I am a writer – a great great writer.
Words bend to my will and I move them around like puppets.
I am a great writer.
I don’t need any prompts; my mind is a lake, my past, the biggest swamp.
Don’t call it a hobby. I live for it now, I live through it now,
I hide in it, climb ladders higher than me, and tune my reflexes in front of them.
I am a great writer.
But don’t ask for my ethnicity, my region, my tongue, or its mother.
I will write what I want to; I’ll be the one giving permission,
Never going back to the origin, never daring to utter that ضاد.
Don’t ask me to read my poems out loud – I can’t risk slipping.
I am telling you, I want to hide, I need to hide.
Give me back my tongue, and I will not stop criticizing.
Hand it back to me, and I will say what must not be said,
And call out those who-must-not-be-named.
Can you sense my anger?
Did I pronounce it the wrong way?
Did I forget to cover my so-called aggressiveness?
Forgive me,
Forgive my automatic settings.
Okay, maybe, maybe, I am not a great, great writer.
Maybe, you made your way to my head,
As you made your way everywhere else,
As you made your way to what’s mine,
To what’s universal, and not false,
To the greens, the blues, the oranges, the apples, the cats, the dogs, the souls…
You’re still making your way right now, and I still use your tongue,
You still want to distract me, “Oh, how naïve, how young!”
I might not be your great writer,
Might not remind you of Qabbani or Dunqul,
But trust me, this time, I will no longer beg for a semi-escape.
And I will never cower to say,
Leave me and my letters alone,
Don’t stop my words, my calls,
Don’t pity my falls,
Close your ears,
Your eyes,
Stop your cries,
Because I know so well how you’re allergic to that thing called أمل.
