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Farah Hizoune Feb 2018
All we are is rotting canvas with thousands and thousands of layers of pain(t) molded over old wounds. We are thick and viscous with old strokes and everyone looks and says that they don’t get it. but its beautiful and only those who have their own layers cry before the magnificent work of art that is you and your pain.
Farah Hizoune Jan 2018
Do you remember
When we were young
And hopeless
And we thought
We were invincible?
Until the rotten world
Gnawed on us
Like infinity waves
Crashing over and over
On summer sun-blanched bones
And whittled us down
To nothing but forgotten sand
i guess this is growing up
Farah Hizoune May 2016
My slumber is restless and tortured by endless rivers of flowing words that exude from whence to prescribe my longings. I have visions shattered with red eyes - succubus' dreams and deep despairs of forgotten lovers. I have all the normal layers of womanhood but my widened, blank eyes stare on into darkness. My mind is plagued by dreams of ghoulish figures and dansing devils. I feel enigmatic and cursed, like a banshee roaring through the mind of a mad man. I have only sexuality and insanity to feed my starving soul. There is a stellar gift bestowed upon me as I glance up to the heavens, as I am deep in the throws of my insomnia. I find comfort in this cosmic god that I swear only I can see. Everything around it becomes black at the sight of this glorious red gleam in the sky. Perfectly aligned and positioned in my window, a glimpse of my true home. The Rocky planet stares indifferently at me but with a faint vengeance in it's glare. The god of war scolds me for being weak and brings me visions of blood soaked angels come for my soul. I am unsure if this brutality will bring contentedness but at least it has rested the other bitter thoughts battling for a piece of my mind.
if yesterday
was your last tomorrow
what does that make today
while you are trying to decide
if you lived or died
your time is wasting away
Farah Hizoune Apr 2016
Life is so funny, like a book, where you've read the last page, first. We all truly know the ending to our stories, as the only surety, death.
Farah Hizoune Apr 2016
The minutes crawl
by without you
I lie in bed, unseeing
My muscles twitch
my lungs function
but I am not living
I'm merely waiting for death
Whole worlds could crumble
and I wouldn't notice
The building could collapse
upon my empty shell and
I wouldn't even flinch
Fire could consume me and
I'd relish in its warmth
Because at least then,
I'd feel something
Farah Hizoune Feb 2016
There's nothing that fills me with contentment than looking in your blue eyes, so much like cerulean, crystalline gems, like the reflection of the sky on the Mediterranean, with the delicate touch of a granite tombstone. The way your hands touch me is like a drug. The way I suffer when they aren't grasping at me, grappling me. The way your love is unlike anything I've ever felt in a quarter of a century. It's strong and willful, passionate and consuming. It's the love of lives lived over and over again, the esoteric knowledge of perpetual lovers through infinite time. It's the love that nature has for her charges, the love that deserts have for thunderstorms, the love that is a wildfire overtaking the brush. It's tangible and thick, hanging languorous and soft in the air between us like drifting smoke stacks in an ***** den. Our hearts, beating in a tandem fervor, so unique and potent, so unlikely and rare. Until the first night I realized that your heart was the mirror image of my own, I was piteously alone. Floating, meandering through the motions of life. Alone and lonely in all the most beautiful places which would have doubled in beauty if they had been graced with your presence. And now that I've found you, I want to devour your mind, to wind through you like the intricate alleyways of the medinas of Fez. To sweep through you in black lace and supple silk like the crawling lovers of Paris. I want your full, plump heart close to mine at all times.
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