Social decay

Failure of social imagination
Has left humanless shells of skin
Roaming around the debris
Of what was once their own
And what is now nothing
But a psychological exclusion
Of the soul from its own body

Purple things*

The box is full
And it is starting to spill them out
Slowly
They are taking over the place
The floor is all wet now
If you set foot on it you will slide

But all of it doesn’t matter
Because to you, they are invisible
To your oblivious self, they don’t exist

You can easily fly above the floor
You can easily soar
Disappear
Right into your cave
Your comfort zone of oblivion

I am not offering them to you
I am just asking of you
To acknowledge their existence

Emptiness*

Emptiness knocked on my door
And stormed in uninvited
It came in the shape of Beauty
The worst of all masquerades
Evil witty Beauty
The kind, the most virtuous of all cannot turn down

Emptiness was in disguise
And I was blinded by the vice
The moment I thought I was on top
Turned out I was looking at the world upside down

Emptiness carved a place in my heart
Locked itself in and refused to go out
It was eating my soul
One bite at a time
It was sucking on my blood
Hollowing out my bones

Until we became one

I am Emptiness, Beauty in disguise

It's philosophical*

What we have is conceptual
To the point that it could have never existed

If I turn my back and leave the room, right now
Nothing will change
No transformation
No regrets, no remorse

Not even a thought would be given by any of us
Regarding the abrupt amendment in our situation

What we have is conceptual
To the point that it could be whatever we wish it to be

But it will always remain abstract
An idea, distanced from our two objects of being

Hysteria: in colloquial use, unmanageable emotional excesses

I am not hysterical. I do seem weird. To some people. During specific periods of time.
I am not hysterical. Yet. I do have moments of extreme emotions. Affecting my sense of reason.
But those are just moments. Moments. At least in my own perception of time.
And during those moments. I find myself. Straying from the norm.
I find myself. On a different cloud. Flying higher. And higher. And higher.
Until I am alone.
Looking down.
Laughing.
Hysterically.
At what I am leaving behind.

Perspective*

Photos courtesy of C.L.

Electronic nights

Photos taken at a local band's gig: Mashrou' Leila - July 29, 2011
http://mashrou3leila.com/

On natural growth

You cannot force something that doesn’t exist
Into existence
Something that is not processed by the inner self
To be out, visible and exposed
To the outer world
Of the individual.
Or of the nation.

You cannot force democracy in Afghanistan
Nor you can force a ring around the finger of a gamophobiac
You cannot force a relationship with someone who already established a relationship with himself

It has to grow by itself
In itself
As a newborn… with all the endurance it has to go through
In order to make the perfect first step

A poem in the writer's shoes

A poem does not write itself
No matter how alive it can seem
No matter what disguise it puts on
The red lipstick, the long copper hair
Or the most arousing smell ever

A poem cannot write itself
Without the senses of the writer
It will wear her lipstick, her hairdo
And her perfume
It will adopt her personality
Walk the way she walks
And be still whenever the writer’s senses
Decide to retreat to the real world

On endless Fridays

Fridays are like being trapped in a purgatory
with one foot in heaven and the other in hell