Tree of life , my youth's delight
My summer sun , my mind's light
Sea of joy , to search , to find

I seek the high , i'm ready day and night
For my tree i say , come come the time is right

Acts of bliss few could comprehend
My tree got old , doomed and banned
None but my old friends are natives of my land

My tree with it's limitless boundary ain't now but an old memory
I still remember the honey , how i inhaled its fragrancy

My tree you are there , yet am i not whom you seek?
What linked us once together is now gone with the wind

The sad cry of truth wich the hand is shy and seared
All that i am left with is a dry touch to feel you in my dreams


Words Of Harfouchism

Being Honest

It’s hard.  
Sounds simple, but it’s hard.
It’s brave. It’s subtle.
And you’re scarred and marred.
It is so many things
That dare I write them sans façade
My friends complain:  
Too ****** demanding,
Hard to deal with; so much
Nuance; synonyms abounding.
They want simpleness: the easy way.

Simple, yes, but challenging.
You’ve got to be considerate,
Your character to deal with.
Why ****? Death comes to all.
An honest **** is still a ******.

Why press ideas?
You know that ideas change,
That phases are the germ of life.
It’s hard to stand against temptation,
Vengeance, easy money, vice;
Hard to be right-minded, truthful
Self-restrained, just being nice.

Funny, but
It’s easier to tell the truth
When you begin to show you’re age.
People show respect, in fact,
They think you’re sage.
They’re happy that they’re getting honesty
Straight from the shoulder:
Benefits of growing older.

Old or young or middle life,
We’ve all had problems, woes and strife.
There is an art to being honest
Without cruelty or exploitation,
Without character’s temptation.
Best we start.

Being Honest 4.5.4027
Definitely Didactic; Circling Round Reality;
.Arlene Corwin

i want to wrap my own hands
around my own waist
like your hands once
circled my hips
as if they were a planet
to orbit

except i want to
dig into my own skin
fingernails scraping ****** ribbons
removing your sweat from my pores
your skin from my skin
your blood from my blood

ill destroy my own body
in order to take it back

Someone once told me that life is just a series of moments,
that the past is merely a story we tell ourselves before we fall asleep.
And so I look at him and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.
I fear a reality of fiction and distortion,
where my life is a blurry foreign film and he is the fourth wall,
always broken.
I have written of lovers and their seemingly intangible hands for so long that my concept of time is impressionable,
one might even call it sacrilegious.
I have bled dry every metaphor capable of embodiment that I wonder if it ever meant anything,
I wonder if anything ever will.

I want to write him into a scripture of meaning, of something other than illustrated angish.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
that isn't a thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
I want to write about the way he leads me into rock pools,
like a child being baptized.

I look at him and I am reminded of the ocean,
as if his blood can only move in waves without devotion,
more like instinct.
I want to write about something that isn't love,
because this is more like inspiration.
This is not knowing what could possibly come after his tide falls back.

I am aware that literature always ruins the ending,
that finishing a book mid sentence is the only way to avoid the loss of its final words.
I am aware that beautiful things can never stay,
but maybe that's what makes them beautiful.
He is a picture of my perfect faith,
but he doesn't make me want to believe in religion,
because I know god hates the competition.

For so long I had thought that I was never going to feel anything new,
that I had exceeded the depth of emotions,
like anything that follows can only be a lesser version of something previously felt,
but here I gawk with a mouthful of blasphemous teeth.

I couldn't tell you about the snowstorm he evokes within my chest,
nor the locust plague that raid in his name.
Because this is not a love story,
at least not just yet.
This is a man that has grown roots where I have only planted seeds,
a man that scripts his stories on the soles of his feet.
*And so I look at him,
and I am reminded that I am not who I was a moment ago,
and that I shouldn't try to be.

Standing at the footbridge I kept watch each night,
My lantern raised high, with its brilliant light;
I helped him pass safely, one side to the other,
Only to see him fall into the arms of another

Now my lantern is cold, no flame burning bright,
No more do I search for those lost in the night;
Next to the hearth, on pillows strewn o'er the floor,
I sip wine with whomever finds their way to my door

There’s something I’ve learnt about satisfaction. That it’s easy to find purpose in satisfaction instead of satisfaction in purpose. The former results in having your heart and soul and body thrown down to be shattered, melted to a pulp, milder and shattered again and again and again.
Painful as it sounds, it soon becomes a habit.
Here is why, to me at least, finding purpose in satisfaction is wrong, well who really cares what’s wrong or right, it just freaking hurts. This state is something I like to call pendulum satisfaction.
Life is a huge *** string attached to a pivot, who is pretty much the only thing that keeps the universe running. Right at the end of this inextensible string called life is basically a bob. A bob consisting of whatever you make life to be on this planet. Hopes, dreams, beliefs, faith, rejections, disappointments, pain, failures, bitterness and society’s expectations in general. Once attached to the string of our nebulous ambiguous potential in life, picks up a direction and paces under the gravity of reality and general laws of physics (fr tho)
Once that motion begins it builds up momentum leaving us swinging back and forth. To and fro, where we reach a form of satisfaction for a nanosecond in comparison to the distance we end up traveling to achieve as such. This kind of movement leaves us high with the feeling of achievement for an instant, then brings us back to square one, by that thing called gravity, continuously all the freaking time, no exceptions. Yet it spurs us to push ourselves to the other side of the mean position in hopes to reach a new level, to reach a kind of satisfaction. Each time trying and striving to reach a point higher than before.
In vain of course, because just like an actual pendulum, the highest point is reached only initially and unless it swings in a perfect vacuum and ideal environment, resistance, weight and gravity will only reduce the highest achievable points in either extreme. Thus the heights decrease with each swing, reducing momentum and energy. Little by little, swing by swing. Till eventually you’re left at a draw with no force or inertia to get you anywhere, kinda like how death can be, and I’m not talking about the physical kind.
What then? Metanoia or metamorphosis or should I simply drop the ball and move on, purposeless?
I’m stuck here, in this pendulum satisfaction and I can’t seem to do anything to get out.
However, I do know what I want, it is to change this pendulum into a yo-yo. Have that bob of what I make of this world and allow to rise up and come down, through and through in my life, in equilibrium, consistency and purpose. Not just in one plane or direction but to receive it in all its fullness and purpose.
Now what must be done to achieve this satisfaction in purpose ?
This flimsy thread I call life needs to be shifted from the tip of this bob of purpose to its centre, and somehow find the way to get it to climb up and down, held by the pivot, who is pretty much the only thing that keeps this universe running.