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To the (ad)ventures
about to happen
I can't wait to
skip you
to the
best
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Maria Etre Oct 2020
I have developed the need to rely
on dramatic events
to find a purpose
Maria Etre Sep 2020
Even the ink in my quill dried out
after they burned my muse
Maria Etre Aug 2020
I can't breath

I n        e            e            d  m       y         s       p         a      c       e

nexttomykinthatcloseside|by|side

as we CAPITALIZE ON RE(FORMING x BUILDING) THE CAPITAL that's sulking in d
e                                             r
                         b
                                     i
s
hold me
I am sssshhhhaaakkkkiiiinnggggg
with RAGE
here, let me help...
lights match
here's the wick

eXXXXXpl
\O/
D
E
on the
___
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streets__

wipe out the gunk
stomp them under your feet

It's
TIME
FOR
BEIRUT
DONATE TO BEIRUT
http://www.redcross.org.lb/SubPage.aspx?pageid=1370&PID=158
دema flutter Aug 2020
sick of all the
games everyone plays,
and all the
rules I have to abide to,

sick of all the things
I need to do,
and all the times
I must silence
myself away,

sick of going
through the hardships
just to enjoy the
good times for
a little while,

sick of proving
to others
my success, my self-love,
my worth,

sick of stressing
about life before it happens,
and forgetting to just live.
Maria Etre Aug 2020
“In sickness and in health
till death do us part”

She exploded in my heart
threw me off my feet

Across a living room filled
with nights only she can host

I spoke of her to those across the world
who will never experience what it is
to fall for a city
it is beyond patriotism
this ineffable love for a sleepless phenomenon
who homes strangers
shook the world
with shockwaves
that equaled the chemical imbalance
its people have for their city

Under the debris of sparkling glass
she was broken  
there’s so much she can withstand
even when we always stand by her side
shards engrave themselves under thick skin
poking at the body that still believes in love at first breath

At a heart that does not know how to stop
At a will-power that questions its creator about its strength
At a body that homes an identity beyond this world
alien to it

toxicity hovered in lungs

And across skies
blushing clouds
turning them pink

Sunset wasn’t serene

The ocean cradled bodies

on their way to the afterlife

They cried salty tears


Fed up.

Her soil has felt the stomping anger of grieving mothers, fathers, husbands
families
the last words of suffocating victims who never lost hope till

The angels opened the doors of the sky

To welcome new brave souls into the heavens
to lead by example
their white coffins
wed the earth with the skies
they watch over us

Brooms brushed her face
Hands held others
Homes homed
Revolutionists revolted
Nooses were hung
judgment day is knocking
at our hearts
and mind you, we are known
for our hospitality

She cannot cry

She never did

It never suited her

But she sure knows how to roar
how to devour
parasites feeding at her immortality

I wear your ring around my finger

“In sickness and in health
till nothing does us part”
To Beirut,
To August 4, 2020, 6:10 pm
To its people
To its everything
Alicia Prakash Jun 2020
A symphony for Baghdad:
Words in crimson
On flimsy placards
Held high with anger
Frustration writ
On their ragged features.
The law is hard but it is the law
Says the hypocritical politician
Who bends them all
“Enough is enough”, the people said
Teargas and bullets will not make us sway
Release your bombs and fire your bullets,
Let our blood water this holy ground
Our motherland
But we will not let you stay.
Centuries have passed
Since Sheherezade told her tale
Years have passed since Aladdin’s magic lamp
First touched the minds of the young ones.
Is it a surprise that the young are dead?
Baghdad has fallen
Prey to the hands of those
Who support murdering their brethren and children.
The sun rose and set
The numbers went from thirty to three hundred
And no one cared.
Winners in Baghdad these days are those
Who returns home from the protests
Wearing a necklace of half a metal heart for a pendant
Knowing the other half was lost to the bullets.
They share stories of passion and fury
To hide the void within
Their hope, their faith, lost.
Their sacrifices in vain.
The protests grow old
With news, numbers and names of the players
Of this sick, faux patriotic game.

Lebanon:
The Chaos has affected them far too long
They now out there looking for peace and hope to now spread out more
Havoc almost birthed, they circle and stop the creation
Letting the higher-ups know
Who brings the forth the negatives and hurt
Food and shelter provided
Streets cleaned and maintained for use by all
Wish the world could learn how to function together like this
Imagine a world where
Little children are smiling, greeting other children from different countries and cultures
Living and playing together without a worry in the world
Men and women living in harmony and happiness
Peace an actuality in the world
But that’s only in your head
In reality
Little children are bombed and interrupted by death
Men rather **** the women and **** or shoot down the men that don’t agree with or are against them
Peace is being held on a leash by Chaos
That’s happening in front of your eyes
And right now, you’re probably just gonna read it, like it and move on, but nope.
I see people sharing
More is needed to be done
As I said, I and my friends are bringing the tools
All you have to do is use them properly
If you really want to see peace, you’ll know what to do
I know what I’m doing
Perspective I gained
And now I’m making sure it happens.
The Young Poet May 2020
My name is intangible, its recited or sung, a verse from old folk poetry or the beautiful Quran. I’m remembered when a Zajjalin sings, words of poetry, rhythms and feelings. I'm the makeup of things whether suppressive or freeing and the concrete emotions that a poet leaves ringing.

My name is the voices of change in Lebanon’s civil war. A wounded country where the people is its soul. I was the hope and granddaughter my grandfather wished to call. I carry the name proudly waiting for Lebanon’s sun to return home.
The Young Poet - AA
Maria Etre Feb 2020
Lebanon,
Never forget
You'll always be my
Valentine
Maria Etre Jan 2020
It's like I summon the universe now
we talk at night
meet for coffee
and sometimes
he surprises me
when I think he doesn't listen
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