Roses are red
Netanyahu is a swine
I pray to the Lord for
A free Palestine

I bleed with ink.
You breathe in brushstrokes.
Still, we meet
in the same shade of ache.

I call it a stanza.
You call it a sky,
but both are ways
to survive the silence.

My pen trembles like your hands do
when the colours won’t blend.
We try to tell the truth,
but it keeps slipping
into metaphor.

I say “I miss you”
through rhythm.
You say it
through smudged reds
and too much blue.

We never made sense
in black and white.
But somewhere between
my verse
and your canvas,
we almost
became a masterpiece.

forbidden doesn’t mean unloved.
it just means we had to get clever,
had to learn the quiet art
of slipping past the noise,
finding each other
in the cracks between rules.

we speak in hush tones
through fake personas,
a call tucked
into the folds of night,
your laugh breaking softly
against my ear like tide.

they told us “no,”
so we invented yes
in the language only we know.
stolen minutes,
a heartbeat shared
over a signal no one can trace.

the world doesn’t see
what it means when you say my name
like it’s a promise.
but i do.

and maybe we’re breaking the rules,
but we are not breaking each other.
we are not wrong.
we are not alone.
forbidden doesn’t mean unloved,
it just means
we love anyway.

Lost in darkness in my life, in his eyes I found my light
When everything is wrong, he makes it right.

a casket my bed, my morbid rest
I am dead
I am blessed
death; a darkness that roams fancily dressed.

a battlefield with no blood, just poison
using words not weapons
where every little thing hurts, that's happened
where the soldiers don't sacrifice but disappear
leaving wounds that are severe.

In our caskets,
Our cadavers they lay
the rain is pouring and the clouds are gray

Six feet under we'll rest
In heaven we're nothing but guests

Hell, our forever home
Our world, where everyone is alone

We die,
And a gift of salvation, we're blessed

In our caskets
Our cadavers they rest.