Look, I was gonna go easy on you not to hurt your feelings, but I’m only going to get this one chance!
Something’s wrong… I can feel it.
Just a feeling I got, like something’s about to happen… but I don’t know what.
If that means what I think it means, we’re in trouble—big trouble—and if he’s as bananas as you say I’m not taking any chances!

(You are just what the doc ordered)

I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They said I write like a monster, so call me scribe-star,
But for me to write like a beast means I’m a demon at least;
I got a devil kept in my pocket,
On my shoulder’s when I rock it.
Talkin’ of killin’ and of thrillin’; won’t stop it!
Write a demon doorway, now knock on it!
Ever since the dark days when I’d just lost it,
Way back when the world would pace and chant “Nutcase!”
I’m a ******, but I’m charming;
Yes, a crude, rude dude, but I’m still disarming.
Using syllables to **** ‘em all with this
empowering empire of powerful vampires.
The writer-type clackin’ back with typewriters, like way back, right?
Clackity-clack!
Rockin’ stack after stack, clackin’ out more attacks,
Ideas tacked out while hacks hack out their crap (but ******* spew **** all the time),
so I perform written parkour tricks so you’re not bored; strike a chord.
Show you Stryker’s tortured life of suicide ‘n strife turnin’
to strength and a fiery passion burnin’ while readers’ guts are churnin’—
teary eyes all burnin’.
Their fears are returnin’ from a story I turned out when I got turned on
to my own life.
Now I drop F-bombs;
exploding real-life scenes—
these ain’t your G-rated dreams, so take your outdated themes—
It’s the **** I’ve seen; don’t make me obscene.
I’m mean, I mean, it’s my means to screen a scene between a matte sheen.

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
Now here I am again for another rap talk, rap talk…
They ask me to thaw out these oily blocks called ink-wads, ink-wads.
There’s a body in everybody , but not all bodies have a brain that makes them feel sane.
Like a train—just the same—
Might be runnin’ but we still cast blame,
The loading docks of our thoughts; they’re locked-up in a box,
And they’re stackin’ up like blocks
That turn the stacks to empty tracks (****!)
Trainees blame their brainees when it’s not easy training brains, see?
But the boarding isn’t boring—training brains; not trading pains—
Remember: the station’s self-exploration!
Me? I’m a hodgepodge! From train station to abandoned lodge;
Bully dodgin’, fully locked-in when I freaked out, fattened-up and then I geeked out,
Told “keep it down” but then peaked when I peeked deep down.
Creepin’ up, now, and keepin’ up (WOW!)
I swear it up and tear it up scribbled swords,
And now I wear awards for slingin’ words;
Offered praise; a chance to forget about the craze that once darkened all my days,
But I write that way—say “that’s okay ‘cuz it helps me write this way—each and every day!
And hacks think I act this way just to seem this way, ‘til come the day when the cray-cray takes the doubt away.
Demon obsessed? I’m possessed! Can’t own what you don’t possess!
“Hey, devil-lookin’ boy!”
So ***** for my honey I’m rockin’ horns, look here boy!
A Literary Dark Mass-acre,
Like the devil laid waste to a church on the page, looker boy!
They got a gold star, and a high five,
Felt so alive to see their own scribes make it to Momma’s fridge, ****** boy!
Hey, schnook-ah boy, looky here, looker boy,
I’m held up by The Legion, book-it boy!
Had to push for every word—every page—had to swallow all the rage,
Now you want out of your cage, schnook-ah boy?
I’m legendary—literary—and you’re literally just a *****, little boy!
So sell out while I’m bought out, ******-boy!

‘Cause I’m beginning to feel like a write god (write god).
Can all the readers out there who think I’m right nod, right nod.
The way I’m burnin’ through these pages, call me Dark Lord, Dark Lord!
But they’d rather burn my books, so start a fire war, fire war!
Can’t get it through your head? Words are more than Edward! He’s dead! WORD!
Let me drag you off to meet Dracula; take you back to the dawn of the dark lord, yea?
Fast forward to the foreword where the F-word’s “fangs” (you’re welcome);
This is my Hell, come! Be free!
Part Morningstar; part Morpheus! I throw up a kiss and jot down the kills like they’re red-apple pills.
Go ask Alice back at my palace what you should read to feed your head.
Sentence structure so smooth they call me FE-line, and my cat’s got better plot lines,
That the hacks will all call “sublime” (it’s “sub-fine”)
But me?
My **** scenes are brutal,
And my romance? Not frugal. I don’t saturate—I arrogate—
But I don’t condemn my characters to *******!
I wanna make readers care—if readers dare—
To connect and feel and follow where they can find some hope and power there.
While also giving them a place somewhere that isn’t here—though filled with fear—
A place where they don’t feel jeered or feel weird.
Horror ain’t just movie monsters, or gore-****** scopin’ sponsors!
You speak French? C’est de la merde, monsieur!
You look unsure! But I have the cure in the written word!
And though you once were achin’ for a rockstar author cravin’ bacon,
The role has since been taken by your man, Squiers.
And like a pair of pliers, I can reach into readers’ brains and cross all sorts of wires!
I’m settin’ cranial fires behind the eyes of all my buyers!
And while I’m growing Ghost Riders—ridin’ shotgun on the bullet-train ‘tween the pages—
There’s a horde of haters harboring growing rages
With a narrow gaze of who scribes pages.
They say I can’t write ‘cuz of my tattoos or my gauges
So allow me to assuage this: y’all can’t cage this!
If you don’t like it, let me show you where the grave is!
You’re well-aged, but I’m ageless!
Like the undead through the ages!
And like Shakespeare took to stages you can find me where the page is:
I’m hip to a script, I’m at home with a poem and feeling groovy writin’ movies; and I’ll be EZ on your TV.
You write normal? **** being normal!
What a novel theory! So very dreary!
Why the **** are they so leery, they say “Writing fear? We don’t want to hurt no feelings.”
Feelings? Setting up ceilings! Just more limits! It’s life! Live it!
Set the roof on fire!
Plot is getting hotter than a 24/7 squatter on a ***** channel!
So what if some **** gets a hair up ‘er ****? Don’t make it ****!
They wanna say “Hey you, we’re here to stifle!”
‘Cuz I mentioned rifles? Do they really want to trifle?
So I say:
“Better bring a sweater ‘cuz this thriller’s gonna chill ya—sure hope it doesn’t **** ya—and ya gonna get’a fill o’ all the ***** that I don’t give, ‘cuz I don’t live to let ******* quip or give me lip about my lit.
I’m entertaining and elating and also demonstrating how devastating a stream of escalating scenes can be so penetrating—although frustrating—to a mind that’s celebrating what it means to be vacationing between the pages; wading through the stages of a war that forever wages; meditating through the escalations now that they know what TRUE rage is!
“Oh, he’s too ******!”
That’s right! Ain’t right. That’s life: not nice; it’s strife.
It’s not just me; it’s we.
I just found a better way to show it:
Monsters that aren’t monsters;
Abuse put to good use; bred virtues!
“I don’t know how to plot plots like that;
I don’t know what words to use.”
Did it really never occur to them that to read a book—just to take a look—and THEN take up the pen?
You read King if you want to be king, strictly speaking.
A writing mind that isn’t a reading mind is a weakling; a weak link.
I’m a scholar—not a bawler—so I’m a flyer where there’s fallers;
Raised on Goosebumps and Creepy Crawlers so I’d Stine while others whined.
Got a dark side, but that’s The Dark Side on my side; counter haters with my Vader:
“I would be your father… but your dog beat me over the fence.”
No offense. Pretense: incorporate comedy and film; common sense.
Suicide pushed aside, though I still burn inside. **** myself on
the page each day so my readers can feel what it’s like to be alive.
It’s okay to hide.
Only your own devil knows what’s inside.
I own mine; he’s my co-pilot when I write. My demonic side; my demonic scribe.
Flipping my words to the birds—‘cuz, you see, that’s how I wing it—and flipping the bird while I throw down and sing it:
“Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
My words are my roar and tonight I write!”
The fights are in your sights like you were seated inside a movie theater;
You’d see Xander and Estella—wouldn’t you want to meet her—
Have a front row to the creatures in a feature presentation…
But ‘til then
Eat some Rice An’ read a piece by a man who
Had an “Interview with a Vampire”—
I’m a fiction author, why would I lie to ya?
Prince of lies? I ain’t Satan!
Close friends, but I’m Nathan.
Judged for appraisal—I’m priceless—I’m  nice: no; charming: yes.
Got a razor-sharp and Shining wit like a crown left
on a King… but not.
Why be a left king, when I’m a write god.

You help me realize
Why I’m happy to have been given life
In parkour you make me feel free
Like a bird flying over trees
In spelunking you give me  
Courage to explore the unknown without the fear of broken bones

yet

You keep me alive
In times of chaos and strife
You allow me to face Thanatos
To make me Abolish Fright
For today is The Day
I Stand and Fight

Blades of shadows,
Eyes of Ocean blue.

Parkour to the rooftops,
No fear to death.

Now my training begins,
To achieve agility.
And Balance.

With my new blade,
I will defend those I love.
Instead of cowering.

I will defend my love,
My family.
The future of my life,
Is encrypted inside Arros.

it melts in my pocket as i wave goodbye, hoping you don't notice the blood pooling in my cheeks.
8 missed opportunities.

my grandma boiled some sage tea for me, "to help calm your skin," she'd say if she was still around...

parkour on rocks in indigo fields, heliotrope, and hornets.
vanilla milkshakes and sweet potato fries, if my wallet will allow me to love you this way.

my eyes squint and bones catch the sunlight, i spread out my arms like an iris's petals when you run to me...

i slipped on wet grass over the stream and scored my knee in the shape of a cross.
she plucked some lavender from the damp ground and rubbed it with an absence of gentleness onto my open wound.

there was still dirt on it.

we climbed to the rooftop and watched the hazy summer colors plummet into the endless horizon.
she turned to me with her palms facing the stars and extended a tiny glass bottle.
"sandalwood!" revere filled her voice,
"i prefer lily, but thank you, i love it."

.

happy
                                                                  
           ..                      sad
     angry                   ..

..
               ..                                  euphoric

anxious                 ..                happy again.

     my emotions doing parkour

Setiap hari kubuka Tiktok.
Selalu kulihat banyak video.
Terus diposting orang orang Gaza.
Bercampur antara duka lara dan suka cita.

Anas sang jurnalis di Jabalia.
Menyiarkan berita bombardir pesawat jet.
Menghancurkan rumah dan sekolah.
Mayat anak anak tergeletak dimana mana.

Hamada sang juru masak di Khan Yunis.
Bersemangat memasak shawarma ayam.
Lalu dia membagikan untuk anak anak.
Mereka tertawa gembira bisa makan enak.

Motasem sang jurnalis di Beit Lahia.
Mendatangi beberapa tenda pengungsi.
Anak anak di dalam tenda tenda itu.
Semuanya kurus kering kelaparan.

Mona sang relawan di Al Mawasi.
Sibuk membagikan bahan bahan kebutuhan.
Beras , tepung , minyak , gula , mie.
Para pengungsi senang menerimanya.

Bisan sang jurnalis di Al Maghazi.
Bertemu banyak rombongan pengungsi.
Mereka kelelahan berjalan jauh.
Sandal dan sepatu mereka sobek semua.

Tito sang badut di Gaza Utara.
Selalu enerjik menghibur anak anak.
Bermain , bernyanyi , berjoget.
Tertawa gembira bersama sama.

Dr Mohammed di rumah sakit Kamal Adwan.
Merasa kelelahan dan ketakutan.
Sendirian mengurusi orang orang terluka.
Sementara rekan rekannya ditangkap semua.

Said sang relawan di Al Nuseirat.
Tanpa lelah memasang tenda tenda.
Memasak makanan dan membagikan barang.
Untuk pengungsi yang terlantar.

Saleh sang jurnalis di Khan Yunis.
Menemukan anak lelaki saat tengah malam.
Menangis sendirian di kuburan ibunya.
Tidak mau kembali ke tenda hingga pagi tiba.

Dahlan sang relawan di Deir El Balah.
Mengadakan acara nonton kartun bersama.
Anak anak berkumpul dan merasa gembira.
Nonton kartun sambil makan popcorn.

Ahmed sang jurnalis di Al Nuseirat.
Merasa kasihan melihat anak anak di dalam tenda.
Mereka kepanasan saat siang terik.
Dan kebanjiran saat hujan deras.

Samaa sang gadis pemain biola di Tel El Hawa.
Duduk di bawah pohon sambil memainkan biola.
Anak anak yang melihatnya tampak tenang.
Terlarut melupakan semua penderitaan.

Youmna sang jurnalis di Shujaiya.
Bertemu anak anak yang terlantar.
Mereka memungut makanan dari sampah.
Dan meminum air dari comberan.

Alaa sang tukang cukur di Al Nuseirat.
Mencukur rambut orang orang tanpa bayaran.
Dia cukup senang mendapat sedikit imbalan.
Rokok , roti , kopi atau ucapan terima kasih.

Hossam sang jurnalis di stadion Yarmouk.
Meliput banyak pengungsi yang berdatangan.
Mereka kelelahan , kelaparan , kehausan.
Terlantar tak punya tenda.

Renad sang gadis cilik di Deir El Balah.
Selalu ceria memasak berbagai makanan.
Dia memasak maqluba tanpa ayam.
Harga ayam naik tinggi tak terbeli.

Doaa sang jurnalis di rumah sakit Al Nasser.
Mengunjungi anak anak yang terluka.
Ada yang tangan dan kakinya buntung.
Ada yang kulitnya mengelupas terkena fosfor.

Israa sang guru di Al Bureij.
Mengajak rekan rekannya membuka tenda sekolah.
Mereka memberi alat menulis dan menggambar.
Anak anak senang bisa sekolah lagi.

Hind sang jurnalis di rumah sakit Al Aqsa.
Menyiarkan berita yang mengerikan.
Tenda tenda di sekitarnya hancur berantakan.
Terbakar terkena bombardir pesawat jet.

Samih sang pemuda pemain oud di Deir El Balah.
Penuh semangat bernyanyi sambil memainkan oud.
Sementara teman temannya lincah menari dabke.
Menghibur orang orang yang mengungsi.

Samara sang jurnalis di Al Zaitun.
Mendatangi tenda tenda para pengungsi.
Banyak anak anak yang kulitnya gatal.
Penuh borok dirubungi lalat.

Abdullah sang petani di Khan Yunis.
Nekat menyelinap kembali ke kebunnya.
Agar dia bisa memanen sekarung buah olive.
Cukup untuk dibagi para pengungsi.

Faiz sang jurnalis di Rafah.
Meliput jalanan yang sepi.
Tak ada apapun selain mayat mayat berlumuran darah.
Tewas bergelimpangan diserang quadcopter.

Hassan sang dosen di Al Rimal.
Tanpa lelah melakukan kuliah online.
Para mahasiswa bersemangat melanjutkan kuliah.
Tak peduli dengan kekacauan , kesulitan dan keterbatasan.

Mahmoud sang jurnalis di Shujaiya.
Menutup hidungnya sambil melakukan liputan.
Mayat mayat membusuk menjadi tulang belulang.
Dimakan anjing anjing liar yang kelaparan.

Abdallah sang relawan di Deir El Balah.
Sibuk mengurusi banyak kucing liar.
Dia mengobati dan memberi makan.
Lalu membelai belai dan bermain main.

  Mousa sang penyelamat sipil di Beit Hanoun.
Merasa putus asa tidak bisa menolong.
Orang orang yang terluka tertimpa bangunan.
Merintih rintih kesakitan menunggu kematian.

Fadi sang relawan di Al Maghazi.
Terus bergerak bersama rekan rekannya.
Mereka memasang solar panel , mengebor sumur dan membuat.
Para pengungsi memuji kerja keras mereka.

Yousef sang petugas medis di rumah sakit Al Quds.
Merasa ketakutan naik ambulance.
Drone pengebom terus mengejar.
Meledakkan jalanan yang dilewati.

Menna sang pelukis di Al Shati.
Menyuruh anak anak untuk mengantri.
Sementara dia melukis wajah mereka satu persatu.
Lukisan semangka , Handala dan bendera Palestina.

Nofal sang jurnalis di Shujaiya.
Mewawancarai seorang pria kurus penuh luka.
Pria itu baru saja dibebaskan dari penjara.
Terus disiksa hingga mengalami trauma.

Maha sang jurnalis di Deir El Balah.
Bersantai di pantai sambil memandangi senja.
Sementara anak anak muda di sekitarnya.
Penuh semangat bermain sepakbola.

Naji sang sopir taxi di kota Gaza.
Menyetir mobilnya pelan pelan sambil menangis.
Dia sedih melihat seluruh kotanya hancur lebur.
Tak ada yang tersisa selain puing puing reruntuhan.

Fatema sang relawan di Al Shati.
Berkumpul bersama anak anak perempuan di tenda besar.
Mereka duduk di tikar sambil membaca ayat ayat Al Quran.
Terdengar merdu hingga meneguhkan keimanan.

Ouda sang jurnalis di Jabalia.
Bertemu seorang pria yang naik kereta keledai pelan pelan.
kereta keledai itu mengangkut mayat anak anak yang berlumuran darah.
Ada yang kepalanya pecah , ada yang perutnya hancur.

Nour sang jurnalis di kota Gaza.
Tertawa senang melihat anak anak muda di sekitarnya.
Mereka bermain parkour melompati puing puing reruntuhan.
Lalu mengibarkan bendera Palestina di atas atap yang hampir roboh.

Khaled sang jurnalis di Beit Hanoun.
Tergesa gesa meliput pengeboman drone di jalanan.
Ledakan bom menghancurkan mobil hingga ringsek.
Orang orang di dalam mobil tewas mengenaskan berlumuran darah.

Ashraf sang insinyur elektronik di Al Nuseirat.
Tampak senang memamerkan barang barang buatannya.
Kipas angin , lampu meja , charger ponsel hingga kulkas.
Semuanya dibuat dengan rongsokan yang dia temukan.

Lubna sang jurnalis di rumah sakit Al Shifa.
Meliput kengerian setelah pembantaian massal.
Ratusan mayat membusuk bergelimpangan dimana mana.
Semuanya hancur tak berbentuk setelah dilindas tank dan buldoser.

Firas sang relawan di Al Bureij.
Naik truk bersama rekan rekannya ke tempat pengungsian.
Begitu tiba mereka langsung membagikan sepatu , mantel dan jaket tebal.
Anak anak senang tak lagi kedinginan.

Jumana sang janda di Al Mawasi.
Menangis teringat suaminya yang tewas tertembak quadcopter.
Dia juga lelah berusaha bertahan hidup tanpa suaminya.
Sementara anak anaknya masih kecil semua.

Rami sang pemuda kreatif di Al Nuseirat.
Mengumpulkan banyak kardus bekas dari tempat sampah.
Setelah itu dia membuat beraneka mainan kardus untuk anak anak.
Mobil mobilan , motor motoran , kapal kapalan dan lainnya.

Wedad sang gadis remaja di Al Mawasi.
Termenung sedih sambil memegang kunci tua dan kunci baru.
Kunci tua itu milik neneknya yang terusir dari rumah sejak 1948.
Kunci baru itu miliknya sendiri yang terus dibawa setelah rumahnya dihancurkan.

Mosab sang pelukis mural di Rafah.
Membawa banyak peralatan lukis dan cat beraneka warna.
Dengan penuh semangat dia melukis mural di reruntuhan tembok yang lebar.
Yang dia lukis adalah sosok Handala sedang makan semangka.

Dokter Ayaz di rumah sakit Al Awda.
Menangis melihat bayi bayi prematur yang tidur dalam inkubator.
Tak ada kiriman bahan bakar untuk terus menyalakan listrik yang hampir padam.
Bayi bayi prematur itu akan segera mati satu persatu.

Aboud sang pemuda kreatif di Al Maghazi.
Mengajak anak anak membuat layangan besar bendera Palestina.
Lalu mereka menerbangkan layangan besar itu di tepi pantai.
Siapapun yang melihatnya merasa masih punya harapan.

Duka lara yang dialami orang orang Gaza masih terus berlanjut.
Tapi orang orang Gaza masih terus melanjutkan suka cita.
Melakukan apapun yang masih bisa dilakukan.
Menikmati apapun yang masih bisa dinikmati.


November 2024

By Alvian Eleven