forget the followers,
forget the other **** writers,
forget the counts of accolades
forget the defeats of your writings,
forget this night as heavy drunk blur

listen to rhymes of your keyboard
and see the world and it's travesty,
see the lives falling apart,
see the births wailing to life
see the rain,the women,
the racers who share a drink with death
everyday,
the lost lovers,the mad houses
the wars,the sufferings
the beauty of light of first day
and spit it over, use your blood as ink if needed
and be immortal this life
and don't stop till you do.

insanely bright,
quaffed of colors,
smelling like rotten vanilla on ice,

a constructed barren land
with no lush green to incite eyes,
no blue sea rhyming flows to please ears,
and smell of sudden suicide of air

you thought a damp lonely dark pit,
can only torment you but the light
is the answer to everything?

Think Again.

Do you know even
what darkness looks like?

it is when your home turns to dust
from sudden shellings
and you walk over bodies
of children,women and brave men
you once knew,blown up in syria,
the middle eastern sun even couldn't
outshine this obscured darkness

when your first flight out of country
ends up with you body tattered in pieces
dropping from 35,000 feet just because
pro rebel russians felt showing
how big their ***** are,

and here you sit
pleased in your well perfumed house
petting your cat
while writing on your mac-book,
"the way he left me, I was confined
to darkness"
I pity your darkness
but I hope you recover soon
from a weak heart
and delusions of insignificance

an Egyptian dancer
who in the bare silk
retraces her moves
over sand and scorpions,
converting morbid infatuations
to desires in the sweltering heat
and as silk melts
I can think nothing of,
than to watch and pray for salvation
for this timid abomination from faith
maybe this how monsters are made,
I wasn't sure
or I didn't cared that time.

Bridges

I burned the bridges
to the past
and bathed in it's ashes
to never be afraid
of it

but the smell never goes,
the road is still there
and i still believe it's ghost
will haunt me,
for times to come
and there is nothing we can do,
nothing at all.

What if the Moon
was the second sun?

who couldn't be brighter,
who could not give life,

one who was devoid of love
and decided eventually to float alone

only to attract the oceans
and see the people
sigh over love
like himself
for eternity

the lost city of the Incas,
survives and breathes
with this cataclysmic vegetation
still malignant and undying
to conjure divinity
for those lack,
in the purest form,

it awed Neruda and Che
with the shimmer of the first light,
the smell is a poisonous offering,
the view is like an unforgotten love,

most of the nights in my sleep
I come back from there
and some of the nights
I wish I could never.