Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.

The Night We Met Pt. 2

I see two people in a car.
They have clicked a few days ago, but you’d think they have known each other for a longer time.
For once, they agree on one song, and they play it so loud as they drive into the night. Their voices grow louder, blending together to create something a bit more united.
Their coming together had happiness knocking on their doors.
Their coming together had given the stars of the night a bit more light.
Their coming together had created someone new as a part of their life.
I see two people in a car.
They have clicked a few days ago, but you’d think they have known each other for a longer time.
For once, they don’t know where they’re heading. However, they don’t care, because misery is nowhere to be seen, laughter is all they hear, and the night is less lonelier as it seems.

The Night We Met Pt. 1

I see him.
I admit, it makes me miss him.
I admit, it makes me miss our days.
I see him in Canada, far away. Someone I no longer know.
I see myself in Jeddah, far away. Someone I no longer know.
I feel the cold mornings, I feel the emptiness that crawls into me. I feel the strings detaching themselves from him. I feel the heartache becoming a regular feeling.
I see him.
I admit, it makes me miss him.
I admit, it makes me miss our days.
I see him in Canada, far away. Someone I am no longer in love with, someone I am no longer with. Someone I doubt I know.
I see myself in Egypt, not so far away. Someone I am learning to know, someone I am falling in love with. Someone without him.

Writers lies with intent to deceive
It cries for someone so hard to achieve
Give me a pen and I will write
With my almight then I will fight
Spectrum of ink with feelings inside
Come together with violent collide
White paper and thoughts of pure
Having no fault was so obscure
Teardrops around my sullen eyes
The broken poet it never lies
A thousand poem can never repair
The displacement of single swear
And if you could give me a chance to rewrite the past
Then it is my pleasure to lighten-up the blast

I thought
you were the sunlight
slicing my dark
when all you did was
sketching everything black

The pen can strike much deeper than the sword.
Yet the sword will always have its place.
It deserves the utmost respect.
Like a solider who sets out to meet his foe- he recognizes his enemy and acknowledges its power.
He's prepared for every blow.

Know your place and learn your stance.
Be ever quick to hold your tongue.
The man behind a rifle analyzes every angle before he pulls the trigger on that gun.

Both a bullet and a word can send a ripple in effect.
Make no mistake in all your judgments
they may stretch the length of death.

Pressing on into the future yet we never know what's next.
What does tomorrow hold?
Take a guess, and I assure you it's as good as mine will ever be.

I see a man behind a desk;
he conjures up a thought.
I see a soldier set in battle;
he's prepared to take his shot.

You see before the lights go out, there's always work yet to be done.
As the clock continues racing,
set your pace against the sun.

Take aim.
Your opponent is at the ready.

I work alone.
And when the words are finished
and the ink is dry
I put them in a bottle
and throw them out to sea.