I travelled to the homeland
to reconcile with my past.

I flew over miles of identities
to find my own.

Like a greedy vulture, I pecked at my skin
What is there to accept?
Is it the discoloured patches where plump red blush had settled before?
Rosy and full of life, I will mourn for my past self.
Is it the falling strings of hair giving up on embracing my tired neck?
A backbone that has defied its own purpose.

In a world of exchange and sharing
Nature has found a place in me
My soul reconciles with the desire to bloom
But my body is dwelling in its ashy winter days

Between the night and day
Find me halfway deciding where to go,
It will either be aspiring to be the sun
or waiting for the end to die with the moon.

I hear the cries emanating from your words
Every letter of every sentence is a story
that only your broken heart can tell.

The longing for peace inside
brings chaos within your cracked bones
I hope that honey starts to drip
out of your scars instead of blood.

The thoughts spinning in your mind
now resemble the whorls in outer space
galaxies of decisions to take
follow the path of stars that lie in your heart.

I know how hard it is to open your eyes
face the world
and live behind your insecurities
let your skin jump from excitement
not from fear that causes constriction of yourself.

You haven't failed yourself
when you chose silence over speech
these pens have screamed louder than anything
one day they will hurt those who wounded you
so that the guilt inside
will keep them awake night after night,
I will continue to pray for you.

Soft heart and lips,
skin like pillows
chest a haven for whoever
is privileged enough
to find comfort in it
don't let the harsh days
blister the frame
that holds you, the artwork, together.

Allow these poems to rebuild you
so that you realize that homes out of people
burn faster than gasoline on fire
and that the paradise you crafted
out of your bathroom floor
corners of busy rooms
tears on scratched paper
and wrinkles on your tired forehead
is the one that will revive you forever.

Stay strong.

Your name is buried under my tongue
Its syllables percolate through
My taste buds haven't settled yet
The morphology of the word, its bones
will now turn into brittle dust
Debris will injure me -
I am afraid of the power of words
Because a simple one lay heavily -
Inducing landslides of rubble inside.
One day it will come back
In another form unknown to me
To either bring me back to life:
Fire versus. Fire
Or put me to sleep
caught restlessly in the void
Not finding a way to forget;
Or be forgotten.

We sung the anthem of each year
wishing our friends a happy day
commemorating their existence
but deep inside,
we know that this
won't fix the broken
or bring back life to their breaths
because I am now rejecting
every expansion of my chest
and deafening my ears
to not remind me that
I am yet stuck here another day
swooshing like wine in a glass
tossed around
in these vicious cycles.

I remember you
when I bow down to God
and I ask him to bring you back
every time.
I do not forget.

When a seed germinates,
It needs several conditions to initiate its growth
but a flower is different.
A flower only yearns for rain to cover its drooping petals
and sunlight to embrace it from every corner.
As I grow up,
Material objects become useless.
Only certain people matter,
and being able to hold them tight
would be the best birthday gift ever.

If I ever crash and burn,
it is your face that'll appear in the flames
in the form of all regrets
that annihilated my existence.

Don't shame young girls
who want to express their lives
in metaphors and mellifluous poetry.
They perceive words
as fireflies that shine
on their lonely nights
and it makes them feel alive.
Let them be.

I've been struggling to write.
My mind cannot quite decipher
what my heart feels.
Not all cracks in the pavement
have cultivated life along their destruction
so please bear with me
as I gather what is necessary
of words, and of love
to fill in the gaps inside.

I have grown accustomed to the way
silence forced itself upon my social interactions
like a guest who wasn't invited
but was let in anyway.

My eyes have memorised the dents
on these four walls
that I could draw infinitely
on maps of this bare surface.

Pencils have worn out,
I'm running low on graphite
so my life decides to turn itself
into the same shade of gray
that I use to write about it.

Books are doors to another world
but their handles have broken,
"Help!" I screamed,
I am locked into this lonely reality.

A social life
filled with ghosts,
blank-faces,
and empty souls.

Nothing to give ,
Nothing to receive.

Against layers of western pop and soulful jazz,
I find myself yearning for the sound
of traditional music
These ears know well
the tune that reminds them of home.

My blood dances
to the thumping of the tabla,
the melodious clash of castanets
and plucking of strings on leathered guitars.

Traditional music is the voice
of my silenced ancestors;
and the treasure that is the legacy
they have left behind for us.

Each night I will remind myself
of the beauty of Algeria
and the sound that vibrates its fertile soil
and resonates in my heart.

Reaching out to hold the hands
of those who came before me;
we stand united by the melody
of our anthem.

When sadness reigns
over our hearts,
it makes us weak
but in reality
wounds only strengthen our skin
we can now see the contrast
between what we had and what we lost
what we want and what we don't
and the most beautiful poetry is created.

Why is it that such sombreness inside
can create a beacon of light in our words?

All these shades of colours have brought vibrance into my existence
Painting each day with their unique aesthetics
I think you affect me in the same way.

I was so convinced
that you were the one
that I almost gave up on everyone else.

I'm only seventeen
but it seemed possible
because love can be recognised
by the young and the old heart.

Nevertheless, I was very wrong.

I'm only seventeen
and you were one of my reckless mistakes,
a delusional craving
that will hopefully fade.

Long weeks end
but more will follow.
Our muscles seep exhaustion
Hollow faces around me
Empty cups of coffee and tea
embody the struggles of the mind
and the stability of the body.
No matter how sweet the morning air is,
or how many birds chirp good luck
the bitterness prevails
it is obvious
in the dense air
and bloodshot eyes.

I was a child
who found beauty
in the symphony of words.

Restless,
I tried to join sentences
and stack beautiful vocabulary
in my empty glittered journal
but nothing worked.

Years have passed
and I remember the exact moment
when I realised that what I loved
was called Poetry.

I marvelled at the writing of others
thinking of myself
as a streak of faint ink
on a masterpiece of paint.

To me, I was incapable of being an artist
and painting sheets with my emotions
but in the end,
we all have a fire within our hearts
that we want to put out
and we write endlessly
to tell others its story.

Empty room
with loud thoughts
drying like paint
on its silent walls.

But who cares if the words you write
can't be properly articulated by others?

Your thoughts weren't meant to be recycled
and simplified through someone's criticism
Your work can't be measured that simply
if at all
because its worth is limitless
it will remain immortal
for if you die, your words will not wither away like you

They'll grow out of you like flowers
and the ink from your pen has its unique flow
circles and straight lines
scribbles and doodles
whatever path your thoughts lead you to
it's the right one