She is the beginning
As well as the end
The best part of the middle
Then start over again

The sweet part of the taste
On the tip of your tongue
The wisdom of old
The giggle of young

She is the breeze
That blows in the Spring
The long distance call
That brings you close with the ring

The moment you hear
Someone say yes
She is the mystery
That hides in the guess

She is the hope
That you hold onto
The talk of the town
The brand in the new

The little crease
At the edge of the smile
She's the bees knees
The answer to why

She is all this and
She is all that
When it comes to it all
She's where it's all at

(S)ometimes i say i love you
(I) dont really know if i do
(T)o be honest i want more from you

(O)ther things on my mind
(N)ow i think is the right time

(M)any positions spiral in my brain
(Y)ou should be scared

(F)or i intend to get freaky in your bed
(A)rroused by the thoughts in my head
(C)ome let's play and you'll feel
(E)ndless ******* ahead...



Words Of Harfouchism

Standing like a model in a motel room-
jealous eyes can't open the blinds.
Every time, every time.

Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
These are beautiful songs for damaged people
that don't think they're all the same.

They taste like formaldehyde,
so hopefully they'll preserve me.
But, instead, they burn the room
as they kiss my neck and collarbone.
Lapdancing on my loneliness-
Please, let me remove my eyes and hands,
because I've seen and have felt too much.

You don't understand:
everything is ideation
and demisexuality.
Double entendre:
I'm a toxic lover,
I have girls around my waste.

Take a look around and see how damaged everyone is,
and how universal they are in their illusory disguise,
"How can we be so smart if the last line was redundant, guys?"

Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
This is just a mediocre song for damaged people,
so they believe they're not all the same.

Don't feel too much.
Remove introspection.
Be self-absorbed.
Feel no affection.

By the end of this trace
                I'll forget your name
That's what i say each time
           I get down to take the line




Words Of Harfouchism

i used to write about being sad -
the things i know:
how my fingers constantly grasped for
metacarpals the never really
fit with in mine
and how only the fire
that i poured down my throat
made me utter the words,
"i love you".
now i struggle upon embracing
how the drowsy-eyed glances
turned into sacharine stares,
the whispers of "you could love me",
places on top of mountains,
and freckles that i can count;
every single one of them.
if they say,
"write about what you know",
then where do i even start
about all of the things i don't?