My lord,
I decay,
Then I flourish,
I collapse,
Then I sprout out,
Wounds,
Chasms,
split open,
Rupturing,
Overexposing The virtuousness,
Ripping it out of my flesh.
I am in agony,
but I love you.

He is an alert child,
trapped in the predicament of
growing up,
swollen with a forceful,
armed heart,
sinking in an intensifying
neutral panic,
in the middle of innocuous paradise.
Parched,
hungry for tranquility
among a ripe, fruity spring.

This starry, darkened celestial sky
reminds me of how foolish and
errant I used to be next to you.
Hungry for perfection,
terrified to the point of
letting hallucinations prey on me
and devour me partly,
leaving me to consciously stare at
my jagged self like a leftover piece
of an exciting individual.

Dad,
Do you remember me?
I'm the child you raised,
the one you emotionally abandoned,
the little one who used to be afraid at night,
trembling to the point of tears,
the one who used to be mentally distracted
and terrified of the dark that reflected your gaze
. I couldn't run from you for years
I remember one night I escaped
your cruel silhouette,
and it cost me hours of grief
Dad,
do you remember me?
Do you remember how many times
you used to call my name
and I couldn't answer because I was distracted?
Do you remember how many times
I needed a hug but couldn't get one?
I'm still confused.
Why didn't you accept me?
I'm lost like a suicidal child
in the woods.
Could you find me and rescue me
before it is too late?
It's time for you to remember
how precious I am and save me.

Love, Your Daughter

I remained silent
for the sake of holding you
emotionally tighter than you could ever
possibly imagine.
I chose you
a hundred times
until I forgot about
my jaded self
and started to hate it even more,
devouring you romantically.
I had no family;
I never learned how to be loved
unconditionally,
so I adored you
unconditionally.
How could you be so selfish
when I was the meaning of family to you?
You betrayed my feelings
and dragged me to hell,
and I unbelievably adapted for you.
I love you with all my remains
and jagged parts.

Do I really have to completely and painfully forget about us, deeply and frenetically in love, passionately devouring each other?!
Must I abandon my sincere dream of being joyfully and profoundly yours?
How can I escape being so obsessed with all of you? I’m surprised by my own strength, acting as if none of the turmoil around us matters.
I can’t overcome this silence and emotionless moment, but I swear it’s all due to the melancholy inside me.
I’m depressed, yet you’re still the one and only who can drive me crazy.

I’m home again,
alone,
with the same tragedy
that I used to smile through.
With the same cup of coffee prepared,
yet I’ll never drink it.
I’m home,
strong,
yet lonely,
seeking solace through my silence.
I have no expectations for tonight,
except finding joy
in solitude.
In love with the silent moments
of mine.
I’m home.

You were my child,
my priority,
my responsibility,
my spouse,
my delightful melancholy,
my breathtaking Christmas,
during moments of despair.
What perfect misfortune
would bring about
the same terrifying nights next to you.
I missed you.

I would die for another fight,
another calamitous night,
another plight,
and more dark moments
next to you.
Now,
I'm still unfamiliar with this peace
without you here to wreck it.
I miss you.

I’ve become too jaded
To fight,
To sacrifice,
To believe,
To persevere,
To confess,
To love,
To dream.
I’m so cynical
To be yours.

I am no longer yours to keep hidden,
They all know now,
Yet you refuse to acknowledge
That I am yours.
After the battles I fought for us,
To be together,
You vanished from the truth's gaze,
And sought refuge in falsehoods.
I apologize for investing so much in you,
For sacrificing everything
For your sake.
I regret clinging to the hope
Of our forever.
I'm sorry.

Holding your breathtaking handsomeness,
like dancing with the same alluring malice
that draws its scars over my innocence.
The elusive harmony that brings all
my weaknesses up,
like a romantic novel
drowning between the mouth of
the Mariana Trench.
How could I
bring those dark days back?
How could I not let you go?

It's killing me when
I couldn't reach you anymore,
when I couldn't fight for you
or even cheer you up.
How far we've come,
you and I,
like a spell without its flame.
I miss you and the way I
used to pamper you on your birthday,
but today I couldn't even say it to you
because we are no longer together.
I'm bleeding from the inside,
and you're not here
to tell me to stop overreacting
and grow up.
I miss you,
I really do.

‎‏I danced through, your eternal desires
like a prohibited shimmered star
that has no ethereal heaven to belong to,
where the lone fear scattered in
its enigmatic expanse
dared to accost the whole cosmic void,
you said that I was like a breathtaking nightmare
that tenderly captured you and
left you breathless.
But I knew It was like a momentary trace,
you would never be mine, my fervent boy.

.
.
.
Hello ex-Hubby,
I meant the handsome dystopian boy,
currently, I'm writing you the sin
I remembered that craved the most,
when I dared to
penetrate my colorful virtue spot again.
to ride the last whole night car with you
in a hurry,
and forget about the evil you,
hating women, dressed in your dark flurry.
I embraced those tiny white palms in my head.
when they refused to touch me back and ride ahead.
instead of losing interest
and forget about reverence you physically,
I kept my fingers crossed secretly,
under the car seat,
next to the prestigious scent of yours.
Your North African amber eyes
that refused to match mine,
to get lost between their depressed universes and shine.
I prayed along this magnificent time,
to God so he could with his 99 mercies
make you fully mine.
The lava that burst divinely
out of your Tunisian delicate betrayed my senses
and lit the full hungriness towards your beguilement.
I encouraged my half stability
to make it through
a little bit far from you,
my hallowed brew
with every single meter that we've passed
I fluctuate amid the idea of capturing you devilishly or sacredly, between making some blood contracts with the devil itself,
or donate as much money as I could,
for the sake of being together,
burring ourselves on an old bookshelf.
trichotillomania; the colorless ferocious ogre,
that used to assault my bright aesthetic soul,
as a tight fatal choker
to remind it chastely,
of the imperfection portrait of mine.
and pursue its pride with a fiery scourge,
matted with brine
when I started to rise my jaded fingers
to covet those golden cheeks.
I failed!
the deficiency is capturing me
The keloid I hated the most
as I carry my dramatic havoc away,
a little bit away,
from your inner fray
pathetically, I turned my whole feelings
against my well ignoring the idea of
love Subliminal and its spell
facing the windscreen
that harshly afford me a great frustration
trying to cover my hope with trash sack and provocation.
I failed,
escaping the life blackmail,
convincing me to practically disbelief on you.
But I kept myself as holy as I dared to.
despite of my Viscera's beating,
crumbling and shrinking.
I kept my grin harmfully, blinking.
under your realm seeking for a light of your anger that will
console me again. and bring me home.
Happy Birthday!
.
.
.

I escape the whole world
Like a baby rhyme that has found
Its sanctuary within the verses of poetry

How can I liberate myself
When my hands are not handcuffed
Yet my mind yearns endlessly
For more of you around?

Once upon a time, in a toxic embrace
Us, and your shadow, faint and cold
I held onto your lies, against my knowing,
Till awakening came, and I started going.
Begging for warmth, for love's reprise,
Met by your silence, under cold skies.
Today, I close that chapter, bid farewell,
Exchanging your poison for stories to tell.
How could you break the love promise?
And compel it to swell with its calamity
And burst within its insanity
Like a perfect incantation
In times of ignorance.

I belong to the first place
where we used to overdose on dreams,
ones you've since forgotten.
I persist in being yours,
despite the challenges we face today.
Happy birthday to you.
The shattered words I've held onto
remain yours,
whether I can articulate them or not.
Today,
I comprehend the weight
of punitive silence,
and thus,
it transforms into a blessing in my life.
No one would impose it upon me
before it morphs into their fear of
losing me in the first place.

English is a medicine, not a pathogen.
English is safety, not war.
English is kindness, not viciousness.
English is a trust, not a trap.
English is a gift, not a robbery.
English is freedom, not detention.
English is a poem, not a verdict.
English is a reward, not a punishment.
English is a fairytale, not a calamity.
English is forgiveness, not accusation.
English is honesty, not manipulation; keep it close so it will fly mountains for you, and so I am.

..
𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑠𝑦𝑐ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑒𝑝𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑠，
𝑖 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑝..
𝑖 𝑙𝑒𝑡 𝑔𝑜 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓
𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑓
𝑚𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑛𝑑
𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑒𝑓𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑜
𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑖𝑠
ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑐𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑏𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑠
𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟
..

The final written
poetic line of mine
was yours.
I still strive
for more innovation..
that made the apprehension
no longer a pal.
I'm yearning for
your altruism
to assist me again
with my trepidation.
Mi amore,
I called you my home
as it was the most
gentle exorcism prayer
that would beautifully
evict the demonic attack
of my anguish
and set my remaining
awareness perfectly at ease.

I was born to be alone..
As you weren’t there
for all my panic attacks
when I sent you a message
that I needed you right now
as my hands were shivering
to the point that I couldn't yearn for help,
when the doctor was the only one
who patted my shoulder and said;
It's okay, you are safe now…
When I saw a semi-reflection of my parents
through your soul….
Well, I’m here, fighting demons,
As it’s Thursday,
and you didn’t come home.
I know I should do better
and ignore this intense fear of mine.
I should yearn for something else
rather than the idea of
your colorful permanent settlement
in my black-and-white corners.

Same words
Same tricks
And same humor,
I would not interrupt either of the masterpieces.
I will completely show my admiration.
Both traps are alluring.
But I'm too careful not to get trapped.

My friend
Our pain is creative.
It gathered us
And made us share it.
with impressive excitement
to the point of forgetting
about its tragedy
and focusing on how beautiful
We are together in this painful life…
My friend
Remember,
What spring brings to folks’ hearts
You bring the same emotional
beauty to the lost children out there.
The children who had never
heard about spring, the colorful one
That we knew it from fairytales
And we prayed to have it.
My friend
Believe me
When they hear about you once
They will definitely call you home.

This trap is filled with poetic tricks…
Sorry, but I knew it…
I can sense your devilish intention,
Through your charms
But I'm still there…
close to your heart, trying to
Teach it how to be kind and harmless…
Also, still,
This pain is familiar.
Those tricks are similar.
But I got used to horrific nightmares…
I would not ask you to stop.
I would keep my midnight prayers
For the earth to make a safe crack
Between our contradictory intentions…
Go home; leave me for my beautiful
nightmares and that ancient level of pain.
I’m totally fine with them.

Here…
Where I’m unable to feel your presence,
Where the lack of joy and lack of motivation
Are dancing vividly along the darkness…
I would be determined and eager to achieve my goals, next to your gentle, harmless envy.
But today,
My melancholy is cherishing my epic loss,
telling me I’m neither your lover nor your foe,
I’m nothing but a forgotten chapter
A thing that will never remain
Precious to you.

Hubby,
I exposed my soul to your
narcissistic hunger once,
and you are here upon my
simplicity, manipulating my few
reasons to stay alive and
making them speak
out against me.
I know I should have died
before, maybe in an earthquake
or in the Pacific Ocean
that I prayed to see one day,
but I didn’t, as I was used to your
words that killed me every
morning and night.
Just remember,
I wasn't that bad;
I only opened myself to
you without being careful
of your attack on my innocence.
I want to go home;
I'm lost, admits your
demonic knouts.

The day I craved you
When the sunlight was accurately positive.
When the world was beautifully discussing your handsomeness with all the curious gardens,
I gave up on my parchments for the sake of admiring your features more and being blessed with you every day; despite it taking up my words, my ancient quill, and my beauty. I’m still a believer in your magic. I’m no longer a mermaid; I’m the betrayer of the ocean.

𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎
𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚎.
𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚗.
𝙰𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢,
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚛
𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚕𝚢;
𝙸'𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕’s 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜.

ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ɪꜱ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ.
ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ ɪꜱ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ.
ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ
ɪꜱ ꜱʜᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.

Despite years of learning
to be independent,
your ghosting can
still act around,
but I'm the happiest
introverted woman
in this corner;
I no longer
belong to you.
I belong to my mess.

In your fake gardens
There was a vivid
Semi-orchard,
I couldn’t enjoy
Its little brightness,
I’m a fanatical
Believer in darkness
I used to be zealous
For Gothic literature
And Beyond,
Hear my colorless void
Exclaiming : for the sake
Of its melancholy’s dose.

Grief has a lexicon that
I’ve spent a period of
hard times seeking it
I gained nothing but an enormous
failure to devote myself
to its complete literature,
The perfect Salvia Plath is
patting on my cumulative sores,
admitting that it is my right to
file a grievance against my chores,
work, and daily unfair routine,
as she said that she used to be
so wicked; writing all the day
and forgetting about studying,
she said that I had gotten such a
black-and-white soul for
almost uncountable centuries of
self-wars,
Dear Nicole: She wrote—  
Whether you are a believer or not,
You dare to be the
ninety-nine hundredth savior to
the definition of our nihilism.
Sincerely yours,
Sylvia Plath
I closed my eyes and
bleakly enjoyed her poetic
admission that I had faked it
for a while to
keep my victories beating
against all the brightness and
naturality inside of
my pores,
I’m not a happy person;
I belong to sorrow.

Your hell is different,
It extends to be a semi-heaven,
But I can’t belong,
It burns all the paper and ink.
I've got nothing there to be a half-sinner.
I’d rather be a completely miserable poet, in an uninhabited void.

Baba,
I know you better now.
After a long, ferocious time—almost thirty years,
I couldn’t write you a poem that expresses my mixed feelings toward you.
Despite this inconsistency between knowing you and being unable to write to you, we are not arguing or fighting anymore.
My cumulative hatred toward you is calming down.
I forgot about all the wounds that you had drawn on my borderline personality disorder portrait and the demonic words that you used to say to me every morning and night.
I got rid of all the ruins that you had spent time injecting into my pores.
No more writing dark letters and lifting them with balloons to the world to show it how evil you were or spending three hours creating black-and-white videos about family abuse and not posting them anywhere.
I’m a grown woman today; I’m thirty years old, I guess. Keep this in mind.
Baba, in spite of these unfair feelings, I love you to the point of tears.

Your daughter
Nicole.

his fragrant palms,
Filled with marshmallows and ink stains,
I’m tracing the sugary world, brimming with such a poetic lexicon between his entwined fingers ;
Those Fingertips that I dared to crave
Love, pain, thirst, and beautiful hunger,
I dare to suffer, you won’t.
I care to inflate the romantic havoc, you don’t,
My tempting beauty is rooted in your psychosis, I’m nothing but a complete masterpiece of bleak jellyfish, blindly diving into your seductive ocean.

another note,
another stunning shyness;
you made it glow
like the sparkles under the water,
I’m fully interested in every word
that you would speak,
embrace your poetic mind
devour it ferociously,
my blood is beating inside my veins,
yearning to burst out of my body,
to hunt the sweet honey
that gently covers your golden pores,
if I Were Tinkerbell,
I would definitely pray every single night
for being the one and only Holy Siren,
That will insanely chase your soul
to inflate your hunger
with all the temptation’s tricks
for the sake of swallowing all your sins perfectly ;
disinfecting and archiving them
into our fairytale files,
Darling,
I love you to the point
that I used to crave being thirsty for you.

It’s all our typos fault,
incomplete stanzas are weeping,
blackness into an ocean
full of sparkles,
dots that stamp on
chaotic poems.
I forget the passcode
of our favorite verses
as I'm still there wandering
for some complex curses
to decay the rhythmic lock
of our typewriter.
Hello World! is a code
for hacking into poetic souls,
Out there.

He left.
I’m not ready to cheer myself up again; to bring all the bright phrases to the point of being so intense and real inside my flesh, I prefer to commit to writing deadly, like there’s nothing more interesting than stamping your departed soul with all the Poets’ nihilism.

I wish I could cut my heart in half
to distract the inflammation inside
and ferociously dive
into the inner weeping
for the sake of rebuking sobriety itself
To braggingly behave.
I’m a hopeless woman
who keeps hacking into little things
that powerfully destroy her.

It's okay to fail again.
It's okay to drown insanely, to Inhale the whole fire, and to forget about the water creeping up into my collapsed lungs.
Dearest darling hubby,
You set my fear free for a while,
I'm still yearning for some of your tenderness.
I wish I was lucky enough to keep impressing you for a long period of time. I love you desperately.