She used to think she needed a man
She needed a man to cater
She used to believe in no goodbyes
But I'll see you later
She wanted to connect with everyone she'd met
Without even knowing them yet
She couldn't be alone
Because she yearned for someone to call her home
Every time she was lied to
There was one person she could cry to
And one day she realized
She finally oped her pretty brown eyes
Standing tall holding her hand
Next to her was not a man
But her best friend
Her rock
Not born blood but it comes no thicker
She always had unconditional love
They stand together
Pretty as doves
She knows now she needs no man

The drawing books with The
yellow lined paper
Are just the black stars by pens...

برگه های زرد خط دار دفتر نقاشی
...ستاره های خودکار سیاه است

I was passing through my childhood
on a bike
to the delight of flying with the balloons

من از کودکی هایم می گذشتم
بر چرخی که می راندم
...تا شوق به پرواز درآمدن با بادبادک ها

What does happen in the night?,
where restless youths beg for a fight,
where women with all dignity lost, will sell you their services at a cost,

where men will pay for their hunger to sate and tell their wives they're coming home late, where knowing wives are sat at home, waiting by the telephone, hoping he has done what's right, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children cower in their beds, the fear of the night sat in their heads, imagining monsters, causing fright, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children do not know, why mothers eyes are red, why father is not home, tucking them into bed, but father is still searching for that which will excite, for this is what happens, in the absence of light.

Between day and night, choose fight or flight, hide out of sight, shield from the light.

Cocooned in our beds, words trapped in our heads, a poets mind is forming, ideas begin their swarming.

Not conforming
              Lines deforming
                        Minds contorting
                                       Rhymes consorting.