Category: Poetry and Lyrics

I’m not a poet – not Shakespeare, not Dickenson, not Plath. My words are quite simple; Far from a masterpiece, it’s clear. They may not rhyme, but I don’t mind; It’s not the reason I write my poetry anyway. I write for myself – For the ones I love, The ones who chose to depart,…

What life shall I behold? What shall my world be? A long play where I wear a mask and hide my scars? A short tale that keeps me wondering through the quiet night? A sonnet that I recite freely? A melody that moves me till dawn? No, something more. A dream I’ve been longing to…

The masks were white—not clean, but dead,like wilted lilies left too long in water,faces frozen mid-lie,grinning with teeth that never knew warmth. They surrounded me—and I, draped in a robe too white to belong to me,felt them cling like guilt to my skin. It whispered of silence,of purity I never asked for,in a room reeking…

I am stuck between four walls. A room with white walls and nothing else. It resembles what Susan Abul Hawa described in her book ‘A Loveless World‘ and called The Cube, except there’s no shower, there’s no bed, and there are no visitors.  I can see myself in a Western movie, thrown in solitary confinement,…

لا قصيدة تستطيع انتزاعي من بين أحضانك أن تبعد يدي عنك أن تنتزعني من عالمك لأجعلها لأكتبها …لألدها كيف تنافسك قصيدة؟ كيف تنتزع منك الدفء لترتديه؟ كلّ مرة أردّد:  …لا قصيدة تستطيع انتزاعي من بين أحضانك كلّ مرة أسلخ نفسي عنك بتهمة قصيدة كلّ مرة أعدُني أنها المرّة الأخيرة، القصيدة الأخيرة لكنك أنت تجذب القصائد،…

I. 1 This is a place where now is an eternity. 2 This is a place where one waits because, certainly,3 A place where everything is about to happen yet nothing really happens.4 Where one waits to wait, because one knows that everything that is about to happen will never really happen.5 This is a…

He said it takes two to tango,But left her spinning in a storm of her own steps. She began with the opening walk—Slow, deliberate.Her body an invitation,Her eyes locked on his,Waiting for him to claim the lead. But he hesitated at the threshold,Fear pooling in his chest like poison,While she extended her leg—A bridge he…

She lit every roomwith oil and bone,hung her ribs like chandeliers,invited him to kneelin the cathedralbuilt from her wounds. Her voice echoed,like wind through crypts,soft, but sharpened by survival.She was still.Not dormant—divine.A storm cloaked in prayer. But he—he took the easy way out.Slipped through a crack in the wallbefore the house could speak,before the pipes…