The world has escaped me, you leave me no choice
The traces of my past swallows me every day a little more
I want to run and scream no body understands
Every time i smile i feel like i am digging my grave with my own hands


Words Of Harfouchism

I may have not known you for long.
But long enough to feel your warm
Embrace, jaunty smile and bright face.

You cradled me when I was a baby-
If only I could have that in my memory.

You came to my new home: smiled because you couldn't smile at yourself: inside.

You spent your days by the beach with your dog, confused at Life, lost.

If only I knew you had no one to turn to. I was here to offer love, more than you could imagine.

I was here if you needed a shoulder
To cry upon, a body to sink into.

I'm glad I didn't see you like your end.
I want to see that happy, joyful girl forever inside my head.

I still feel in touch with you; parallel universes, tying your thoughts on to my dream catcher...

'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree... with her hand in her ***** and her head upon her knee...'

And as time passes on and you have passed on, you linger
still

Walking rounds among the streets, the country lanes and by still waters.

You were forsaken for your beauty
And now in your name, I will live my life truly.

on which line to proceed
negotiable life
in whose pocket is the real
what to look for in dreams
who asked to the magician
why is  fortune teller

no long story end

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic

A piece of my heart
has been sliced
to where its been crushed
to blend
something new.

I've grown to
understand
the big sea
to where I was
afraid of being aware
this might
happened
.
.
.
then, it already has
as so I let it be
for a time
that I never forgot
nor forgive
what they
did.

I know my flaws
are evident,
it is what makes
who I am, 'not perfect'
as I improved,
honed and
proved to feel
the understanding
of the big sea
but it doesn't mean
you can freely capture
someone's heart
to tear apart,
*a sincere poet
never steals the
life of others.

The writer's life
Consists of looming strife
For a writer's eyes are keen
To the suffering that usually goes unseen

All writers are bearers of truth
Wielding their pens like a scalpel that cuts through
All the **** we tell ourselves
That keeps us in denial

A writer seeks truth incessantly
And eventually comes upon the somewhat ambiguous answer
That all truth originates from Love
How does the writer's analytical mind
Grapple with such a fluid concept?

The writer sees beauty in the invisible
Writes poetry on bathroom stalls
Lives life solely for stories
The writer feels things deeply but doesn't speak them,
But rather scribbles her thoughts fervently in a notebook
The words dancing on the page
As they are released from the tip of the pen
The writer knows, sadly, that even though she writes stories to make people feel less alone
That these people will never truly ever understand her and neither will
She ever be able to fully embody the experience of another human

The writer has wounds that go deeper than you could fathom
When no one was there to turn to,
She picked up a notebook instead and released the toxic emotional build-up in her head
Made art out of her sadness on the page
Through poetic words,
Elusive and enigmatic,
She could tell her story, indirectly
And still set herself free from the ******* of unspoken miseries

The writer's life is a privileged one indeed
For we see things, but don't speak them
But rather transcribe them forever in our memories
Until we find a clean sheet of paper,
And write
Write everything we've seen, heard, tasted, felt, known and intuited
Every struggle and every victory
Meticulously crafted upon the bare canvas
Like a war zone with an abundance of pent up zest
Finally unleashing itself upon the page
So, write, my fellow Writers
Write fearlessly
And our stories will prevail
They will impact even just one person
Who thought they were all alone,
Perhaps like we once felt.