Your book of fears spilled from your mouth.
There was a heaviness in your voice that only the sea carried.
There was a sadness in you, and that look on your face as you spoke
sheltered on my heart and collapsed. I was so sad. It made me want to do nothing more
than to pluck every flower that lives inside of me and put them inside of your eyes.
Those eyes that were pregnant with your very brine. I wanted your mouth on mine,
and I wanted nothing more then to tell you that it was all going to be okay  
that after we die everything will be okay.

It took a universe of thoughts ,endless research, observation, communication, and plain old life experience (and some magic) to understand what life is all about and who we are, and sadly in between all of what I know, I must admit that I do not know a thing. Every so often I would come to meet some brief moment of insight and within that i know all- I suddenly know the secrets of the Universe. This triumphant experience can feel the same as a meaningless speck lost in space somewhere. But as a soul that holds a body that holds a heart and a brain I will stand with the nothing that i know. I just know that i want to be a good soul to others and spread my love, happiness and humility.

Fear will never consume me nor will I allow the winds of it to travel through the lands of the ones i love. I DO believe that my soul was created to be more than just a limited body.
I was created from the universe, therefore, I am the universe —a limitless cosmic ocean.

There is a grave-garden
somewhere underneath
my heart.
It smells of
rustic stardust
and curdled sighs.
My hair
it gets tangled up
with the bones of the flowers
and it kind of makes it hard to
walk around with all of that sound.
To them
its the sound of a poor girl making a ruckus.
To me
its the sound of
dead things.

I was born a blonde,
but my hair is now blacker
than the spaces of untold truths.

-Arizona

Put the roses in the fire, jack,
my chest is broken.
I am much too tired,
and the sun wont rise
and the moon wont set.
Don’t come here.
Don’t pluck me.
Don’t come anymore.

When I was a little girl,
I never wanted
a tattoo.
I’ve always wanted
to marry a gardener
in hopes that he
would plant seeds in my chest
to make my shaky bones look pretty.
and so i did,
and so he did.
But I grew too tired,
and he grew too old
so one night the garden on my chest died
and the sun no longer rose and the moon no longer set.

-Arizona

My land has been ripped.
Its seeds trapped beneath
cinders of ash and rock.
Its root suffocating.
Its branches
no longer branches,
and its buds weeping
somewhere along the edge
of heaven looking
down upon bent cities
mourning those whose
flesh are screaming
to kiss the innocent
skin-like fingernails
of newborn children who
have been burned to death.

And the children!
Oh! The children!
They are sealed within
the winds that dance along
Lebanons green motherly lands
as the embers and crumbs whistle
an eerie tune through the
emptiness of the streets;
My heart is burning with
the souls that have died
a thousand different ways.

Somewhere over the mounds
of Lebanon, souls
that once breathed her air full
of joyous pride, clutch
to the sadness and adorn her
in prayer.

I believe with all that I believe that
somewhere deep within the forests
of her beauty,
Lebanon is smiling
awaiting rejuvenation,
awaiting a nation
dancing in
illumination

One day we will open
our dead eyes and find
that the capital of heaven is
Beirut.
Finally salvation.
-Arizona