.                                                    rarely...
but it does happen...
a cat will encounter you
going up the stairs
in the middle
of the night,
with a fresh batch of
ice-cubes,
   and it will attach yourself
to a medium of attention,
it will ballerina side-step
an 8,
    persistent,
looking for the strong aspect
of your hand,
burrowing its head into it,
no, it's not looking for your knuckles,
not the tip of your fingers,
but the cusp...
so you play with it for some time,
before you decide: "bored",
and hyena grip the poor thing
in the midst of its staged
performance...
you take it into your bedroom,
clear the bed, place her in it,
put on some ola gjeilo
for her, while you're still strapped
to the headphone listening
to some dikanda;
what could a cat actually
want from a drunkard?
maybe i respect her exercise
of freedom,
maybe: cats can teach a man
to not become overtly
attached to a "concept" of
                  progeny?
this **** is rare...
what? this feline show of
needing attention...
how i've come to adore cats...
bypassing the basic clues
of dogs,
the whole concern for a leash...
when an animal comes to you,
and asks to be petted,
when it's no longer a
primordial base,
  a bonsai variety of a tiger...
then you fake petting it...
it does it's 8 swirl...
shape akin to a standing
infinity...
   i wonder...
  how far apart is
the hyphen (-)
   from a lemniscate (∞)?
i'll tell you:
pet a cat prior,
pet a cat that wants /
implores you to pet it...
   but it just kept nudging my petting
hand, kept burrowing itself
in finding the cusp...
  it didn't want the fingertips,
it didn't want the knuckles...
what a rare occassion,
when,
   i would never, ever have
praise for dog ownership...
this, completed
variation of my own freedom...
maybe that's what i devalued
the ownership of dogs...
the leash put me off...
this dog-ownership
ownership consistency...
akin to parenthood
  of not being to allow
the a priori testimony /
expression of inherent freedom...

for all the sins of Muhammad...
i believe that i should
believe that...
the only judgement comes
in the form of khadija **** khuwaylid:
a woman 25 years his senior,
a literate woman...
  who wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not khadija?
            
     to me... khadija wrote the first
verses of the quran...
if not more than half of them...
god has nothing to do with
this prominent individual,
muhammad died,
and will be judged by khadija...

after all... "the miracle"
of the existence of the quran...
last time i heard...
muhammad was illiterate...
he didn't write these verses...
so, who did?
my guess is...
a woman wrote it...
                                         khadija...
last time i heard:
   muhammad was illiterate!
so who wrote the first verses?
****'s sake...
my guess is as good as yours,
but my guess is:
a woman wrote the quran...
some would claim
the quran is nothing short of
the stephen vizinczey
novel: any woman 25 years
my senior....
   who managed to write a book
for me?

  one compliment to muhammad...
if those were genuine
hallucinations,
  and they rhymed in arabic...
great, having remembered them...
and allowing them access to
the writtten word,
   walking back from the cave
                           of meditation...

but, then of course...
  the "laissez faire" of theology,
   and the monopoly of monotheistic
revisionism...
   the: "enzyme" approach...
instigator, praise...
whatever you want to call it...

muhammad was illiterate...
so who wrote the first surahs...
if not the literate first wife
of muhammad, khadija **** khuwaylid?
no wonder...
   no wonder...
you know what tsar ivan
did to the architect
   of the st. basil cathedral,
postnik yakovlev?
he gauged out his eyes,
saying:
   you will not see anything more
beautiful in this world...
muhammad?
   when it came to khadija **** khuwaylid?
he didn't have the *****,
to do what he would do to his
subsequent victims...
i'm still trying to imagine
khadija **** khuwaylid in a burqa...
or a niqab...
a bit like what ivan IV
did to postnik yakovlev
after the st. basil cathedral
                              was completed...

who wrote the first verses of
the quran? a woman did...
            khadija **** khuwaylid...
and if she lived long enough...
she would have suffered
the same fate of  
                     postnik yakovlev...
surely not blinded,
but coerced into donning
a niqab.

Age of death finally came
Claiming the one thing he can lend
In a land thought to be unknown
Little flower asking to be grown

"Enough is enough" he said
Second chances can't be begged
A song writtten to it's head
Waiting to be wrote but will die instead

Crying and shouting
A bee can be found lost by wings
Mesmerizing the thought
Same land as the flower, he was caught

"I heard the message my dearest soul"
Death said, being an ironic ghoul
The wings that led him to fly
Caused the pain that made him asked why?

He who had tried
To have the maiden's love
She who have been blind
Pain strucked, faster than one's sight

One deserved more
One should be punished
One who's willing to sacrifice
One who's blinded by pride

Both will own
Same world but in different kinds they are known
Related but not the same
Both aim something but only one should be blame

The day that death set
Destiny is what they get
Flower as the maiden who at first smelled like a rose
Who came out eventually with a heart of a stone
While the bee who can possibly have a strangled mind
But the truth is his heart's the one pure and kind

Sentí odio en mi corazón
No por nadie ...
Pero odiaba todo que yo era
Todo de mi
I am .
Insecure... insecure about everything
My body. My weight. My face. My personality.
It’s as if I’m trying to force myself to change into someone else ... and I’m failing.
The tunnels went dark for me and I find the light for others.
But why can’t I do the same for me ? Why can’t I find one single piece of perfection in myself?
You learn to hate who you are from listening to all the negative things you were told.
You let that be writtten all over your body and all you can see is all the words that have hurt you.
But the people who love you don’t understand your insecurities because they see no flaws.. why is that we can’t have the eyes of the people that sees us beautiful.
Beauty within, beauty covering us externally.
Let it be a moment ... just so we can learn to love ourselves.
So we don’t have to feel the way we do .
Because not even the words of an attractive guy or girl can cure our hearts.
The heart has to be healed.
And the only way for our insecurities to go away is by believing in ourselves and loving ourselves.
So let it be a lesson, you are beautiful oppose to what you think about yourself.

Every memoir

    "     moment

Belongs to You

Sweetest part of my life

Love you lot

SWEETY

Love you unconditionally

SWEETHEART

Wherever you're

May God bless You

Be happy

Keep smiling

May You live long

Miss You lot

Believe me........-

Love You LOVE-Writtten on 27.09.2012

the best poems are
writtten in the dark of night
      by two souls turned one

Dire thoughts of abandonment were the first to rush in..
The family, the folk would tear apart.
From hatching, catching flight and wandering,
  a bird's life writtten in stone.
Each twig collected with joy, each effort painful as it is made with hope.
With it, built, the nest, the folk.
The day of the high winds, dusk and dawn,
with it dust, debris and perils of another land.
Saw the nest, knocked on the ground
In disorder existence becomes unnatural.
In disorder existence becomes meaningless.
The nest, the folk, its debris on ground..
In disorder existence becomes a replica.
A hand can make us whole.
A thought escapes my mind,
  of ever being whole..  again..

A desire to be whole becomes an illusion.