,
And if a poem’s writer is its first line?

© LazharBouazzi, June 3, 2016