This story is just beginning
don't mind the few blank pages along the way
That's when I though the plot had ended
Little did I know that was just a prequel
Character development
The first chapters I know the main character is hard to decipher
Just remember this is just the beginning
I'll hold a box of tissues for you when the plot seems to twist and turn
This is just the beginning of my story
When I thought this was the last page
I realized there's a whole another book with my name on the cover
This plot hasn't even climaxed yet
Please won't you stick around and see what happens next
Because this is character development
The prequel
To the story of my life

Better than you;
always considered myself superior
--a delusion I nurtured
with vicious remarks
and cold sniggers;
within the remotest of land,
full of dust,
you learned to bloom
with your youthful flowers
growing larger
than me
and yourself.

When I was a kid
Before I could walk
My mother would hold my hands and
Carry me across the living room
While I pretended to know
How to walk.

Over time, her grip loosened and
I stopped pretending.
King of the world, I would go
anywhere. Well, anywhere without stairs
If the doors were already open.
But my mother watched over me
And gave me the places I could not take for myself.

Time passed with haircuts and hockey games,
Trips to the zoo and preschool at Kids’ Harbor.
That’s when I learned to write my own name.
Justin. Big J. Big C. Michael’s learning
cursive and Stephen’s right behind me
and Mrs. Burns teaches me Spanish and
It’s the first day of grade 3.

Ms. Hailey’s class.

Wait, no. That’s not what happened. Go back. July 1999. I can’t. I-- This isn’t. I don’t have the words. This is not what the poem is about. I can’t cope. The poem is my vehicle for coping and I’m out of words. I can’t.

It’s the first day of summer.
1999. School’s let out and mom doesn’t have to teach anymore.
Home is different now, home is family.
Just like every summer.

But we don’t talk. And when we do, I’m pushed out.
I’m not ready, so I pretend. My hand in hers, but hers isn’t
there. Soon Dad works even more hours and Michael never stop hockey
and fighting. Stephen retreats into himself and Mom? is just a voice
behind a cold door at the end of the hallway screaming

I need you to take care of yourself.

And I don’t know how. And I reach for her hand to lead mine
but I’m met only with a cold door and screaming.

I need you. To take care of yourself.

Pull back my hand. Walk down the hall, holding the wall for support.
It’s cold. And I’m lost. But I pretend to know.

And soon I’m not reaching out anymore. And then I’m not asking anymore.
See I loved my mother. And I was afraid of losing her. So I did
all I could and I disappeared--learned how to take the world for myself.
Learned to move crowds with words, figured out the password to
everyone’s heart, valued language and excellence over all else.
In 2001, I taught myself how to ride a bike.

But the whole time, I didn’t know why.
Conditioned for solitude in a self-governed rendition of aptitude, I investigated
on my own. I only needed me to take care of myself.
I gathered that a bad man named Chemotherapy
had seen something valuable in my childhood, so he took it away.
Excanged it for a box full of hats and a script of questions for
everyone I know.

This poem is written by Majd Al Deen and I ...
I wish you consider it as well as enjoy it

               ☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Every time I look around
And ponder the things we obtain
listening to the winds sound
coming from beyond the terrain

Filling my soul from inside
Brushing all the stress and pain
Opening my eyes on a side
That we are all a brain

Not only does an ***** feed on blood supplies
But It's how you stay sane
It's where your personality lies
It's where the great thoughts ingrain

We search for miracles
And we have one; our heads maintain
Nerve cells with the shape of verticals
Are that only what brains contain ?

Our souls lie within
We try not to let them drain
Our dreams, our memories are all in
They are like an unlimited chain

We love, we live, we write our story with a pen
On a marvelous paper called a brain
Our blood is our ink
And it keeps circultaing all over again

You receive,  it responds
That is why we feel pain
But emotions are like ponds
Happiness, passion and the excitement we gain

In the most difficult predicaments
You tend to use your brain
With it you overcome impediments
Which makes your way plain !

10% is all what we use
But don't you ever complain
It's a gift that we shouldn't abuse
However, a gem you must retain

Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

We are like trees that start with a trunk.
Each thought, each action, each progress
grows branches to the direction
of thought, of action, of progress.
Some are thick and lonely,
others numerous and tiny,
long, short, straight, curved,
it's different, the way to our thoughts.
The total of branches at the end,
doesn't vary to the extreme.
There is a limit where we can get,
we're not that different, it's just the way.
As seen from far, it looks the same,
the little details tell other tale.
I am not better with branch on the right,
there will be always the other side.
While having long fat piece of arm,
can not imagine it's split to some.