I'm here sitting
alone,
the smell of coffee runs through
my veins,
some music i probably will forget
in a few years arguing with
the thought of you,

But I'm here,
I'm here,
writing about what's happening

pretty boring huh?

i call myself a poet
but i can't use high metaphors,

i call myself a poet
but i can't describe fully
how you make me feel

i call myself a poet

but what am i?

I'm just a kid
scared of life
finding new ways to cope
searching for someone to love,
desperate,
not holding unto my dreams
how can i choose with my mind
what's right for the heart to choose.

and you see?
don't you see?

don't worry i can't either

i can't see how great i am
i can't see how other people see me
i wish i could.

i want to believe this was a dream
or
a nightmare at that.

But at last.
I'm here wishing that in another life
i could be with you,
or
maybe in other deaths,

i crave your touch,
i crave you..
with coffee waking up my senses
like a kid in summer waking up early
to go play with his friends.

i wish things were different,
so i wouldn't have to wish.

It’s 12:08 on a Saturday night and I can’t help but notice the stutter in your breaths
as the speedometer ticks 45,
50,
60.
The wind whips across the top of the open Jeep making both of our hair fly as you turn to look at me.
I looked up at the dull constellations in the sky
trying to avoid the stars I knew were in your eyes.
There’s a tickle on my leg and I look down to see your fingertips tracing tiny circles on the skin above my knee.
The pressure on my thigh gets tighter and I look up to see everything
swimming in your eyes mimicking the look you had when we used to talk ourselves in circles.
The car runs over the rumble strips forcing you to look away and quickly becoming my saving grace from the question I knew was coming:
what are you thinking?
Slowing down to 15 below the speed limit, swerving left and right
in a lame attempt to avoid the never ending *** holes on a back road I didn’t even know existed, we sat is silence.
It’s 12:43 as you put the car in park and say you want me
happy, say you’re ready to commit,
that you know things are different now but that’s not good enough reason to quit.
The full moon shines light on the black silhouette in front of me defining your messy hair, nervous look, and everything eyes.
I whisper I want you happy too, but your fear hasn’t died,
and that there’s nothing romantic about a joint suicide.
We’d crash and burn, get lost in our teenage addictions without caring who or what we hurt.
It’s 1:37 and you pull off again except I remember this spot from the summer after junior year.
Unlike now, it was warmer that night we were last here when the crickets echoed our conversations of love, loss, and regret.
With two simple clicks the headlights were off and the world around us seemed to stand still. I could hear your breathing
getting heavier and faster as you gently cradled my face in your hands
duplicating the night we earlier said that we regret.
Taking in your dimly lit face, you pull my forehead to yours as that song comes on talking about how we used to be so young and self assured.
I realized a rush like this doesn’t come from caffeine
because before I knew it,
you were all over me like we were back at 17.

i'm missing someone
who was never really mine

Life is about a soul,
Filled with tears and smiles,
Sadness and laughter,
Dreams and reality,
Health and sickness,
Happy song and sorrowful prayer!

Life is about a soul,
That fills its place with
A tsunami of excitement,
And touches every being,
Every object in the universe,
With the infectious virus of love!

Hussein Dekmak

I've written this story,
Thousands of times in my head.

But when it comes to pen and paper,
I run out of things to be said.

The bard, the mire, the sleuth
His lute, his fear, his truth.

Traveller through time,
His words chill the spine.

Oh, weaver of tales,
Hunter of lies.

Falter not to failure,
Or meet demise.

Songs will save thee,
Open all eyes to see.

Though the devil is in the details,
His chord, echoes on all that fails.

recently
I got a little older,
learned a lesson or two,
like how loving someone
could never be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
like how nothing
would ever be as poetic
as I wanted it to.
how can I accept
that the miracle of love
isn’t really a miracle at all?
how can I wrap myself
in someone’s arms
when I know
that there isn’t any sort
of poetic loving involved?
how do I unlearn
the romantic thoughts
that taught me
about the fireworks,
the butterflies,
and the fluttering fingers
in the dark.
and accept that
maybe kissing
won’t be as spiritual as I thought.
maybe it’s really just a mouth on mine.
how do I unlearn my innocent heart
who lulled me into a false sense of hope
for a lover who would call
the way my body moves
art.
a lover who would feel
the poetry
in every word
I spoke in the dark.

You remember my name.
You remember how it sounds when spoken aloud.
You remember how it looks when written in black ink.
You remember the face that goes with it.


I remember nothing of you.
No name, no sound, no face.
Some would call it a tragedy.
But I call it freedom.