I can see the
Unfinished man
In pencil
That drawing that's missing
something  
The outline of you
The curves of you forming
But still not whole
Still seeing who you might be
What moves you make
I can even see where
You have been erased
Mistakes have been drawn over
Paper is worn a little
Even torn
But
I'll be patient
I'll wait
For you to fill in
Get your lines straight
For you to be complete

And
Drawn in ink

It is from your synthetic relations that i learn
what to make of, and how to observe
the traumas that once occured.

Transformed,
Translated into words
To lighten up the burden
Of the destiny flowing in my nerves.

Chosen for me or impregnated
The path is created
Before the men that walks it to get mutated
Together in your synthetic relashionships.


Words Of Harfouchism

All I wanted was to talk:
to have another acknowledge these events
That tore my life to shreds.

When I did speak,
It was instantly flipped or ignored.
So I said enough, I'm not doing this anymore.

I will not give to those who only take
Or to hear my stories so they can create
A reality which would leave me
The center of their entertainment.

I am not a joke,
Nor is my life at any rate,
A show.

I admit I was clingy, I admit I lost connections
I thought were worthy of pursuing
Because I needed support early in the friendship.

They didn't know
I was in anguish
Or perhaps they didn't care.
Either way,
I was left standing there.

My screams were muted,
My statements unheard.
The help I needed
Was blatantly ignored

I'm now silent
To prevent these losses
Because apparently people
Don't know how to handle these problems