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The May happens in a June of Change

you can’t repeat the same actions, and get a different result. unless you have very little faith in your accuracy conducting your experience as you cruise along the path of life, no – believe and evolve.  so do I tell myself .. in the quest to a find a balance to which I can operate. but when very much of you feels you have done everything to the best of your ability, you are left with no conclusion other, than the area in which you have conducted your experimenting, doesn’t provide you with a desirable outcome, regardless of how often you try, for this environment is not capable of delivering such dynamic or your reasoning under the circumstances imposed by the that environment is not catering to such result, to be achievable. 

 either, or. a change is well-required, to start afresh or a at least have a renewed sense of freshness, a new challenge would soon represent itself, to tackle a new set of possibilities, and a whole new fresh palette of  colors, from which you can glean some inspiration, to release that brush of mine from its’ confinement and strike it on my canvas for the sake of a vision, a new one – the merging of space in my mind – that of both the old and newer hunting grounds of thought before me- the self-appointed creator – by the lack of plausible options – creator of my own life.
 I just arrived at a another cross-road, like a nomad gathering very little from the past to create a form, a minimal form I carry along with me to the new domain, to be molded yet again, to various shapes of a new culture, the minimal form I possess, does much in maintaining the authenticity of my experiment, without giving much way to total deformation, and allow me enough to preserve a general sense of direction. 
Hello, The May happens in a June of Change.
May   2010
  
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Make me Gone

Who took you from me

Straying off the mark

You gaze into a world
I don’t exist in

I know that for you are

Away from yourself and away from me

Why baby hold on I need to be near you

Your same old you, I need you near.

Excuse me for my dense mind
Away from reason I stand before you

Naked and frail ready to be stabbed

Stab me baby, I will be all too glad

Remember me, I told you jokes

Remember me who made you laugh

I am not real baby, come near baby

Make me real in your eyes.

And disappear again in your sighs.

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Defining the Approach

I long for days with you

Harmonious
Full of grace

Penance shall not be paid

For acceptance I do not seek
From an organ so vast and bleak

Predictable seems all variables
Unconcerned to all around I am

Seeking constants now to skim from it

A meaning carved from one’s deeds

Abstracts of recollection and sea worth of knowledge, I fathom
intellect when it shelters one from the pain of informed ignorance, no
comfort I seek nor much balance but an euphoria of the mind that deems
all to be believed. I don’t want to feel hindered by the knowledge for
in ignorance there lies a motive to plunge into the darkest seas, free
of presumptions and the safety nets of sheer belief. I am the young
marching towards my mortal end. And to my mortality nothing makes
perfect sense to me other than living through in disbelief. For it so
happens once and I shall not mourn the times to pass. I am
disconnected from my memory and deconstructing all ambitious bridges
trying to reach too far into time.

Behold the sight of me.
Shifting
now to mediocrity.

What’s up with you boy. I like your smile so shine with it more often.
Feel trapped not. No boy. She’s your illusion so hold it dear.

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انعكاسات

صباح الزعتر وأشعاع نور الحياة
صباح الحياة و استعار نيران الجسد
على وقع موسيقى السواحل
بين سطور شعر القاه الجبل.
 
تكوينات الشفاه و عطش الألسنة
تحيات هبات الرياح و سكون الرمال
اهتياج الأرض لقدوم الربيع
تراقص البشر على وقع صوت المطر.
 
و تناثرت الذكريات
على روابي الماضي
على مرأى من القدر
 قوت من سعى للسعادة
من جفاف بذور الكدر.   
 
كان لنا من الحياة أشواط
و علت علينا منها أصوات
كان في داخلنا منها ملجأٌ
عندما أستعرت بلهب من جحيم
كانت لنا المأوى
عندما رأينا وجه مخاوفنا الدميم.
 
 
May 2009
 
 
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A Birthday Wish

I am sick of finding life a riddle to decipher, can anyone do this crosswords puzzle for me while I am asleep? so that I can wake up to a different reality,
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Amman through my Weary Eyes

 
  Where facades are white and the sky is yellow-tainted, where all is dry and the green is rare. I lived there for the past 21 years of my existence, Amman the city of my upbringing, the stage to my madness and the trigger of my confusion, the cradle for my friendships and the means to my well-being, frustrating at times, lonesome more often and joyful on a few occasions. A country from which I have gleaned much for it has left much to be desired.
 
 Distant more often than not, I was – as if reluctant to weave the ties leading to the what may be a gilded memory, so astranged from you I feel, that soon is now sooner than ever, counting down to the day onwhich I from you will part, very little I believe would be missed, even less what I will grow to miss, I feel. this is how astranged I feel, from a womb to which I have felt myself a cancer.
 
 You have echoed deep in me the hungry sounds of deprivation, so loud and dark were my surroundings to me once, that I have from you managed to acquire a new taste for a distant waning light, an amplified appreciation for all of what you’ve failed to offer me, much was that, that I found it easy to be overwhelmed the futher away from you I step, and for that dear Amman, I am just glad.
 
 Who knows what life would bring? more of your flashes or flashbacks of you, a sense of nostalgia, deep-lying and warm or an indifference so void. and I hope that you still have not managed to know what it takes to win me over, and offer me the cause for me to linger some more.
 
Here I did, kissed my first kiss, and shared a love so significat to one and much to many, here I have been put down into the pits of struggle and savoured the feel of a welcoming ray of sun, Here just here, I have wandered off carrying my confusion, and stood firm in strong belief, Here was it? Yes here. and for that I am Glad.
 
Here, I met those who shared with me their hatred towards your spells.
Here, is love. Here I bury a me, I will miss but wouldn’t want it to manifest.
Here, my tired legs will soon stomp the ground to echo back the sound of one that have once lived.
Here, we shall meet again.
 
Beautiful is your Ugliness.
 
 
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Golum

  I don’t quite feel like I want to write anything anymore, it has been customary that a new writing of mine is a subsequent incident to a new revelation that my mind has managed to grasp, or an outlet to describe an overwhelming sensation that sweeps through me, caught in a whirlwind of fire, or a feeling of being utterly lost in a dimension that alienates me from all what I have thought I used to be, or a manifestation of a re-affirming strength I have found somewhere to help hold my grounds, or a state of free-falling where the most abstract of ideas entwine to create a surreal state of existence, as If I am experimenting with my own components.
 
  I don’t quite feel like writing, because I have been a butter spreaded way too thin, over so my courses of thoughts, over so many cases of self-examination, reshuffling, destruction and re-construction, so gruesome were those processes, so painfully a drag that I have seldom managed to reach a new depth, shifting direction by each distant impression of a precious finding lurking somewhere deep into some hole, half way through .. still. half way I stand away from everything.
 
  I have failed so much to acquire what it is that I need, the more I failed the more unique and elaborate my failures appear to become, utilizing every experience of failure that I had, exploiting it to the full extent of my ability, to dig out a new novel way to fail again. I have grown tired and ill. Tired of my brain, so tiring is the process to feed such a hungry, ungratiful organ that I allowed it space, and fed to grow into size.
 
  A creature now, breathing on it’s own, This Golum of mine.
 
  I have thought that I needed this Golum, Golum justified for me my need for its’ existence, It has manipulated me, it made me happy at times, casting the bait, and waited patiently on the outskirts of my identity, I allowed my Golum to devour me:
 
 Golum: Goodbye.
 – I thought you were my friend.
 Golum: I thought and you followed.
 – I thought you will give it to me?
 Golum: I remember telling you so.
 – Who am I? Who’s talking now?
 Golum: Parts of me that you borrowed.
 – and Who are you?
 Golum: the boss on a neglected crew.
 
 
 April 2009
 
 
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Subliminal Dialogue I

 
– "Where have you been? my friend"
— " Say again? "
– " Have you not heard? Have you not listened? "
— " Much in doubt to answer either "
– " Bother not! Fresher you look "
— " Thanks, so do you "
– " Got a word to say about not so long ago? "
— " Quite a few! "
 
 to comprehend life is to live not; some may argue
 you can’t comprehend what you make an ingredient for.
 from further out, if you ask me all the same vague is that mixture
 bleaker still for from it a color saw fitting to look from away.
 
 I have seen her, him and all of them through a lens of my own.
 prettier they appeared to be, for to self-deciet I am so prone.
 and they have asked the silent one, what says you about all?
 prettier, full of compliments were my thoughts as I recall.
 
  darker still, seemed my days come the break of every dawn.
  for in my dreams of the real, I have found colors.
  longer dreams, and a darker wake was the contrast my eyes shown.
  and in disbelief, defiant was the mind I possessed.
 
 for it talked down to me the facts
 simplified them matters to fulfill a task
 sitting me down from my full-fledged adventures.
 to instead speak of mono-tones.
 binary blows off the horns.
 
– " Man, how about a game? "
— " I’ll go chalk up our names "
– " What for? "
— " Isn’t there a list to queue? "
– " Well, No. for it’s only me and you. "
 
 So is that desire to be perfect?
 Waiting for onething only you, need to seek.
 Never though required, but one pain self-induced
 for those in pain, wake up one day to be unique.
 and further apart from all that they need.
 
April 2009
 
 
 
 
 
 
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48 A.S.

From days pictured in aging memories, or grey-scaled stills
days of cooler summers, and winters spent in grains mills.
the smell of soil, the feel of belonging.
When a future there existed
and olives were a blessing.
 
We have been told of those days.
 
to days of bloody trails, raping further days
an endless cycle of death fueling cycles of decay.
Where tears are shed to no avail.
Where the sky brought fire and hail.
 
We have seen those days.
 
What days are to follow?
What burden will they inherit?
The youth surviving the horror
The unborns of the future
with memories; red and half burnt.
 
We will create those days.
 
I am the murderer of your childhood, my dear child of 48 A.S.
forty eight of years counting from the day of my silence.
 
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