Take my body
Flesh and all
Throw it in the garbage
And call me a doll.
My skin; porcelain
My eyes; painted
I can’t feel anything
Except for body hatred
Little girls love me:
Hold me close,
Hug me goodnight,
Love me most.
Don’t cry at my grave, I’m not there
My spirit has left this plane
But my memories still remain
Talk to me at our favourite park
Come and see me where I left my mark
Cry for me where we first met
Scream at me with all your regret
Don’t cry about my death
Remember my life and its disaster
For I am not worthy your tears
But I will forever be grateful for your laughter
Obscurity of grey curtains,
Hiding the coldest reds of the new autumn.
Leaving her eldest daughter at college,
forgotten memories rest in splotched patches
on the leather seats.
The growing cold comes in like waves,
crashing and growing exponentially,
destroying all crusted creatures left in its path.
Distinguishing the sizzling touch of black asphalt,
remembering the past father’s special pasta
burning the roof of her mouth.
The sidewalk grows thinner along the outer boundaries,
turning into rubble and picturesque sand in multitudes.
Never would she have thought the fall to be summertime,
yet the smell of freedom and harsh smog bring her back to
avid Julys on the dark green waters of Jersey.
Scaling as high as the heavens,
with hell’s burning highway nestled under in abundance,
taking the fuel of the world away with every fill-up.
No sight of the burning
Jesus
Today, just visions and pieces of his rays
lay burrowed in his
pale cotton candy,
silently engulfing all life without a sugar coating on top.
All part of an elaborate game,
the smoking gun,
waiting for the bullet to connect between the neck and rib cage of
a sick doe
crossing untouched sacred ground.
Fast as lightning,
his legs swiftly go limp underneath his carcass.
His cheek sliding across the tundra,
pale yellow cement
of a once splendorous fruit and vegetable garden.
With enough resources to supply an entire town,
the hoarders sit on a pile of
greed,
rising high above the grey smoke
in fresh baby-blue skies.
The leaves,
their magnificent properties of
passion,
love,
and flourishing
life,
hidden by the
muck
of
mankind.
Desperately trudging through,
sinking like quicksand,
drinking the final gulp of clean,
un-artificial air.
Raked into a pile of death,
perpetually in motion,
the sludge consumes all.
Do you want to see the moon?
I want to be the moon.
I want to float up to the sky among celestial diamonds plastered into the night
I want to watch the Earth from afar
and take in the all of the beauty and pain of humans wholeheartedly
Yes, I want to see the moon
I don’t know you very well.
But I’ll follow you to the east side of the island,
Where you say the moon is.
This way.
My bare feet are painted in bloody scratches from the rocks,
and I leave a red mark beneath everywhere my feet step,
carving a path of my own on unmarked gray rocks.
The boulder obstacle course I venture over vanishes
as my hair drips down beside me in wavy ornamentation
My hands are empty, free and light
Almost there.
I wonder if you really mean that.
I’m sure you’re lying by now, but your eyes are dancing
with the sparkling sense that you know something that I don’t.
The grains of sand push down under my feet
like a million fallen tears and I ask myself who you are.
Are you the moon?
You act like it.
An extra-terrestrial crescent glowing in the pitch black
among radiated little rocks of illumination.
Well, you must be, because the moon isn’t here.
I don’t see it.
The sky is staring back at me blankly
As I look for answers I can read on your face that you don’t have them.
Why did you take me miles across the island?
I ask you, my stubborn arms folded in the front seat of your car
facing away from you, eyes still hopelessly scanning the sky
for something that is hidden.
My damp body curls up in the corner
under the security blanket of my leather seat belt
trying to make itself as small as possible.
Smoke curls out of the corner your mouth
and out of the window into the cool air
you shrug and smirk, pressing hard on the gas.
I woke up from a nap today
with a happy head
On the first of May
There lying on my bed
A strange block of paper
Along with a leaf of maple
I looked closer and realised
It’s a Math book
All the joy melted like ice
With just one look
I solvde one question
I need a potion
To complete my homework in a click
Or send me a solution or a trick
I looked at the clock
After an hour
Surprised, I yell
“Over is the war”
Lebanon my imperfect home
Lebanon full of war
Lebanon full of blood
Lebanon, I love no matter what
As I dance on top of the ruins
The wind moves the national flag
All the people cheer
All the children dance
Lebanon, I love no matter what
Innocent children losing their lives
Everywhere you walk you see
Millions dying and you do not care
I do not know what you will do
If this happens to you
Sleepless nights is becoming a thing
Millions watching the news at night
When will you stop with this trauma
And horrific genocide?
Why can’t you Leave Lebanon alone?
Many people are dying, and you do not care at all
People are dying and all you do is bomb
Why cannot you be calm and open your eyes
and see the people cry?
It is not war, it’s purely murder
and its called genocide
Rolling on she goes
pushed by her big brother,
she can’t stand
she can’t walk
she can’t move.
I watch the two
talking, joking, laughing
this time so sweet
but there was a sour side
like the sour key candy she loved to eat.
Those last two bitter months:
in hospital — chiseled bone, two screws in place
then home — five formidable weeks in bed
and now — hobbling towards health.
He pushes her
keeping her smiling
keeping her safe
keeping her buoyant.
I walk in her ghostly place
My legs now able to carry me
to buy sour keys.
Her memory encased in mine
I watch her enter the corner store,
come out,
and repeat.
She’s walking now,
we walk together.
The sour keys await.
I go into the store and get some
before looking around
and leaving.
I don’t see her this time.
Four against a tree, sitting with the bees
Someone new leans against the tree, who could it be?
A child, dressed in tan and black
A knife on his belt, smeared in blood
The Four believe he’s not here to have fun
One by one, he lures them away
Never again able to laugh and play
All but one who sits and stares
As the tree of bees turns into a tree of nightmares
Years later the fourth returns again
Staring at that tree of pain
He lays down next to the tree
Laying with the flowers and bees
He stares up at the sky
Watching as time flies by
All the while he sits and stares
Staring at the leaves of the tree of nightmares
As a society we tend to lend our dismissal days,
Happy to pass the distasteful feeling to regard themselves,
The lonesome feeling of being downcast,
Therefore putting others in harms way
Puts their weak matches at bay.
However if you feel euphoric you turn selfish like a beast refusing to be tamed.
Anyone in their correct body would feel that way ,
However mistreating this privilege can feel as uncomfortable as a rooster in a pond
You have to earn joy, if you do not earn it, it will not treat you with reverence,
but swallow your pride wholeheartedly leaving only the stench of regret.
Here I hang,
A cold-metal showerhead,
Tightly bound to my horrendous fate.
Day by day,
I sit, perched like an eagle
Stalking its innocent prey,
The look of panic appears
On their pale, horrorstruck faces
As the toxic, torturous gas
Wraps the weak and strong
Like a suffocating blanket,
The sudden thud
Of the lifeless bodies
Against the chilling concrete floor,
Cues the entrance of the guards,
Ready to add
Yet another victim
To the pile