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manal Jan 2021
I want it to be so that
I am a dark mass of life
A dark, cataclysmic shroud of flesh
A size bigger than the problems I harbor; but not as big as my regrets.

Oh yes, to be a spiral of catastrophe, absorbing all that is in my path.
swallowing them,
engulfing them
spitting them out anew,
And whole again.

I sought to be the storm before the calm,
the pouring rain after the thunderclap of liquid-silver-lightning.
To be a wave of confidence and setting myself atop the horizon of other people’s views.

To gradually become a giant,
to be a whirlwind of

Meanwhile here, I am a cloud;
A cloud of doubtfulness,
Perspiring at the mere second
A weak faulty existence
I am the aftermath
The reconciliation
The ending of what was thought to be the beginning
A mere cloud,
amongst other things

I want it to be so that I float,
otherwise, I am drowning
My humidified scrawny legs are sweeping steel floors,
littered with reflections of redrafted selves.
Reflections that mirror the broken shards of one's psyche
expected to form a whole mirror.
I put my ten toes to the cold steel surface,
while dragging my past selves as we crawl
to where the Dim light is.

yet I do not cast any shadows.

I want it to be so that
I am the lord of the flies, to decompose in a cleanroom.
To assert my existence within these four walls, with my breathe alone shaking the inner workings of my rib cage.
I want to hear the echo of my heartbeat in the throats of others.
To engrave my face into the delicate insides of their skulls, indefinitely.
To be memorable— no,
To be remembered.
Because even then,
Even with the strength of ten worlds
Even with the confidence of an idle king,
Even with the assertion of the Ten Commandments.
I am merely but a figment of my own innovation.

Walking in the city seems to only expose lively souls,
where Dim city lights accentuate dull features,  
but even then—
Even with the Dim and powerful street lamps of the night cowering before my shadow,
It only seems to cast a dark reflection,
Articulated appearances and dialogues vibrate through the reflections cast by those Dim lamps,

And it was in that moment, I was acquainted with,
Someone I have not remembered
but someone I have chosen to forget
thoughts at 8:30
manal Dec 2020
sometimes, when I look inside myself,

i can feel the earths pulse resonate in my deepest veins,

it only happens when the tides push against me though,

knocking some sort of odd ***** out of my chest.

i saw the life walk out of me at that moment.

and with that, my vision was left tainted with the sharpest shade of blue.

the only distinguishable color in my sight was the coldest corner of sky.

with Eyes transfixed on that tattered edge;

I began to crawl to that frayed edge of the World,

perhaps-- to feel a thread of difference?

but I was met with several fragile dead ends
manal Dec 2020
cupid’s arrow aimed at my frontal—

cupid’s arrow aimed for my brain, not my—

i did not see it coming (too fast for the eye can see)
trembling— with cupid’s bow in my hands:

"Am I the really real me?"

feeling my cerebral fluids leaking—
i’m seeking—
the truth,

"But what is the cost?"

your life you will lose.
  Dec 2020 manal
Whether a comma, or colon:
Punctuation slows my rolling
I need no period. When I end
no Capitalization when I begin
Rulelessly I flow my art
  Not a single!
Exclamation mark
Are you not the one
Who'll know?
Where a question mark
No longer goes

Warp the structure
Bend the lines
Put in repeat
Let emotion unwind
Make yourself
Your poetry's the best
Be your own ruler
Pass your own test

Take your own road
Where ever it leads
Lover or hater
It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim

No matter who you are
You have my deepest respect!

All is vanity
The meanings of passion
The aesthetic expression
The lines we draw and stay within
Even love is beyond intent
Vanity transcends
Flowing from our pens
And so we breathe again
manal Dec 2020
the petals of a wilted flower, carry with it the spores of many lives.
found in-between the cracks of concrete and steel,
the boundless love of a wilted flower carries within its womb;
the hope for a new life.

with every kind flower, a tear falls
and with every tear, the excuses start to grow weaker.
the butterflies cluster around the oozing miasma of a broken but kind flower.

but even through the concrete,
a flower learns to rage,  
to expand,
like a silent rebellion beneath the rough and against all odds.

surely, it will bloom.

again, you will bloom.
tears seem to soften the concrete below.

— The End —