I want to write a song
I want to be a songwriter
I want to dream a dream
I want to be a dreamer
I want to write a poem
I want to be a poet
I want my poetry to be spread
So that someone will finally feel it
The eyes are sparkling with too much glam
Who has the power to achieve it?
The heart is burdened with too much pain
Who has the power to enter it? Then to heal it?
Then to return it to its original keeper.
Because she lost it while she was floating in gold
Golden dreams would never find its way to her miserable heart
Her miserable heart that wishes to be it all
But here she is, here she goes
Writing about her inability to let her dreams out of this ripped gray closet
She writes them down in her white screen
Perhaps someday, somebody will find it,
Will find it rare.

DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, and she dreams:?

expired sunset
a multicolored sky fired and met
wings of flee burnt rain
dawns of lasts in unseen flames

the table dines
lions chase forests of mine
like when the first sip shadowed
of the water green in lakes shallow

hands shot eyes intake
tremble ripped canvas of french fake
ashes unknown no name
to reach out faces or claim

polished the twenty third
out of the bathing bird
a Sunday morning motions
a faze of a dark table believed bad omen


                                                                               -----ravenfeels

I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.

In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.

This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments?
Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .


Words Of Harfouchism