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I can't possibly, ever, bear
they see their minds, professional
I see their ribs' insides
or maybe not,
harsh reality is, they breathe
sadly, they must for some reason have mediocre lungs
or what they convince themselves a bliss
they're good with just a bit over average
sting like bees
drop dead at a few interruptions
at the first sneeze

so their ribs aren't bare of lungs
but their ribs bear no heart
their lungs counting..
counting losses

but I must owe one thing to them
that being their bewildering creativity
you must have a certain level of creativity
to take our beautifully fractured
minds and souls
and turn them into computers
priced with silver coins and gold
rated by a paycheck
or a post
you see
a program hates a mess
it's mindlessly counting
moving in a sequence of steps
and it hates interruption
counting through stories
while they're still young enough to write more
but no, again, they're so clever
they prefer a story told
over a story lived bold
saving their memories
in a gallery on their phones
they look at them like achievements
for ****'s sake they'd rather define themselves
with pictures
over what they've made of their bones
how many smiles they've had
how many times tears
their eyes have shed
how many breaths they have taken
instead of how many times
beauty took their breaths
a heart is a waste in a cage like theirs
it's a bird designed to flutter
to this day imprisoned
because they think that's clever
they're souls without souls
a heart is a waste
and so is their *****
why would they let their hearts
die in their nests
for all I know
their  pair should've been traded
for delicate beautiful *******
a cheeky mock though I sometimes fall into the trap myself
I write about life. I try to put words into use
but I will not fully serve
the.. the wonder
in this world
or at least my perception of it
the wonder it reserves
the surprise at every corner
I wonder if I deserve
so I may be redundant in my writings.. I may
and I may hate it
but listen carefully,
I hate
my absolute conviction, every single day
I do not
and I'm thankful to whoever that
a few words
can partially suffice
my urgency of expression
for the whole of it
I can not contain
I read this again and I love it
then read it again, I hate it
it's a shame some ruin the meaning
even to a writer of his own writing
when he knows how much it means
by filling canvas
with false paint
lost they may be
information contaminates
their minds they can't see
down on their knees
praying hypocrites
of those one may respect
the honest sinner
a sinner he shall not be
at least is a brave sheep
upon herds and herds of sheep
may be some day enlightened
by the bark of a golden shepard
by issues that truly matter
perhaps by men sleeping on cold streets
perhaps when he hears..
a neck-freezing sound
of a refugee weep
fried birds in pomegrante sauce
a fried bird
in a Lebanese bread piece
cleaning our rifles
I remember these

my fire against

every once in a long while
my fire it melts
his eyes
his sacrifice
beyond my heart
it's felt
today I repeat my poem
I repeat my poem
I repeat it
I am addicted
an addiction beyond poems
in conviction, beauty, and essence
and I don't want to beat it
they speak of substance abuse
I wonder
man.. I wonder..
what about life abuse
what about that?
tonight.. I ponder
on the tasteful weariness
on a beautiful exhaustion
before I close my eyes
of too much life
on the explosions
in your ears when you melt into a song
in your mouth when a dish melts in you
in your body when someone melts into you
on too much expression
I'll make a confession
I'm an addict
with no medically valid conviction
with no tangible proof
only symptoms
of an evasive shadow
so tell me,
is there a thing? Called life abuse?
what about
when you live so much
that you even enjoy its blues
when you think you escape death
though it's but a snooze

when you become madly addicted
fighting a shadow
shaped as a clock
when you rush out the door
in a different pair of socks
when you admire a lake
before you throw your rocks
and you wonder about the vague
then not give a ****
take a look at the sky
at the busy-lighted buildings at night
the mother
the musician
the writer
the lover
the fighter
the teacher
the doctor
the newborn
the beggar
the backyard
of your parents house
in that pale yellow weather
when you tell yourself
I don't know why it feels bad
must be something else
and you shut yourself from it
and do some other task
you must think you're clever
with a lie to yourself
you dust neglect
with a feather
that tiny lie my friend
is no feather
a lie to yourself
is to your neck a tether
and that leaf you picked
or maybe a flower
then mindlessly throw
and say it withered
the old backyard's plant
the postcards of time
all of it
close.. close your eyes
take it all in
inject your blood with life
die a thousand times
die a hundred thousand
then die some more
death my friend
defines core
I don't want to lecture
I'm sure you know how
"a butterfly's cocoon
is but a struggle before flight"
"the sun must rise after a cold blue night"
"it's always darkest right before the light"
and I'm not saying those aren't right but
anticipate death
cause death
die a hundred thousand
then die some more
there's no need for you to be sure
of any thing
the more you flow
the higher you soar
it's the only thing worth doing
the only thing worth fighting for
some times I wonder
from within my bones
how many men have died brave
a thousand times each
yet still havent 'died'
and how many have died once
but have never lived
by choosing comfort
over a beautiful *** fight
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