Ooh, man
the cheating woman plays with fire,
but it is only smoke she leaves behind.

The maiden dreams of a knight on a white steed,
riding to crown her longing.

The widow weeps for dreams
she lost too soon
or never dared to chase.

But the married woman...
She is a flame kept quiet too long.
She burns to fulfil her hidden dreams,
and she will give you
much
without shame,
without measure.

So choose wisely, man.
And if you must sin
at least enjoy it.

Love in its fullness comes but twice: first, in the mirror of desire; second, in the ruin of illusion.

Why won’t you stop
shut up,
or even die?
Why must you speak
in words just as cruel,
just as useless
as the old path I swore to leave?
Oh God
**** my hand,
**** my mind,
or please...
**** my pen.
I’ve thrown you a thousand times,
but like a phoenix
you always return,
refusing to burn,
refusing to die.
I’m done with you, Pen.
Your ink is endless pain.
No more of you
in my realm.
We’re finished.
Today.
My pen looked at me with a snaky eye,
and whispered
I only speak
because you never could.

Death is nothing—no endless divide,
I’ve only strode to the other side.
I am still I, and you are still you;
Our love remains, unwavering, true.
Speak my name as you did before,
Soft and sure, as in days of yore.
No need for silence, tears, or guise
Let laughter rise, as in brighter skies.
Remember every shared delight,
The tender jokes, the sparks of light.
Sing my name, let it softly ring,
A living breath, an endless thing.
I linger near, not lost, not gone,
Just past the dawn, beyond the lawn.
No need to yearn—I’ll wait right here,
Until you round life’s bending sphere.
So smile, and dance, and let love show,
For though you cannot see me so,
Our bond still holds, our light won’t fade
I’m just around the bend, delayed.
Delayed.

Beneath the brick, a crumpled note
ink blurred by rain:
No ******* milk tomorrow.

Signed,
in silence.

They asked him,
"How does one become a poet?"

He answered,
with the weight of stars in his voice:

"If you can read
the lines etched on your mother’s hands,
and the furrows folded between her eyes
then you are already a poet.

Go now
and savor the journey into madness."

They said: Be like us.
I said: Sorry my mother is a witch,
and I am the son of a delicious sin.
I'm not built for statues or titles.

As long as I’ve stolen nothing but hearts,
and wasted nothing but time
in the arms of beautiful women,
leave me as I am:
a blueprint for a postponed scandal.

As for the sheikh
he paused, cracked his back,
then said with a smirk:
“The world, my son, is three things:
A ***** that confuses logic,
A glass that makes logic forget,
And a cigarette... that burns logic altogether.”

We all laughed
then returned to lying,
as always:
In the name of morality.