I don't want to be a writer.
I don't want to starve,
I don't want to go mad -but maybe I'm already there-,
I don't want to commit suicide,
I don't want to be homeless,
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to be a writer.
What do writers gain?
Judgments, madness, aching heart and pain?
Tell me, what do they gain?
I don't want to be a writer.
I want to be nothing.
But what is life without literature?
What is life?
*Nothing

Well,
people never ask about what I love,
what I hate,
It seems that "I" have to fade
it seems that "I" is not important
because "I" is Palestinian.

I'm not allowed to work,
I'm not allowed to get proper education,
I'm not allowed to talk,
I'm not allowed to speak of liberation.

They call me a refugee,
but, dear, I am a slave.

I'm not a terrorist
I'm not blinded by religion
I'm not blinded by traditions
I'm only human
I have no liberty
because of my nationality.

You, who call our for human rights,
Am I not human?
Am I not a victim of insignificant fights?

Well,
All I know is that I'm alive,
I exist.

So keep your prejudiced selves away from me,
and let me be,
let me be free.

I am only a human
a human
I have a beating heart
I love art
I have ambitions
and dreams
stop shattering me
because of a nationality.

Don't you find it strange? How your world could shift on its axis and everything you trusted could invert itself in what seemed like no time at all?
                      
A girl who grew up in a desert which was located in a forgotten land had discovered a secret lake after walking for more than 21 hours! She never told anyone where she was going. She only spoke of the lake.
The lake was crystal clear and alluring that the girl felt like drowning herself in it, to just let the water cleanse her soul. But she couldn't even dip her finger! Her finger would barely touch the surface. She tried with her hands... Nothing. Her legs... Nothing. It was as if the lake was made of glass!
So she decided to walk on water. Her feet touched the surface and she took slender steps. Her heart was beating really fast. She closed her eyes and kept walking till' she found herself on the other side of the lake. Relief flowed over her as she opened her eyes and saw that she was still alive. It was as if she walked on glass.
But how?
"No one have the ability to walk on water! There must be something wrong with the lake." She thought to herself.
She pounded down the lake again, trying to see if the glassy surface would break... Nothing.
She tried dancing and she spun like a ballerina... But her dancing efforts went in vain.
So she lay on the surface. A dormant girl.
Her black hair was crowning her small angelic face, her dress was as white and transparent as the glassy surface itself, her legs were bare, and her hands were placed above her head.
"Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this isn't a lake afterall." She said aloud.
She closed her eyes and started imagining how it would feel like to be dead. She felt that it would be similar to lake... No movement or life whatsoever...
Abruptly, the glassy surface cracked. The girl's eyes flashed opened and she jumped, but little did she know that her movement cause the whole surface to crack, to vanish...
The girl no longer felt like standing on something that is fixed... She felt the water pulling her down and down until she drowned.

I open the gates and I let them in
they crawl like cockroaches under my innocent skin
they yell at me to give in
but I resist
and
yet
I surrender
i try my best not to exist
i pretend that i'm a bench
where they like to sit
i cry and die and then mourn myself
i watch them laugh and love and then **** themselves

merciless nightmares I created,
In my own realm of hatred
A seemingly endless darkness i invaded
But I came out, torn and jaded.
I had a firm grip on the bones and flesh of a dead man,
His corpse alienated me, made me inhuman,
Like ether, colourless, lifeless. Hence, from myself I ran.
I found myself in a serene place,
I called it paradise.
Provided me with hot water, washing away the sleepless cold nights.
There are colds parts in me,
And the darkness is always there,
In moments of loneliness, in moments of despair.
I am alone yet the downfall of my hopes accompanies me.
I have one desire,
I strive to kindle a fire using my heap of ashes,
My heap of shattered desires.

Do you know what a knife is?
The one your mum uses to cut onions...
Onions.
The best excuse for battered mothers.
Anyway,
Bring that knife,
Hold it as if you're holding a god.
Bring it slowly to your neck,
Slowly, slowly...
Let the sharp tip cut the blossoming vein.
Let it bleed.
Close your eyes.
Do it now, little one. The world needs not another innocent victim.

And I write.
I write about everything I did and regret,
I write about everything I lost and missed,
I write about a darkness that's lurking in my head.
And I write.
I write about stars, space and bliss,
I write about the nights I spent sleepless,
I write about the internal extraterrestrial intelligence.
And I write.
I write about stolen kisses and awkward hugs,
I write about sharing a bed and drugs,
I write about drunken *** and whisky jugs.
And I write.
I write about literature and poetry,
I write about Sexton making out with Bukowski,
I write about Akhmatova painting Dostoevesky.
And I write.
I write about music and lovely symphonies,
I write about Tchaikovsky waltzing with Vivaldi,
I write about a world where we dance as we please.
And I write.
I write about childhood lost not forgotten,
I write about battered women and abused children,
I write about you and them. I write me every now and then.
And I write.