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Maaria Chehab Apr 2014
They’ll be days like this my momma said;
Days the stars are unaware of a path to take you in
Days -
The skies are painted grey in timeless renaissance
And you open up your  umbrella, arms stretched high,  just to realize that its holed-  a little too late in the game.
Like a flower looking at the canyon, nodding at the beat of the breeze
Wilts Knowing - it’s in the eye of a hurricane.
And sugar, my momma says
Stars work in mysteries, but sometimes there just stupid –
Don’t let them boss you around— who was ever afraid to get wet?
Your small feet, have miles to walk  in and life gives you the full tour, try to pause in heaven
And get the heck out of hell as fast as you can
But when you find your feet grounded—
you need to take a seat and look at the person you’ve become.
Your dimples are like mine
And your punches like your fathers –
Don’t you deny it.
Sugar, she says :
This world is going to hurt you,
So Take my advice,
Life              is not fun if you don’t know any swear words.
Maaria Chehab Apr 2014
I was born in the arms of imaginary friends, who helped me sing a tangled melody;
Never to be accepted, veiled in secret reverie
I was taught  to dance at the hands of winds –  yet to look past graffiti filled walls
I was Molded, and structured, like Jell-O art.
Losing a battle filled with right and wrong stepping into pools of silence and books of empathy
I taught the shadow how to hide
And the night how shine;
And you never bothered me.
To abide, tolerating  frigid rules. A mainstream battle against futile ignorance, that’s how I pictured this .
Filled with hope, and love at ideas of excellence that got you no were, but pity. Yet  you refuse to let go and refuse my absence with sterner conviction of long turned believes.
No longer in use, no longer mine;
And I have to abide- no longer.
I was born with diligence and rebellion is a skill. One of intelligence, at least till I grow old enough to know otherwise.
As for now, my hands are open- waiting to mold myself apart from you
Feet pointed towards the door, mouth ajar- and you don’t want to hear these words.
And you don’t have a choice , because there must be some explanations to stacks of luggage waiting to walk out of your doors, and I was never one to lie- just to hide, like I am now
I was never yours.
I was always mine.

— The End —