I'm still here, why are you crying..
I'm still here, why do I keep on crying too..

I'm still here but it's hard to imagine I'd be leaving this place.
Leaving those people behind,
Ditching the memories,
The good and the bad ones.

Are those tears of joy or sadness?  
Am I happy to leave, and begin a new begining , and discover new things and go on adventures.
Or  am i sad to leave, never seeing those people again, because everytime I think of it, I start crying.

I am happy,
But why is that those tears wont stop falling?

It's the right thing,
But why is that it doesn't feel like so?

I am strong,
But why is it that I need to be strong?

I should not feel this way,
But why is it that my feelings have become so bipolar ?

It's bravery,
But why is it that I feel it's an act of fear instead?

I am not oblivion no more,
But why is it that i feel there is much behind every path?

I fear failure,
But why is that I feel that it is a fear of success?

I should enjoy the moment,
But why is it that my brain cant comprehend to happiness no more?

I exhaled the last breath,
And i felt like my soul was about to leave.

Because with every breath, the air becomes harder to inhale each time.

When I write, I am in my own world. An entire different world.
Putting this world into words to bring it to vitality , where the true me indepth exists.

My thoughts are my enemies, and overthinking is my best companion , joining along with my soul that ignited the two different worlds , as the world inside my head and the world where my unfortunate reality lays , are connected in those writings of mine.

Once I hold my pen, it seems like I could write endlessly for eternity.
The intellectual me is raging for more and more vitality , it's deeply intricate where my thoughts and those worlds meet.

But my thoughts are the biggest cravers for their freedom. And there, in my mind , I live and in words and letters , I expose my true inner self.

Touching those walls, seeing those people, realizing that this will be the last time I'll be here.

"Write me a poem, Write me a poem" he said.
And this boy and those words never left my head.
Where do I start , where do I end.
Do I begin with my feelings or do i begin with his.
Do I write about his pure soul or do I write about his words.
As every hello he greets, down came the night,
And **** I wish it never comes to an end.
No matter the trouble, this boy is in depth,
A poem that's always in my head.

The silence, becomes too unusual without having you around.

My dreams and my writings are both the worlds filled with grief and sadness , but not as much the world my reality is in.

All those people, they say they care.

They say they'll be there for me, they say they believe in me.

They tell me that I'm beautiful, and that Im a worthy to live.

But those people , I do not believe.

Their words and their looks of sympathy , makes me lose hope in myself even more.

What if all the flowers died , and the world turned black and blue.
What if all the flowers blossomed in dark colors, and the world died.
What if beautiful things disappear and my eyes dont tear.
What if the flowers' beauty fade and the colors blossom, in my dark world.

Grandpa my dear,
a few years when I was younger you'd let me sit on your lap and you would call me cute nicknames.

a few years after when i grew a bit older, you'd get me sweets and we would compare our heights , but you've always been taller.

a few years when i was your height, and we shared the same weight. But oh what a coincidence and i wondered.

I remember the sweets you used to give me, I remember the love you used to provide me.

I remember how I used to hit you in my sleep when i was younger, because I used to move alot in my sleep. ( I still do)

But what I dont remember is, every imagining you ending up like this?

The time has betryaed you and you are no longer as healthy as the young are, and i cant imagine but i can realize, that youve grown weaker. But stronger too, in the same time. Because you are a survivor, and you will stay alive for us, because you are all what's left for us and we're all what's left for you, and i know that one day my kids will get to hear your stories about the life back your time.

I wish I could gather all your broken pieces ,
and heel the scars that the shatter had left in you.

But here I am, oblivious of how to gather my own wreckage.

Embrace me with a smile,
embrace me with a hug.

Embrace me with your prescence,
and i'll embrace you ,
with the memories we had,
before the last time we had embraced goodbye.

We were on a road trip , on our way to meet the cousins of my father for the first time. I couldnt help but be curious about how they looked like. What they were like.  Year by year I'd discover more family members that I never knew about.

"Mom, they lived in Basrah?"

"Yes , they had."

"Huh..Basrah" I said sarcastically.

"Are they good people?" I asked.

"Yes they are, why wouldnt they be?" She said with a confused look in her eyes.

"When was the last time you saw them?" I asked, not ignoring her question quite much.

"Years ago." I was still confused because she did not number the years.

"How come I didnt meet them when i went to basrah with dad 2 years ago ?" I asked.

"Last time I had seen them myself was before we came to this country." She said.

"8 years." As I realized.

"I dont think so mom. People of iraq changed. A lot. From my latest visit." And perhaps the last visit it would be, I thought.

"Trust me on this dear." "Their father is as elegant and as royal as the head of ministry. He used to manage the biggest hotel in Iraq before he had retired." She said.

Suddenly the old images of iraq flashed in my head, and along came the current image of iraq, The comparison in my head between how great iraq used to be, how rich and beautiful the land Basrah was and how it is all gone. No admiration left, it's all an intricate matter.

The stories I hear about Iraq and the wars and the people of iraq, are close to infinity if you saw the destruction that occurred. The beautiful past, is all we have.

Sometimes, I feel like home doesnt even exist.
"Iraq". Those four letters , it's like thy dont mean anything to me anymore.
A home is a place that holds you, that keeps you warm. When did iraq ever hold me? Other than holding me backwards not forward. Other than leaving the poor cold and the rich hungry too. Where did all the blessings go? Where are the beautiful green lands? The River Tigris and Euphrates ? Helicobacter ?

It's hard to IMAGINE a country with such power, such good , such greatness , such grandeur,  magnificence, fall. But it's even harder, to WATCH it fall , and having nothing in your hands to do about it.

Such blessings, that got destroyed , on the hands of those who envied it once. The enemies destroyed the only thing that I had to believe was home.

"You know mom.. Sometimes I hate Iraq."
"Why?"
"Because it ruined our lives."

Silence filled the car for a couple of moments before anyone spoke. It was true, Iraq did  destroy us along. Iraq ruined our lives and everywhere we went our identiy was exposed but not lived by others. We once had a wealthy country, now the country is dying and the people are shattered. Mother knew it was true, even more than me, because i was just a child who couldnt remember and didnt live half the events mom had to go through. She witnessed it all.


"No one can hate their country dear, it is still your country."

It was true too, wherever I shall go, I will make my country proud, and not just a maybe, one day,Iraq will rise again, and I will have enough faith in my country that it will.
My country is not destroyed, my country lives peacefully in my heart. The people may ruin it, but it will always be as great as it used to be in my eyes.