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Do not run from the sun, the bluebird said,
Your feet will unravel, leaving nothing but thread.

Then lend me your wings , she said in reply,
And we'll fly to a place where the shadows don't lie.
This feeling is too big for my body to hold
so lend me your arms for me to unfold.
 Sep 2014 zeineb bouhaouel
TrAceY
suspended vertical defying       human limitations
bound in heaven's threads they perform
an aerial arabesque        costumes torn, scattering
sequins and halos on their ethereal descent
as the crowd watches         breath harmonized,
almost willing them to fall

if air had been my mistress, I could have chosen
to soar        the allure of existing only
in this angels' abode where letting go
relies on faith and testament of art
evanescent         as we all prepare
for this our final show
Spinning, spinning, madness winning—
Psychopathic thought beginning—
Butterflies to catch for pinning—
Spinning thoughts inside my head.

To twirl the net and bring it down—
To trap the beast unto the ground—
Its screaming terror'd not speak a sound—
I stick the pin and pin it dead.

Its writhing, grabbing on the netting—
Sounds I wouldn't be forgetting—
Tapping, flapping, clapping, fretting—
Gradually slowing to a stead.

A cold and sweating, mad reaction—
I sense the tingling satisfaction—
And this is surely just a fraction—
A fraction of the blood she shed.

My carriage wheels had quickly turned—
The case at court was now adjourned,
So early home I had returned—
Returning to my home ahead.

It was a cold and somber morning
When I first received the warning—
A beauty carriage, now adorning—
Standing still at my homestead.

Curious, I stepped out and gazed—
Its presence there left me amazed—
Then I saw my dogs were caged—
Cold and outside, barely fed.

Gingerly I climbed the stairs
And pondered what'd await me there—
And then, this sight, this dark nightmare—
My wife and brother in my bed.

My curiousness then turned to strife—
My temper flared against my wife—
I silently retrieved a knife
To turn her lusting into dread.

I chose to **** Paolo first—
I stabbed his neck and watch it burst—
His silent death increased my thirst—
I watched the ******* as he bled.

Suddenly, my wife awoke—
The ****** mess caused her to choke—
Her agony, in me invoked
A sense of anger, sorely red.

She stumbled, falling on the floor
And tried to scramble to the door—
She looked so sad, so low, so poor,
So shameful as she crawled and fled.

I pinned her down, still writhing, grabbing—
My knife was quickly, sharply dabbing
As my hands were cutting, stabbing—
Stabbing her from overhead.

When she was still, I calmed at last—
Yet vengeance soon would have me cast
To Caina, treacherous and vast—
But it was done. Her blood was spread.
A poem I wrote in high school based on Dante's Inferno. From the perspective of Giovanni Malatesta, who found his younger brother having an affair with his wife, whereupon he killed them both. Dante wrote them into his story, sending Francesca and Paolo to the second circle of Hell.
Some Kind of Girl.

I need a girl who likes to play hard.
A girl who bumps korn in the graveyard.
I need a girl with scars matching mine.
a girl with a little darkness on her mind.
I need a girl who isn't scarred of death,
A girl who cherishes every breath.
I need a girl with an infatuation of blood,
A girl like this I'll truly love.
I need a girl with a forgotten past,
A girl to make each moment my last.
I need a girl with the world in her heart,
A girl with the mind to tear it apart.
I need a girl with eyes of a blazing torch,
A girl rolling joints on the porch.
I need a girl with a broken soul,

So the pieces of mine can make her whole.
Yes.
Will you love me when I'm 80
When I walk and talk real slow?
Will you love my wrinkles
If I let them show?
Will you hold me every night
And kiss me in the morning light?
And when I see my last sunrise
Will you hold me when I die?
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