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.

Sometimes, staying here,
moving with you in the present
is, the best decision I've made
without you I'd be lost in a world
with not many people
like you tryna hold me there
so I don't run away,
and give up on everything I care for

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

It's 2:46am
But I am not sleeping.
I am steady staring at my ceiling, trying to recollect the last time I felt this forlorn.
...the last time I felt a hollowness make its home in the pit of my stomach, only to be satisfied by the thought that you might be thinking of me, just as I do.

It's 3:04am
... and I am still not asleep.
The butterflies in the pit of my stomach,
are now dying.
They once fluttered around so proudly for you,
but you've left them poisoned with abandonment the day you called your quits.

It's 3: 17am
and I am almost asleep.
But I wonder...
If the same loneliness that consumes me,
consumes you too?

"Dear Diary"* I wrote at the top of the page. I've turned to these wretched pages because I have no one else to turn to.

I have been wanting to runaway for sometime now. I have an estranged sense of nostalgia towards places I haven't even been to.                

Did you know that you shattered my heart? That a shard of ***** lacerated my ribcage? & so I've concluded...

That perhaps one day, when I'm 22, I will cut my hair short and runaway to new york and try to find a big sweet apple they've always talked about.                 

I will disregard my birth name and I will end up telling everyone I meet that my name is Aphrodite, but I am not greek nor am I a lover. I'll write poetry. The good poetry and the bad poetry. I'll write poetry the way you called your quits, blank eyed and confusing. And may the next person to make my heart glow, be just as kind as you, minus the volatility, equivalent charms.  
Laugh as sentimental as 100yr old harpist.
Smile as transfixing as a dim star, on a moonless night
Eye's as beautiful as the sun..

But just as the sun, I never could stare to long.

I can’t leave. There’s still to many words on this angelically anchored mind that are still chained to times long since set in sepia. Words carry too much weight for me to accept my fate at my own hand, when the warmth of a pen moving faster than my mind feels so much better than the cold steel of a trigger.
Ironic, how ink is heavier than sorrow.

So much stress just fell off my shoulders
Now I can go and explore, some positive things
I am starting to get older
and I don't want to hold on to no good things

Our time is up
I'm so torn apart
I can't do this now

I'll regret it later
but I know in my heart
that we are done
now.