"lebanese" poems
No matter how much our country has suffered
No matter how many wars there will be
We will always rise above those difficulties
Because we are Lebanese and NO ONE can steal our identity <3
Happy independence day to all the Lebanese people out there
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
"Stoner's Poem"
I see your snapstories,
I see your ask profile.
I see how you comment and reply and flaunt your English skills.
Trust me, I love your rebuttals,
More than Biryani and the Lebanese pornstar.
I see your Facebook posts,
I see your WordPress,
And I see, how you craft your poems flamboyantly,
And then, and then,
Pilfer my breath,
And rob my me.
Sometimes, just sometimes,
Your deportment bewilders me,
More than Lowry-Bronsted's theory.
I see how you dance in the rain,
Like "All, sin, tan, cos", do in my brain.
I see how you frequent every segment of my cardiac muscle,
And then desert it, like it's one of the many dilapidated constructions.
My reminiscences about your thingness,
Escalate me to a higher spiritual level,
More than **** does.
Oh, that smile,
Oh, that look,
Oh, the mystique in you.
And again, I am writing of Love.
And the pen doesn't seem to stop soon,
For I have taken a greater risk,
Than asking my friend about cathodes and anodes and electrolysis, while I took my last chemistry exam,
When the invigilator was around.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
The Story
by Kamal Nasser
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will tell you a story ...
a story that lived in the dreams of my people,
a story that comes from the world of tents.
It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror.
It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees.
Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them
and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels.
It is the story of the suffering ones
who stood waiting in line ten years,
in hunger,
in tears and agony,
in hardship and yearning.
It is a story of a people who were misled,
who were thrown into the mazes of the years.
And yet they stood defiant,
disrobed yet united
as they trudged from the light to their tents:
the revolution of return
into the world of darkness.
Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet and Palestinian Christian, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Barak (born Ehud Brog) later ruled as Israel’s tenth Prime Minister from 1999 to 2001. His adopted Hebrew name Barak means "lightning." As a younger man, Brog/Barak was a member of a secret assassination unit that liquidated Palestinians in Lebanon and the occupied territories. In the 1973 covert mission Operation Spring of Youth in Beirut, which was part of the larger Operation Wrath of God, he disguised himself as a woman in order to assassinate Palestinians. The raid resulted in the deaths of two women, one of them an elderly Italian. Two Lebanese policemen were also killed, along with the poet Kamal Nasser.
Nasser was the PLO's most prominent Christian and he enjoyed "great appeal" in Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq "both as a distinguished poet and likeable personality." He was the “conscience of the Palestinian revolution,” according to Nazih Abul-Nidal, who worked with him on the magazine Filastin al-Thawra. Nasser “had the most democratic outlook of all Palestinian leaders at the time,” he recalls. He respected opposing views, admired the commitment of young people, and was a major recruitment asset for the Palestinian revolution. “That is why he was put high on the hit-list.” The previous year, the Israelis had murdered another renowned Palestinian writer and activist in Beirut, Ghassan Kanafani, by booby-trapping his car. Nasser’s successor, Majed Abu Sharar, was also assassinated by Israelis, in Rome in 1981 while attending a conference in solidarity with the Palestinian people.
Keywords/Tags: Kamal Nasser, Palestinian, Palestine, PLO, Conscience, Ramallah, Christian, religion, poet, Arab, Arabic, Arab Spring, betrayal, conflict, courage, devotion
Dec 9, 2021
Dec 9, 2021 at 7:55 AM UTC
i can not even write this
because it will be anti
american
unpatriotic
and an
insult to
the land
of freedom
i was born in.
I can not even write this
because I am the first
generation
daughter
child
born in
the land
of freedom.
I can not write this
because my abuela
will tell me that I am
lebanese
cuban
and i was
born in
the land of
freedom.
i can not even write this
because my Tio
who came to
America
at the age of 6
and had “adjustment”
issues will remind me that
I
Am
American.
Tio will tell me that
I
am privileged.
because I was
born in the
land of freedom.
Abuela will remind me
that CUBA is
dead.
Abuie will remind me
to hush about all things
Arabic and Lebanese
because I am
American
born in the
land of freedom.
She reminds to hush
about the black
eyes
that see past
this land to the past
of other places
that whisper
my name.
They remind me
that I am
American and
not a communist
not a terrorist
not a girl who
hears her name
sung in the winds
of other lands
which i have not
wandered.
Abuela reminds me
to not yearn for
white sandy beaches
with waves that break
on a rock laiden wall.
Abuie reminds me
to ignore the need
for hot sand
beneath my feet
and wafting smell
of foreign spices
that are
unknown
to those born
in the land of freedom.
In the land of
freedom?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
The scuff of sneakers, boots and flats form the solid and stable beat.
Add in the chuckles, silences and brief interruptions to create the varying and rhythm.
All that remains is what goes unsaid but is speeding around in your mind.
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was telling us how peace and non-violence starts with us,
With middle-schools, with teens, with future leaders
To all those who laugh, when I say violence is never the answer,
You're the ones I worry about
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was speaking to us about how the kids had a parliament in Uzbekistan
Those kids had a say in what their fate would be
Believe it or not,
But adults are not the only things to make up our society...
Infants, toddlers, 5th graders, 8th graders, 11th graders, seniors, the diseases make up us, us..
So maybe parents shelter us too much, or not at all.
And kids throw fits in the grocery store
While teenagers attempt to jump off the nearest bridge
This is our society..
But we're like those kids in Uzbekistan
We have a say in what our fate will be
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was sharing out how blessed he was to be living here in the United States
Even though he could live in a much more peaceful and welcoming society.
I have no idea how many years i will be,
Or what has to happen before we get the message across..
That's what's played out isn't acceptable
The American people,
Were baffled, devastated, overwhelmed
That all those stereotypes really were mixed within us.
Obama stood up in that room
With a shaky camera man, staring while he slumped and grieved
He addressed our nation,
Homeland,
Country
Community
Family
About Newtown,
Clackamas Town Center
No leader should ever be forced to speak about children dying long before there time was up
Or about average people ducking and diving from bullets
Gun Control is only a little layer
And that's the start of our restoration to end up being a peaceful, safe country
It begins with how youth are shown how to solve problems.
I'm willing to reach my hand out to every single state in this country
And if that means devoting everything I've got to making our restoration successful,
Then so be it..
No leader or person should be raising candles to the sky for little kids to see that they are missed.
And I took all of this in at a Lebanese Luncheon
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
I have developed the need to rely
on dramatic events
to find a purpose
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 9:04 AM UTC
Corporations **** the core
Cuts the soul to ribbons
Takes all the labor
And pays back in paltry paychecks
That barely covers our debts
Whilst doling out pain and exhaustion
But the people are good
Hardworking and smiling
Straining to maintain
That spark of heart
That remains
While paying their bills
And feeding their family
The shift starts
And tired bodies
Stumble in
Factory already
Rumbling
Like last night’s thunder
People laughing and chatting
Lebanese dude calls me Habibie
Grinning and patting me on the back
Brown brother give me a knuckle bust
As he passes by with a playful gleam in his eyes
One guy doesn’t high five but bumps elbows
The Congo girls speak another language
Beautiful flowing and musically rhythmical
The Janitor sings Motown
In this factory town these are good people
The generators hum
The machine sings
Doing their thing
Hoses circulate water
Like life’s blood
Taking in the heat
And sending it away
Bringing back more cool water
That does the same
Cooling the loud and hot equipment
While the employees are stressed and sweating
Wearing muscle fatigue and sleep deprivation
Like it’s their second skin
The machines drums ch, ch, crack
Ch, ch crack like a musical number
While the workers hustle
A smoke break and a popsicle
Then back to work
A lunch break and a conversation
Then back to work
Last smoke break and a phone call
Then back to work
Leaving the factory body hurting
But still coming off
The assembly line a good person
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
Summer air
Slight breeze
I feel her angst
Amongst my knees
As I free
Within my trees
So enveloped I become
with ease
But still remains
a simple disbelief
She had gone back
to Lebanese
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:00 AM UTC
I’m crucified on the cross roads of doubt;
My heart is in the middle of all this,
My head
Is tilted downwards,
My eyes are shut;
Inverted,
So as to look upon my past
Because some time
Some where
There is a missing link,
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own
In it,
There is no, wide spaces of sand
And camel-descending romans
Trying to stab me with nails;
Instead,
There’s real people,
With real nails;
There is hope,
Now lighter than sand granules,
And sand castles
Crumbling down,
Leaving enough space
For a flower to emerge
In an Arab spring
Fertilized with corps
And watered with blood;
For Lebanon is running out of water
Like the Lebanese are running out of faith-
Running into walls.
Jumping over obstacles,
Over explosion debris,
Jumping way in over our heads.
I’m in a Jerusalem of my own,
One I call home,
With windows that open
To reshuffle the air particles
In a room that has enclosed upon itself,
With doors that creek
For the scars of the past
Still haunt them,
With walls
Painted with portraits
Protecting the memory
Of the ones I loved,
With walls painted with portraits
Picturing poetic illusions-
Ones that never left my brains,
Ones that tell me,
Every night I lose myself
In her pictures,
That we are getting back together,
One day,
Somehow,
Somewhere,
There is a missing link
That if I find
All this would be clear.
I’m strumming out of tune questions
On guitars that carry my stories,
With strings that need to be changed
And necks that grow long
As the path
I still have in front of me;
And though this is not a problem
For a Hendrix and a joint,
I’m just an ordinary man
With a pen-
I wear ordinary clothes,
I feed up on
Ordinary capitalism,
I ***** up my notes
Of which I never took any;
Jerusalem fell apart,
But my Jerusalem did not fall yet.
On my crucifix,
There’s a writing that says
“There’s always a piece of you in people,
As much as there’s a piece of them in you.”
I’m just a man on a crucifix
But writers can never be tamed,
For they live through the people that learn from them;
And those people,
Maintain they live forever.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:16 PM UTC
I want to come up with amendments,
But my brains cannot function
Because I have spent the last 8 hours
Trying to memorize the 2 “I’s” of Lebanese history
Irony and Ignorance.
I want to fix the world
But I was never the handy man;
I once broke my mother’s phone
Trying to wipe the screen;
And frankly,
I don’t really know what’s wrong with it.
I want to patch my mother’s heart.
The bullet in her son’s temple
Burnt a hole in her arteries,
So every time she inhales
She could taste the lead
Between her husband’s eyes;
Because before the stars collapsed
They were just scanning the shelves for skimmed milk;
His daughter suffered from diabetes,
And before the sun exploded
At the bend of a thumb
She was hanging from his arms,
Jane trying to swing her way
But in this movie
She never meets Tarzan.
His daughter was only 3.
A car bomb
Can conflagrate
From 9,000 up to 27,000 feet per second
Both are multiples of 3.
A wired van
Can carry up to 12,000 pounds
Of explosives
Also a multiple of 3.
On her 3rd birthday
She blew 3 candles,
And 3 candles were lit-
Every night,
In between the white roses-
Over her grave.
I want to breathe
Burning tires,
I want to bask
In blood,
I want to think
In exchange rates,
I want to feel numb;
If this is the only way…
Is this the only way
To survive?
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
The world has changed and so have we,
United we would never be.
Consumed by selfish greed our leaders fall,
The propaganda war blinds us all.
Unless we change for a new tomorrow,
The Lebanese soil will cry in sorrow,
Recalling the days we Lebanese stood firm,
Against all odds, fighting by our own terms.
In the land of the strong, the generous and the wise
Conducted disorder reduced our proud size
Us divided so is the ground under our feet
All alone the road becomes too steep
All that we need is to look at history
Read what was there and compare to what we see
The wise knows the brain, the warrior knows the heart
Carriers of blood hide not your origins, unleash your mark.
But what land do I speak of?
Was it the land of the free and brave?
But haven’t they all fled off?
For their future they must save.
To seek new opportunities they have gone,
Beyond the seven seas and the western stars,
Where they can bloom safely, save their sons
From where lies corruption and wars.
Yet under the dreaded shade of corruption
Still runs a silent whisper of light, unsold
So raise your heads and shout out this resolution
Let the whistle turn into anthems of hope
One day the whole world will hear our shout
That day we will have learnt to use our might
We did not think or let our spirit show
But today on the big black wall, we pierced a beam of light.
So Rise mighty phoenix and spread your wings wide.
Scorch the earth and awaken the spirits, the everlasting fire.
Light a candle, for those gone,
Light a fire, the new dawn.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
I made the trip north,
used my Eurail pass
with dope-orders
burning in my pocket
& a stack of some
cold hard cash
to purchase a stash.
In fact, it was a secret
clandestine mission,
a paid commission to
find the highest-quality.
And I did score,
several grams
of Lebanese brick
did the trick.
The whole school
called in sick for a week,
hungover on the highest-quality,
smoked out on pins & cups.
After I got back from that
one trip to Amsterdam,
they called me
"The Smuggler"
& I became a legend
amongst my peers.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
oh inherited hair,
why do you kink and twirl
straight is in, smooth the curl
your twists and turns are rare
with the popular, you'll never compare
Thanks to you, I look like a little girl
humidity helps the whirl
never mind the cut or care
Lebanese in pedigree
no reason to change yourself in shame
textured, strong, full, wavy, and dark
don't wait for vision and reality to agree
owning it will make a mark
let it shine - the real you - don't tame
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Two Maronite schoolchildren practice their English…
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
“See theirs, seethers, Caesars,
See her cedars Caesar?”
“See here, a sea-fare and see there?
And oh, I see Sir?”
“Do you see her? Yes I see Sir, -Caesar!”
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
And they are descendants of Solomon’s thirty-thousand, the great-grandchildren of Hiram’s workers.
“Sol Indiges!”
“Sol Invictus!”
“Sol-Ammon!”
“Now children, how do the three monkeys act?”
“Sol, the root of solar and it means the Sun, it means also to see or sight as it infers the light of seeing.”
“Am means fire but it is also the meditative word, Aum, therefore it cannot render evil through sound!”
“On is Egyptian and it connotes speech so it represents hearing.”
The instruction in language is not terse. Requiring broad-based understandings of how the West characterizes ideas. These two are particularly adept being taught from birth in both Maronitic and Latin and now English, in preparation for their exodus, as home has become a battleground where they must leave soon. Only in the West can they find peace and practice their faith so expressively. Only in the West can these two girls attend school if their lands are befallen…
“Now children, what does this mean?”
“See no evil!”
“Speak no Evil!”
“Hear no Evil!”
“And that children, is the Wisdom of Solomon!”
Breaking news! CNN reports that a car bomb has exploded in the ancient Lebanese town of Mejdeloon. Shocking footage now of a series of homes that have been reduced to rubble near a Maronite Church where rescuers are just now pulling out the bodies of two young school girls. Christopher Talias reports live from the Lebanon.
“Sol Indiges is the voice of god,"
Sol Invictus, in light, his mind;"
Sol-Ammon is the understanding and wisdom for all time!”
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
Am I the turn table playing your favorite 45 ? No , call me the stack of pennies on the arm that kept the record from skipping ! I am certainly not the eight track player , or the tape itself , call me the match book that kept it from wavering and distorting the sound ...........
Might you be the cassette pragmatic one ? No ! Sadly , I'm the teenager that could splice the tape back together but barely walk , high on blond Lebanese !
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:59 AM UTC
Ya look all over
and see people
everywhere
hands in pockets,
coins passing through
fingers; gold watches
glimmering beneath the
summer setting sun
These people
are people you could
love, have loved,
and may never love again
We share our
bodies like bees
with their
honey
And it's okay to
lose it all, as though
we never had it
in the first place
The tidal of days
ahead, crashing
against our open mouths;
Productivity
a curse
The pursuit
of happiness
a disease
Ya wonder if
it's going to get
any better;
if it's going to be
as perfect as it
was when we
were children
But the universe
had something
worse
in store for
us
instead
The air condition
hums, the car starts
and the engine
rattles, the baby
coos for warmth;
and somewhere
someone is holding
a door for a woman
who has an appointment
with a doctor;
there's a bump
where there
shouldn't be;
a deep love
that dare
not leave.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
I say I'm a Muslim, but I can't tell anymore.
I can't tell from what goes in my mouth,
what comes out and hits you on the cheek
worse than a slap, harder than a mere insult.
I'm outraged, but what reason do I have?
On the outside I could be anyone,
and I usually am.
Sometimes I am Puerto Rican, Lebanese, or Black--
a child asked me once, and I just smiled back.
How sweet would it be to take every crayon from the box,
even now that the numbers have multiplied and
what was once simple 8, 12, 24, 36,
has exploded into a million colors with a million names,
to crush them into bitty pieces and swirl the mixture with water;
make it all into One.
so that if we hate another
(what other?)
we just hate ourselves.
I say I'm a Muslim, and I know I am
because when I give up all my frustrations and
my toddler tantrums, and I even give up yoga,
or rather it gives me up, thankfully so,
when I injure my back: I'm grateful for that.
What a knowing presence God is to take away that which harms
and restore that which fulfills.
But even to those who are still hurting
(and I often am)
there are these small remembrances that come
between this onset of tears and the next.
Whether the sun peers through the dusty blinds,
the ones you need to clean again--so soon,
and you see the light stream through, faintly at first,
until you are forced to open your eyes,
to remove yourself from the hate you've stewed in:
how simple is that?
I say I'm a Muslim, and it's a choice
I make every day or avoid until the next day,
even though that day may not be easily given.
And I forget that.
But when I see life slip away from young lives, old lives,
lives not yet born
then I have to remember
that I do not have the answers,
and every time I try to be dictator of my destiny
I fail miserably, miserably, miserably.
And now that I wrote this poem
and I felt myself think, no, truly feel for the first time in a week,
that my robotic expression has melted into a frown that stands
a chance at becoming a smile.
Now that I am human I am a Muslim.
Not perfectly so, but decidedly so.
(In memory Deah Shaddy Barakat, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha)
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
Good Fences
Oxymoronic mania
Infecting ordinary beings!
Through the ages.
“Good fences make good neighbours”
They say
So they say
Israel, one day
Will be the best
Of neighbours
With the wall all around them
From east to west
Buddies to Bedouins
Touted by Saudis
Lebanese unfreeze
Hamas 'no mas'!
We should all build
A wall!
Sean Hunt
Windermere Jan 30 2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
Shebaa Farms Stolen Lebanese land.
Golan Heights Stolen Syrian land.
Gaza Stolen Palestinian land.
West Bank Stolen Palestinian land.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 6:06 PM UTC
I pod I phone I couldn't give a toss
Android or Google it makes me so cross
Jumpers with puddings antlers and bells
No ****** turkeys so fights at M and S
Away in a manger?
More like with the fairys!
Mummys half cut with the pre Xmas sherry
Dads bursting out of a suit that's too small
For a couple of kids who deserve **** all!
Santas naughty list is totally ignored
Hundreds are spent to hype it up more
Excess in all and no idea of why
Christmas is lost and the meaning a lie
Gifts for a newborn became a flat screen TV
The Christmas works party
***** or VD
It's Christmas yelled out by Slade and Roy Wood
Danced to by drunkards who hope for some luck
It's over next morning with socks and lynx
Do all women think we're barefoot and stink?
So love to you all and peace on earth
Haven't you heard a ****** gave birth?
Her dad was unknown the father quite odd
Talked like a ****** to some guy called god
She was probably spaced out on Lebanese red
Thought that an angel had been in her bed!
So drink up my friends and remember one thing
It's Christmas tomorrow the birth of the king.
So off to the church and pretend to be good
And full of good cheer
And back to hatred for the rest of the year
Were bombing the ***** out of the Holy Lands
The points been missed
We're all ******
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
I wish I was one of those girls who could laugh for fake candid photos
I wish I didn’t like to dance so much
I wish I was into white guys who were blind about their privilege
I wish I laughed at the things they laugh at
I wish I wasn’t Cuban sometimes
I wish I wasn’t Lebanese either
I wish I liked makeup tutorials
I wish I liked putting hours into my hair
I wish I was dedicated to my beauty
I wish I knew how to cook for a man
I wish I knew how to keep my room neat
I wish I liked corny quotes about happiness
I wish my deep thoughts didn’t sabotage my relationships
I wish my mind wasn’t so scattered
I wish I could join a sorority
I wish I could put up with most groups of girls
I wish I saw sexuality as black and white
I wish I wasn’t lazy
I wish I understood the science of dressing like an instagram girl
I wish I was better at school
I wish I didn’t get along with guys so well
I wish I didn’t have a weird sense of humor
I wish I didn’t resent my parents
I wish I never tried drugs
I wish I wasn’t so experimental with myself
I wish I wasn’t so hopeless
I wish I got through breakups more easily
I wish I didn’t like my hair short
I wish I would take off my makeup before I go to bed more
I wish I didn’t like talking about controversial topics
I wish I didn’t like going against the grain
I wish I got ready faster
I wish I had a more realistic idea of time
I wish I had bubbly handwriting
I wish I liked Vera Bradley
I wish I didn’t like it when my ******* could be seen through my shirt
I wish I liked pop music
I wish I didn’t notice how they frame commercials
I wish I was one of those girls that only had *** with 4 people
I wish I didn’t like it when my **** looked big
I wish I liked baking
I wish I didn’t like ****
I wish I didn’t like vibrators
I wish I could talk about materialistic things for long periods of time
I wish I didn’t struggle with depression or ADD
I wish I didn’t get ***** playing cops and robbers growing up
I wish I wasn’t cynical
I wish I didn’t like trap music
I wish there was a plot twist to this poem where I didn’t wish these things at all
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
darwinism killed music off:
i moved to scotland for three
years, to the soundtrack
of for the love of a princess,
instead i got a foreign
exchange student from grenoble
studying the death defying
practice of psychology
who said i spoke no organics
in terms of tongue, ****** her
while she crawled into my bed
and lost my virginity like a fox,
on the sly, to the motto i caricatured
saying to fifty thousand pound debt:
only idiots educate themselves these
days -
this atheism non-congregating will
not succeed, it will fail, it will fail, it,
will, fail!
a postcard from a Lebanese girl i asked
for a date to see some moving pictures
didn't help (when i was at high school)...
she read the book the hours
a year later (a virginia woolf adaptation)...
spare the boy! spare the boy for fuck's sake!
old stiff collar ***** **** bureaucrat
just said: verzweiflung verzagen eine gedanke -
für beweis ex pluralismus
(despair despaired a thought - for proof out of
pluralism).
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC
When I stepped off any JetBlue flights
I always look forward in passing through customs
like a relief of fresh air, as I broad a taxi
and homeward to the hills,
Now it's like humiliations taking over one's pride:
#Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. #
The smell of the countryside fresh air,
The picturesque that blanket the countryside, (pleasing)
The welcoming of the breaded goats bleeping (Pleasing)
moves the little girl inside of this old gal.
These days it’s which hotel should I booked for my days stayed
in Quarantine, or which government facility will I be sent off too
Between a rock and a hard place,
I can’t stress hard enough about those Chinese.
Which make our Lebanese bombers looks like saints?
My fainted heart can’t stand this new normal:
The bleach rocks on the sands awaits my arrivals,
And I for one can’t wait to see this corvid19 as a historical memory
Too much emotional, overload for most of us.(including me) however,
being too hasty can also be deadly, or one would say
Don't be hasty to hug! That was never a problem for me
I never hug, anyone...
Keep your distance, I keep mines too
Poetry is also a distance, that why I love to compose..
Long enough have I dreamed of happiness,
Now I waited for news to strived for happiness once again
To dance from dusk to dawn, at Q in the community
To walked freely on the sandy shore,
Without restriction, of a mask bandit,
I am not a swimmer, but to feel the salted water on my ashy feet,
The midst of sea upon my breast, and my cheap weaved curled into locks
That when I know, I am home again, upon that hill (Prout hill)
Where the neighbors' gossips, and tambourine echoes in the village church
On Sundays.
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 9:55 AM UTC
I’ve been mired in an existential crisis for so long now, I don’t trust jelly.
It just doesn’t look right.
Bear with me here. (Barry the bubbly brown bear. See what I did there?)
What if, jelly disproves the life is a computer simulation theory?
Why would a sentient machine running a computer program to simulate life write jelly into the programming?
It wouldn’t, right?
So now that I’ve nixed that theory for y’all.
What else ya got?
Jan 29, 2023
Jan 29, 2023 at 3:09 PM UTC