Hope, for a poet.

Like thick clouds, overwhelmed.
Pregnant with rain,
Cold, heavy and unforgiving
They Plow the earth,
And reveal her secrets-
Extract it from the depth of her womb,
And they breathe, wail, and die.


Baptized sinners,
Flee from the glaze of the sun.
They are Kings of golden courts,
And the blood smeared on their hands, becomes wine.
And everybody,
Loves deep, red wine
In golden chalices.

Entombed, the living- in houses made by the dead
The Mocking bird is killed,
The ravens flock the empty gray hills,
They feast tonight on the flesh of those condemned of insurgence,
Insurgence to live,
Not to bow.

Speak to me of heroes
Speak to me of the dead
Where are they now?

. . . .

What you just read, is the result of staring at a blank windows page, not really thinking, and just..allowing myself to go tip-tap on the keypads.

I read it again, it has meaning. but it doesnt make any sense to me now. My head is a turmoil of frustrated thoughts..

It has meaning. I know it does, and it is grand. My writings, contrary to my imperfect human self, is grand.

Whats so scary.. Is that sometimes, i feel, as writers/poets, we are a tool. Just a tool. What comes from us can be the birth of somthing so.. grand. that we dont understand it at first, but reading it again, the words it self tells us a story.

We are tools.

And i am both scared,
And humbled.

Shout-outs to the UAE poets out there, You.. are beautiful. and i miss you all.

Lofecake, My dear- a special shout out to you! I miss you so freakin much its causing me physical pain lol!( notice the passionista of an arian :P)