The Poet-Wannabe

A sneak peak into my thoughts, heart and life; a photo says a thousand words; but words express thousands of thoughts. I blog with almost no photos to give the written words the honour they deserve.

You can`t kill a dead man

The man who killed me does not exist anymore. He has disappeared into nothingness although his name remains. Although his memory remains.

And what is hate worth when it is aimed at  a dead man?

Nothing.

He is dead to me now, and hate is leaving with him.

Talks with God

It is the concept of honour that ruined me. It is the importance of remaining pure, and how your culture puts the condition of the vagina over the condition of people.

It is the concept of religion and the hate for women in your culture that destroyed me. Having no one to turn to because blackmail might break you.

It is the concept of “honour” that made me remain in love with a man who hated me, and not tell anyone about it. Hate ruins a person, and when that hate is put into action it has the ability to suffocate you.

It is the patriarchy, the shame, judgement of “right and wrong”that made a 16-years-old girl be raped by a lover. And it is better to be killed by someone you love, that is what they tell you.

And for this very reason I lost my faith. It is not personal, God. It is not you, it is them. Those who interpret your words, and use them for abuse. Your words should not have been so diffuse.

So fuck you God, your people ruined a life.

Love the girl that writes.

Love the girl that writes,

be a part of her dreams.

Make her feel loved and protected,

and she will write you a masterpiece.

Love the girl that writes,

she who is of a different kind.

Tell her this world is not always cruel,

and that sometimes love is blind.

Love the girl that writes,

she who writes about betrayal and heartbreaks.

Show her that in spite of her troubled past,

you know you have what it takes.

Love the girl that writes,

to express how she feels within.

Today she might be here,

but with a breeze she will be with the wind.

Love the girl that writes,

give her some time alone.

Let her show you the glory of solitude,

and make you feel it in every bone.

Love the girl that writes,

she who does not believe in love.

The girl that has been punished,

for a crime that she is innocent of.

Love the girl that writes,

cry with her under the rain.

Because she knows something you do not,

she knows it takes away the pain.

Love the girl that writes,

even when the sky is gray.

She will see a light in the tunnel,

and she will take you both away.

Love the girl that writes,

she who waits for any train.

She who dreams of seing Paris,

speaking french and walking down the Seine.

Love the girl that writes,

even though they say she has lost her head.

“Because the best people are crazy”

says a book that she once read.

City of broken dreams.

I taught my heart to be as hard as steel,

never love, never miss and never feel.

No one can hurt me unless I let them in,

only by being better I have a chance to win.

It is a battle I struggle with time itself,

I paused my life and put love on a shelf.

But sometimes it is not as easy as it seems,

when I get reminded of my broken dreams.

Dreams of a country I learnt to love to hate,

a country that put me on everlasting wait.

Dreams of a city which is constantly in flames,

the city of the lost ones and forgotten names.

But then I listen to the same old songs,

and I can not help but forget all its wrongs.

I remember the crazy nights of Beirut,

and I know it is the end of my pursuit.

Happiness and dreams were there all along,

in a place which I blamed for doing me wrong.

A city or a country has never broken a heart,

it is the people that tear other people apart.

All these memories of a love that used to be,

a love towards a city which was a part of me.

A city which I will learn to love again,

it is only a question about how and when.

When angels fall.

I owe my being to no one,

I owe my light to the dark.

I owe my scars to the broken,

to the pain which left a mark.

There are these rare moments,

when you suddenly start to fall.

Trough the losses and the victories,

I stood here, and I stood tall.

I owe my faith to no one,

I do not owe my life to the dead.

Even though I felt like giving up,

I am here, and my way is ahead.

They say time is the best doctor,

but some scars never heal.

I really tried my hardest,

all I wanted was to be able to feel.

I owe my being to no one,

I owe my love to the ones who hate.

I owe my dreams to the lost ones,

to the ones who lost all faith.

On thoughts.

You can have my heart,

you can take my soul,

but my thoughts are mine to keep.

When the nights are long,

and the days turn cold,

they will save me from falling deep.

All my thoughts,

define who I am,

and yes that thoughtful girl is me.

You can take my body,

if that is what you want,

but my thoughts are not for free.