When you love, a strange thing starts,  
You wear new hearts, play different parts. A playful child, a sturdy friend,  
A comfort near, until the end.  

You laugh a laugh that is not yours,  
Explore new shores, unlock new doors. You see the world through borrowed eyes, Beneath new skies, full of surprise.

Though the captain falls to fate or flame,
the ship shall not yield, nor drown in shame.
For the crew, bound by oath and star,
shall steer her true, no matter how far.

Storms may howl and shadows creep,
but loyal hands the course shall keep.
And evermore, through night and scar,
they sail her home, led by the gods afar.

I am the Soloist — carved in grief and flame,
A voice made raw by loss, not praise or fame.
No light begot this song, no gentle hand,
Just silence breaking like a scorched command.
I sing of truths too bitter to confess,
Of love that rots, of hope grown motionless.
Each note I cast is torn from deepest bone
A cry that never leaves me quite alone.
I have not turned from art, though it has bled,
Nor has it spared me nights I begged it dead.
No comfort lies in melody or form,
Just shattered chords that echo through the storm.
I sing what others dare not even think
Of needles, war, and madness on the brink.
Of pleasure cursed, of kisses soaked in sin,
Of flesh that burned and begged to burn again.
Oh, night! You cloaked me when the daylight fled,
You know the names of all the songs I've bled.
When lovers died with silence in their throats,
I stole their breath and sang their final notes.
My voice has cracked for children wrapped in dust,
For countrymen betrayed by those they trust.
I sang while mothers wept in empty beds,
And kissed the flags draped over brothers' heads.
Still, I sing on—not noble, but possessed,
A mouthpiece for the ****** who know no rest.
Each verse I bear, a curse I must repeat
Truth set to rhythm, blood made bittersweet.
And still I sing… though each song is a wound.
And still I sing… though every joy is doomed.
And still I sing… while pieces of me die.
For silence is the only greater lie.

Her voice, a river of steady flame,  
Eyes alight with purpose, untamed.  
Depth in silence, a boundless creed,  
Each word she breathes a living seed.  

A truth she holds, fierce and alive,  
Through storms of doubt, she’ll always strive.  
Passion, her compass, her soul’s demand,  
A world ignites beneath her hand.

They call her stripper here,
but in every city she wears another name
temptress, witch, sinner, saint.
Under the bruised red lights
she moved like smoke,
her fingers dragging over her own skin
as if summoning fire.
Men watched with hunger,
their eyes begging,
but the fool in me
was fixed on hers.
The law was carved into the walls:
watch, do not touch.
Yet she broke distance,
closing in,
her weight pressing on my lap,
perfume like poisoned roses.
She danced,
smiled
a lily of sin blooming in the dark.
Her eyes sparked like razors in the night,
cutting clean through me.
I whispered, hoarse,
“Your eyes are beautiful.”
Her lips bent into something sharp.
“Are you here to watch me tear myself open,
or here to drown in my eyes?”
I told her,
“Your eyes.
Through them, I see your soul.
Through them, I touch your heart.”
Her mouth brushed mine
a kiss like a knife,
soft and lethal.
Then she slipped away,
claiming the next fool.
And I sat there,
bleeding from a kiss
I would never forget.

My grandmother told me,
“Even the donkey learns
once bitten by the pit,
he walks the other way.”
Yet I, stubborn heart,
return each time,
to fall,
to bruise,
to call the hole my fate.

The crow perches on stone and calls it a summit;
the falcon rises, carrying the summit in its wings.

Soft whispers bloom like morning light,  
Unadorned truths, pure hearts ignite.  
Each syllable falls, steady, bare,  
A tender gift, a breath of care.  

In quiet tones, wisdom takes root,  
With honesty, no need for suit.  
The soul speaks best in moments small,  
Love's echo rising, heard by all.

Lebanon cradles my soul's first cries, Her cedar breath, where my roots lie. Australia whispers with ocean's tide, Her golden arms, where dreams reside.

One heart grounded, the other roams, Two flames burning, both homes. One mother raises, one lover calls, Together they complete my all

To shine so bright, the soul does weep,  
A mirror held, too sharp, too deep.  
The bloom of grace can bruise the stem, Who saves the savior, or carries them?  

Not sins that haunt, but good unspoken, The heart grows tired, though never broken. To act so true, the echoes stay, And virtue's cost, we still repay.

They spoke of time, a gentle salve,  
As days dissolved, no calm to have.  
The ache persists, a shadow grows,  
Beneath its weight, the spirit bows.  

Each hour stretches, thin as thread,  
A whispering doubt inside my head.  
Patience fractures, a fragile glass,  
Yet still I wait, and let time pass.

She sells her body, not her soul,
a barter made, a passing toll.
Her touch is coin, her flesh a trade,
but spirit’s depths remain unswayed.
No gold can purchase what she keeps
a secret fire that never sleeps.
For one true heart she guards the key,
to open truth, untamed, and free.
Like calls to like, a burning brand,
soul finds its soul, hand in hand.

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."

Not wood or bone, but something root
Deep in the earth, a magic thing,
That makes the listening spirit sing.

Each note he plays, a hidden door,
To memories we knew before.
A happy laugh, a tear that fell,
Stories the heart remembers well.

The sound, it washes clean and bright,
Like sunbeams chasing away the night.
It calls to feelings, lost and found,
Safe in the flute's enchanted sound.

He plays it true, he plays it clear,
Wipes away all doubt and fear.
A simple song, a gentle breeze,
That rustles softly through the trees.

Let your own heart become the flute,
Let love and kindness bear their fruit.
Then all the world will understand,
The magic held within your hand.

They asked me about the human soul.
I smiled,
and leaned close enough for them to feel my breath.
They say man is a microcosm
and the heavens the vast world.
But, love, they have never wandered your inner night.
The outer sky is a candle’s flame
fragile, flickering
while inside you,
I have sailed an endless sea of dark honey,
its tides made of dreams and pulse and breath.
The true vastness is in the chambers beneath your ribs,
where my hands have learned the maps
no star could chart.

"The hardest fight is the one inside you."
Not the blade nor the beast,
not the curse in the woods,
but the voice that whispers
when all else is still.

The night is loud with silence,
and the mirror knows your name.
He carries his mother’s magic,
but it’s his shadow he cannot tame.

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

Sometimes, to spare your soul from fire,
you must walk away, not out of anger
but to keep love from curdling into hate.

Don’t cling to those who see you
as shadow, not light,
who forget the gift of your presence.

There is a quiet power in leaving
with your head held high,
when your heart has been dragged low.

Dignity is not pride
it is the prayer you say
when love no longer says it back.

Amen.

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.

Made swirls and lines, a crazy trick.
Not pictures neat, of birds or trees,
Just messy marks upon his knees.

The rain came down, a heavy weep,
For vanished souls, gone to their sleep.
It fed the grief that grew inside,
Where willow branches, deep did hide.

He hushed his pride, kept still and low,
And called to God, in gentle flow.
He called and called, with burning heart,
Until it felt it fall apart.

A whisper came, a light so bright,
"Your peace is veiled from common sight.
Only a love, so strong and true,
Can find the quiet, kept for you."

They call me womaniser
a man who knows the hearts of women,
yet has not been claimed by love.
I do not wear it as a shame,
but as a gentle crown.
For mine is not the way of conquest,
but of respect, of kindness.
I move not with careless touch,
but with words
verses that linger upon the heart
before any hand may seek the soul.
Yes, I am a womaniser,
but one who listens, one who cares,
one who honours every glance and every sigh.
Still, I wander, waiting
for the one whose presence
will silence my riddles,
whose love will name me
not womaniser,
but beloved.

I gave my coin, my honest hold,  
to claim the promise, not fool’s gold.  
No gift I seek, no mercy shown,  
just fair return for what I have sown.  

Not greed, but truth, in simple kind,  
deliver what was pledged, outlined.  
No silk-lined trap, no gilded air,  
just what is owed, in equal share.

They didn’t say goodbye to me,
They never saw the pleading in my eyes.
They left… they left…
And left me cradling silence, my dear.

They walked away to distant lands,
And I was left, a soul unmanned.

My love was still so young,
It hadn't bloomed or sung.
It never had its chance to breathe,
To kiss, to laugh, or to believe.

Yet they’re the ones who frown and cry,
Though I’m the one left wondering why.

How lucky are the envious and they slept,
While we, the broken-hearted, wept.
They slept in peace the night they tore us apart,
While my tears baptized my hollow heart.

No matter how the days may stretch or bend,
Their image in my mind won’t end.
They remain, more precious than the precious,
A weight more aching than the relentless.

Love sold me out,
And the cheap ones bought me.

Not ink on paper, pale and neat,
But air alive with music sweet.
A scent of blooms in sunlit haze,
A floral song for all our days.

A gentle place, a warm embrace,
A haven found in time and space.
A longing felt, a need so deep,
Where weary hearts can softly sleep.

A world unfolds, a vibrant hue,
A magic waits, just for you.
Open your eyes, and let it be,
A wonder whispered, wild and free.

They wish you well, but not free.  
Soft smiles mask chains invisibly tied.  
Their kindness blooms with serrated grace, Yet flowers of venom thread their lace.  

Your mind, a lantern in their storm,  
Mocking the dark with quiet form.  
You hear their clap, a hollow sound.
Your laughter soared where none were bound.

Three women at the river’s edge,
bare feet digging into the cold,
playing that wicked game
hunting guilty pleasures,
dragging sin from her dark bed,
laughing loud, trembling wild
in the ruthless lap of lust.
Their hands don’t just touch
they carve borders into flesh and bone,
claiming, mapping,
finding fierce truths in each other’s fire.
Behind them, a desperate cry:
Don’t stop. Don’t ******* stop.
The river doesn’t care
she rages beneath their skin,
this Love they name a curse and blessing both,
the song tearing loose:
Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my ******* God
don’t stop, you savage witch, don’t.
**** all men and their chains.
The water shudders
bearing the heat of fevered bodies,
waves crash like a scream,
wild, sharp, relentless
******-waves breaking, breaking.
At the river’s ragged edge,
they spill their longing like blood
holy, savage, untouchable.
This is their cathedral,
their war-cry,
and no shadow anywhere
dares claim they weren’t here.
Love calls.
Love burns.
Love breaks everything.

The good is the mirror of mercy upon the earth
forgiving as the sky forgives its clouds.
Yet when he turns away,
he returns to the silence from which he came.

No road reaches him except through the heart’s light.
And he who has never known that light
will wander forever among the shadows.

Famous without reason,
Poets without song,
Religious without virtue,
Lovers without marriage,
Marriages without love,
Friends without sincerity.

Appearances deceive
only the essence endures.

Do not be fooled by the paint:
it may please the eye for a moment,
but it can never hide the rust.

have a cup of coffee,
or play the fool for a while.

Either way,
you stay true to yourself and your knowing.
And that’s what really matters.

So stir your mood
like you stir your coffee
just the way you like it.

Enjoy.

To My Red Pen
When did you grow so gentle?
You, once sharp with correction
Marking every stumble
A judge in crimson ink
Now you spill like sunlight
Waltzing across the page
Not to scold
But to sing
What the hell changed—and why?
I'm left wounded, wondering
When right began to feel so wrong?

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

Signed,
in silence.

You write to lift the heavy heart,
To pull the shadows far apart.
Your words, a balm, a gentle breeze,
That sets the weary soul at ease.

You offer joy through ink and rhyme,
A gift more precious than all time.
A poet’s pen, both sword and shield
A garden where the hurt is healed.

So thank you, friend, for all you give,
For helping weary hearts to live.
May peace and love be yours, always
In silent nights and shining days.

Truly honored to share this space with you. Keep writing, keep healing.

Thank you 🙏

Truth is an arrow
it pierces, yet purifies,
leaving the wound clean,
a scar that remembers,
but does not deceive.

Hypocrisy is an ointment
it soothes, yet poisons,
numbing the pain,
covering rot with fragrance,
a sweetness that kills.

Better the cut of truth
than the kiss of lies,
for only what bleeds
may one day be healed.

A sugared dream, forbidden sweet,
My heart enslaved, it skips its beat.
Her thighs, like silk, in shadows meet,
Unveiling fire, slow, discreet.
A molten jewel, her body glows,
A taste of dusk, where hunger grows.
Rosewater breath, a whispered crime,
A lemon’s bite through scented time.
Her pulse surrenders, soft, yet dire,
A secret feast, a tongue of fire.
Delicate ruin, velvet night,
Her ecstasy dissolves in bite.
This treasure rare, both wound and cure,
A pleasure savage, dark, obscure.
She melts on me, unholy rite
Devoured whole, my Turkish delight.

In twilight's soft and fading light,
When shadows grow and hide the day,
And night arrives, so dark and deep,
A lonely feeling starts to creep.

My love has been a mighty sea,
Through sunshine bright and stormy gales,
Through happy times and bitter tears,
I've loved you through all of my years.

But now I'm here, all on my own,
My heart feels empty, cold as stone,
I long for hands to hold me tight,
A friendly face in the darkest night.

To dance with you beneath the stars,
To leave behind all worldly scars,
To tell you things no one else knows,
And find in you where my heart goes.

Let's dance until the morning's here,
With laughter loud and joy so clear,
Let our two souls become as one,
Until the night is over and done.

The darkness calls, I feel the chill,
But in your arms, my fears stand still,
Oh, gentle friend, I long for you,
My delicate lover.
I miss you.

Upon whose shoulder shall I rest this night,
In winter's chill, with shadows deep and white?
If warmth departs, and comfort takes its flight,
You, only you, can banish winter's blight.

A whispered dream, a solace soft and true,
Held close within your arms, forever new.
You are the haven, where my spirit's hue,
Reflects the world, in colours bright and true.

You, in my heart, a tapestry of grace,
With roses woven, in a tender embrace.
A love entwined, a bond beyond compare,
Where whispered words, and silent moments share,
A world of wonder, filled with love's sweet air.

Banners rise yet make no sound,  
Strength is where the calm is found.  
Deeds, not cries, define the fight,  
Truth stands tall in quiet light.  

Words dissolve like fleeting mist,  
Victory's voice cannot be missed.  
Action breathes where echoes die,  
Unheard heights reach the endless sky.

A void resides within my soul,
No treasure to bestow, no role.
What I lack, I cannot prize,
My heart, a barren, empty guise.

No love I offer, cold and stark,
For love unreturned leaves a bitter mark.
A fool I was, a foolish plea,
To give and give, eternally.

Life's harsh lesson, etched in stone,
Kindness now, a path unknown.
For kindness given, unreturned,
Leaves wounds that fester, unreconciled.

And if you're late, my patience wanes,
No sorrow felt, no empathy strains.
Your shirt, half-open, a careless grace,
Reveals a world beyond this place.

A world where fleeting moments fly,
And love's true worth, we barely try
To grasp, to hold, to understand,
A fragile thing, across the land.

She meant no sin
or so she claimed in tears,
A move defensive, shaped by buried fears.
Love was the thing she could not quite embrace,
So said her shrink, with sympathetic face.
I knew not what those softened insights meant;
I came to claim what pride had barely lent
The remnants left behind, not things, but me,
Fragments of self-lost to our history.
My trust, my dignity, my sense of grace,
The parts of me once daring to have place
In dreams renewed, in hopes that bled too long
Now gathered in the ruins of the wrong.
Yet I was calm, composed in voice and stance,
As one who’s learned to meet such circumstance.
We met within a sterile, rented room
To pass the weight of love’s remaining gloom.
A suitcase packed with scattered, minor things,
Yet each still bore the memory it brings.
And after talk of weather, roads, and rain,
I summoned up a ride to flee the strain.
But there, her head upon my waiting lap,
A pose of peace, of tenderness, of trap.
A gesture soft, familiar from before,
That opened wounds I thought I’d sealed and stored.
She set me free, no chains, yet tightly bound,
As pride and all her handmaids gathered ‘round.
They whispered truths I dared not trust too deep,
And stirred the fire I thought had gone to sleep.
A flicker rose, a warmth I knew too well,
A moment’s haze where clearer judgment fell
Until I saw the woman at her gate,
Now lying where I lay, to share my fate.
In beds that once were ours, now not my own,
Where echoed still our breath, our love, our moan
I once was she, enthroned in passion’s keep,
Now just a ghost beneath the tangled sheet.
But I, at least, have claimed what peace I can,
For I have washed those sheets.

Wealth is not in the crowd of faces,
but in the one that knocks upon your heart
before it ever touches your door;
in the hand that rests upon your shoulder
before your sorrow dares to speak its name.

The little that is honest
is a homeland of the soul,
but the abundance that flees
is an exile without end.

Lipstick, kohl, lace-her careful art. Not adornments; they pierce the heart. Velvet sharp, her glow commands.

No man tames what fire demands.

She rises; storms beneath her skin, Burning worlds, rebuilding within.

In her tempest, love must kneel, His surrender learns how flames feel.

We, the people of one face,
will not wear masks
not for peace,
not for praise,
not to be spared by silence.

We are carved from the same fire,
lit by a single flame of truth.
Let the wind howl,
let the crowds vanish,
let even love turn its back
still, we will not cover what is real.

If it costs us everyone,
so be it.
Better to walk alone in light
than march together in shadow.

Yes
that is us.
Unhidden.
Unashamed.
Unmasked.

It is the wine of union,
poured by the Hidden Cupbearer.

Two bodies dissolve
like salt in water, like flame in flame.

It is prayer without words,
ecstasy without end, a door where the soul slips out of its cage and falls into the Beloved.

Some call it sin, others call it God but the taste is the same: a burning that makes us whole.

What Remains

Sometimes, it isn’t death that takes them
but something quieter, crueler.
We still see their face,
still hear their voice,
but the soul we loved has gone elsewhere.

No thunderclap of farewell,
just silence
where laughter used to live.
A dimming light,
a soft betrayal of warmth once constant.

They don’t vanish all at once.
They fall from us
in pieces.
A kindness gone here,
a tenderness gone there
until we’re holding a ghost
with a heartbeat.

We mourn them in secret,
while they walk beside us.
Not lost,
but no longer found.

And in the end,
what remains?
Only the name
echoing,
hollow
in the chambers of memory.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

My friends hid their ******* magazines.
I hid my poetry,
my dog-eared philosophy books,
tucked behind jackets and empty lunchboxes.
They shared their pages
smirking,
pointing,
laughing.
I sat beside them,
nodded at the curves I couldn't feel,
while words burned holes in my chest.
We all spoke English.
But I never understood a word.
Not theirs.
Not mine.
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?
"****" and "Hell"
they stuck to my tongue,
became my Favorite prayers,
my rebel hymns,
my answerless questions.
Fifty-five years.
And nothing has changed.
Still hiding poems.
Still faking laughs.
Still wondering:
What the ******* hell is wrong with me?

When tyranny dons the robe of law,
Then rising up becomes the call.
For silence feeds the despot’s might,
And duty wakes in darkest night.
Bravery is not a lack of fear,
But holding it, and drawing near
A trembling hand, a steady soul,
That walks through fire to reach the goal.

When Silence Stays

A small, dimly lit room. Two chairs, facing slightly away from each other. A window stage-left lets in muted grey light. Dust particles float in the still air. No sound and just the low hum of existence.

He – Hollow, reflective, withdrawn.
She – Worn, quiet, still carrying embers of feeling beneath her restraint.

He sits with hands clasped, elbows on knees, staring at the floor.
She stands at the window, unmoving, her back to him.
SHE (softly)
You haven't said a word in hours.
HE
You're asking me why I'm silent?
I don't know… maybe because there's nothing left worth talking about.
We’ve stopped living out of desire…
Now we just exist from a lack of death.

SHE
(turns halfway toward him)
It’s as if we’re waiting for something…
Something to come and end us.
But even the ending keeps getting delayed.
The scene stretches on,
like a film that should’ve faded to black… but doesn’t.

HE
Do you remember how we used to feel pain?
Real pain, sharp, loud, alive?
We’d scream, and somehow the screaming helped.
Like the pain was real because it echoed.
Now even the pain has gone cold.
As if we’re forbidden from enjoying it.

SHE
Not even crying over it anymore.
(teeth clench subtly)
We’ve started to stifle the pain…
Stifle the scream…
Stifle life.
But we don’t die.

HE
(quietly, almost a whisper)
And that’s the curse, isn’t it?
It’s harder than death
to keep living,
while nothing in your lives.

She finally turns to him.
There is silence between them, not empty and but swollen, like a storm that never comes.

SHE
Do you think we’ll ever feel again?

HE
I don’t know.
Maybe we feel too much…
and this is what happens when the soul gets tired of carrying it.

SHE
Then maybe silence isn’t the absence of words…
It’s what’s left when life leaves.

A long pause.
Light fades slowly until the stage is only grey and still.

End Scene…

The passing of people is a wound,
but the passing of trust is a death.
When people go,
they leave their shadows in the rooms of memory.
When trust goes,
it steals the light from those shadows,
and sets fire to the bridges
that could have carried them home.
Trust, once broken,
is a mirror in ruins
even if you mend it,
the crack still hides in the glass,
waiting in your reflection.