The Assassination of the Living Dead

          Get closer. Perfect. Now, say cheese.

          It was all happening too fast. They were trying to seize a moment there, trying to frame an image, to capture the last of a fleeting glimpse of light, of eternity. It was his fault because he trusted a second chance and fell short from the promise in the gap of the persisting fact.

          It was but a morning when he decided along with his peers to trespass the trancelike vibe of a busy corner. It was a deceiving sunny splash of the perky morning walks aside. It was the darkest of them all.

          Pressing his thumb against the screen, little he knew that he was on the hinge of letting go of scenery painted randomly with the joys of a daily frolic while rushing to assemble the crumbles of smashing glass of a portraying present before it bursts to void. All in vain. Something within was pleading for the milliseconds to melt along and procrastinate forever more. Something knew for sure that it would be too fast, too worthless, too flamboyant.

          It was perfectly planned and neatly prosecuted. It was never as raucous and messy as anticipated. No. It was perfect. A silent merge of weird colors and a twist of events. It was a chronological jam. It was an artistic outburst by those who dare not admit art by conventional means. For that, we apologize. It was not a bomb that killed Former Minister of Finance Mohammad Chatah, sixteen-year old Mohammad Al Chaar, six casualties and wounded over seventy others. No. It was all done for an elite purpose. It was done for the audition of another piece of truth to our mosaic lives. It was done for reasons we shall not be able to grasp. It's not "why" that we ought to ask. It's not a question that we should offer, not that we at least know of. The purpose is far more transcendental to be contained in a set of accusations. You know why? It's because we seem to have lost our human self. It's not those who shed their bodies who have lost, but those who survived to live another mourn. It's those who still prove to have lost life, or the reason to live by overdosing on political heresies and ephemeral pleasure. Those who have lost time to ask.

          Mohammad Al Chaar fell short from smiling and paused for a never-ending photo of a never-ending construction of what insists on calling itself a country.

          "RIP Mohammad Al Chaar."

          Lies and empty expressions of ostentatious melancholia. 

The Subtle Say

          It's funny weird. A little teasing, nevertheless, to be shoved off course as the doubtful breath of self coats the truth of meaningful says. When scenery is limited by the flamboyant expectations and "pragmatic" distancing, every touch is altered and replaced by that of a rolling act.
          She is beautiful as ever, perky and weird as she will ever be. Behind the big round rampant glasses and the "kilt-like" scarf, behind the flushing rich feminine lyrics of her mouth and the blazing blond volume of her hair, lies a person so peculiar, so exorbitant to be contained in a set of words. All those wrist bands and accessories have grown inseparable from her character. A flushing flow of words smashes against the wooden set of squeaky chairs and bulky stained tables as she decides to revolt again on the henges of redundant formats of our everyday lives. I can't but lie to her; she does something, says something, or maybe nothing to arise the "what did I just say?!" phenomenon from my side.
          As the perfect sway of coffee fumes flushes repeatedly against the drained syrup of our table talks, something within the ongoing vibe transits to another place. I swear I could feel our conversation peeling to a core chat. Ideas most of the time are suddenly frankly addressed. Most of the time.

          Time goes by as the vocals of our throats continue to tremor with the most "acceptable" statements. No chance to sway out of the anticipated orbital and fulfill the simplest acts of childish frolic. At the break of every norm, when mutual silence offers a space for perfect words to be placed and for battling gears to be matched with the chronologic demands of events, nothing seems to happen. 

          It seems that things happen or don't for those who will or won't have the courage to speak of what lies within to the force of the universe. That of which is determined to set challeneges for he who takes the toll to defy all attempts to rectify the boring do's  and don'ts  of a social law.

          As the day shuts down, and the many words we exchanged are still somehow unsatisfying, we seem determined somehow to put an end to all of that, and corky ice-cold breeze can't grow to agree even more. We diverge solemnly at the end of the subtle say with no further words and a million thoughts and feelings left volatile at bay...

Whatchamacallit: Fear?

          Never are the thoughts put at bay right at phase1 of sleep. Never are the firing neurons slowed down or altered by any form of psychoactive drug. It's simply that the mind, a term used to refer to the unfathomed aspect of the brain, is dynamic enough to reprocess and reconsider every memory and every thought.
          Too many are the worries discussing purpose whether from a scientific, economic or a spiritual ocular.  Too many are the questions tackled with the most abstract epiphanies. Too many regrets. Too many expectations. Too many worries. Too many milestones. Simply, too many.
          What I fear, as my eyelids reel at the fence of consciousness and alteration, is not failure, but rather the ambiguity- uncertainty. Not knowing. I don't know the limits of my capabilities, I don't know what I'm having for lunch in 3 days from now and no I can't foretell the changes ahead. I'm afraid of possibilities and factual fluctuations. Perception itself is deceptive in its relativity. Our interpretations vary from one another and the tentative possibilities we build on are of relative approval by our cynical minds to what is identified as true. How confusing is that?! How can I address tomorrow while today is indefinite? I don't want to thrive in the discussion of existence but just don't lose me here.
          I'm afraid. I'm afraid that I'm falling short at every pitch. I am almost always one step behind. I'm afraid that Lebanon thrives on prostitution more than industry and agriculture. I'm afraid that we get by the day holding on to the idea that tomorrow might not be. We adhere to pleasure and politics. We talk too much and do too little. I'm afraid that if deforestation continues at its slippery rate, we might as well replace the cedar on our flag with a a major club logo. I'm afraid that Lebanon is still draining out of fresh water and IQ's. We laugh at our pain. Whether we are aware of it or not, it's all about porn and politics. And ironically, porn is often run by politicians who brag about slicing what's left of our pumping sweat and blood among themselves. The only difference is that porn stars often "cum" at least once during a dirty movie while politicians don't bother to come to the parliament at all. I'm afraid that we are stupid enough to repeat the same mistake every 4 years. I'm afraid it's not a mistake anymore. I'm afraid that we have accepted apoptosis, and we just drug ourselves by the most mundane of table talks waiting for the curtains to fall shut and the scene to end. I'm afraid that we have "grown" to lie eloquently and accept it, embrace it.
          I'm afraid that I go to bed every night worrying about being unable to continue pursuing my studies just because I won't be able to afford it. How can I and my dad gets more paper bills than paper money? I'm afraid that our education system is neither educational nor a system. I'm afraid that we have aborted the right to choose when we accepted redundancy and contentment. I'm afraid that we are afraid of civil marriage more than civil war. I'm afraid that most of us can never recite the Arabic alphabet. I'm afraid to admit that the Lebanese national anthem is a stolen template! Yes. Kidnapped from a 20th century Moroccan psalm. I'm afraid that the fact that the current, probably always will be, Lebanese prime minister Nabih Berre makes it hard for me to remember the ones preceding him. I'm afraid that we have lost the right to choose when we lost the will to do so.
          Fear is a basic motive that provokes self-preservation and motivation (a definition to be quoted in our case). Fear is a stimulus to be ennobled to a safer better stance. Our deepest fear is not that we are not good enough, but the fact that we are not aware that we are not good enough. Our deepest fear is not that we are ignorant, but we are delusional of not being so. So, are we really afraid? Or have we developed a new emotion, that which is unknown to human nature? Which is not human?

Technological Apparition

Too many are the tales concerning the twilight bewitchments; dramatic, romantic, and even comic. Some of which, in which the character vanishes at dawn on a broken wooden broom and appears later staggering, tarnished by the chronological voyage, are quite true in real life, identical to the quotidian life of a twenty first century reporter.

  Savored by a rich scoop and pampered by the high view rates, man in the box pops up at every house. It is quite definite that they are obedient, or so it seems, to a missionary stance that not only highlights  the series of our everyday lives but direct the subjects towards a better control of the ongoing events. Power is evident by the growing capability to foretell upcoming incidents and, even more, controlling them.

Social media, also known as the modern school of teleportation and informatory sorcery, is now the technological crystal ball empowering citizens to participate in democratic dialogue on constructive reform. One of the greatest human abilities is that to speak. One of the greatest human evolutionary traits is to talk. But what is the difference between the both? Simply, speaking involves the verbal pronunciation of words and sentences. When those words adopt their projected aspect, they become a talk; a word with a purpose.

Twitter, Facebook, YouTube and other search engines and media giants have taken the toll to provide the opportunity for everyone to be heard. After the voice of wealthy investors and political poles have altered people’s to represent theirs for often personal pursuits, it’s the people’s time to speak. With the snowballing effect of globalization and diversity, difference in opinion is a must due to the heterogeneous constituents of the upgraded society. Every idea has a platform. Opposing viewpoints are welcomed not only because local and international organizations are continuously emphasizing the importance of the contribution in political decision-making, but also because of the fuss a fervent live discussion can cause. This role was demonstrated in the coverage of the genesis of the “Arab spring” in the projection of the opposing viewpoints in contest.

Social media has also intensified the power of number. High numbers indicate collaboration, priority and significance. In March 2010, one of the worst lead poisonings was discovered in Zamfara, Nigeria. By 2012, all the villages have been cleaned up except one – Bagega. The government promised $5million in May 2012, but that was the last we heard about government ending the social plague until a non-profit group, Follow The Money, launched the #SaveBagega campaign to advocate aid for Bagega. Thousands of other citizens who occupied Twitter for several weeks demanded remediation, medical treatment and safer mining practices. They positively engaged stakeholders and organizations interested in children and human rights.With thousands of people from about 78 countries signing the petition, about 600,000 on twitter that mentioned the hashtag – #SaveBagega in the last couple of months, actions count and can always save the world we live in. The President then released $3million for the remediation that was completed by July.

Before social media came around, leaders confined to a political set were distant from those who got them to their positions. Only a few of the voters marching along the corridors of power were able to send their feedback to elected representatives. Now, on the other hand, there exists a wider range of exposure between the head and the base of the pyramid, say, on Twitter. People can tweet ranting about closed roads and bugs related to insurance policies. Surprisingly, they sometimes get direct responses promising solutions. By thus, the gap between the leaders and the citizens is closed.

Construction can never be fully potent without the elimination of corruption, especially governmental extortion. With the stench of institutional bribery taking advantage of the absence of sensory monitors, media rises as a fourth power to repair abnormal mitosis of solicit cells. A tape exposing policemen taking bribes, documentations leaked to illegally finalize agreements and parliament sessions trying to deviously twist constitutional provisions are tackled by social media and publicly prosecuted.

The once juggling myths of predictions and voodoo act in controlling other’s behaviors has been made possible by the birth of social media. As a result of the social, technological and, dare I say it, ideological evolution, we are able now more than ever to censor and mold tomorrow the way it best fits our prospective social standards and achievements. You can choose to go pro or against the mainstream, but choosing not to choose is not an option.

Her Name?(1)

          She was stiff and cold. Not a vibe. Pale and still.

         Her name?

         She was freshly baked at Barnard's, an international education major. Her past year was a new start, a new chapter with which she sought to express her wills and wants. She cleansed her brush from golden wisps and threw it in her last of the stacked boxes on the front porch. Jake was waiting in the car, happily honking for his girl to jump in next to him in the passenger's seat. They planned tomorrow together: New York, new house and a new job.

        Her name?

        Now, she's number 39-B lying on a stretcher, washed with hot water, waiting to be wheeled down the mortuary. How ironic; after her touch was once solemnly desired by most guys at Beta Fraternity, her corp is now being examined from behind plastic dull gloves. It has bacteria.

        All stool was removed. Blood was drained into the shiny sink down the washer. The fat slough between her breasts is neatly stitched. Her pupils were covered with a transparent lid and closed shut, peacefully. A grab of white puffy cotton was stuffed in her mouth. Lately sealed with a doubled stitch. It's not that hard: you just press a 2-inch needle, a random one from the silver tray, up the soft spot of the lower jaw into the mouth and back from the upper gum. The thread will slide along and tie the mouth. Her hair was brushed and pampered. Her favorite black dress with green stripes on the upper left shoulder going down her right waist was gently put on. She has bought it for her 18th birthday party from Dior's. It was a bit tricky for her body was a bit more rigid now.

          Friends and family wanted an opened casket. Her face was a fetish to the neighbors' eyes. Her big green eyes were dimmed, her wide white smile was hid, her soft voice was billed and her perky touch was still. But the marks of the rope on her neck were loud, the bruises on her shoulders, hands and collar bones were pumping pain, her broken nose was bulging out and screams of 12 stabs were breaking bad. You could almost see it, feel the stainless steel knife into her guts.

          Her black slippers were on. She wasn't a "heels" person. Not that any one was going to see them; the lower half of the full wooden coffin was closed now. The upper part, too. For the good of the dead, respect the ending. The coffin was fully shut and nailed as the last load of breeze whiffed from out of it.

          "By time, her death will become a secret, even to me", murmured a low hoarse voice from within the dark crowd.

          Her name? Does it really matter? Well, does it?

Three Salutes.

     Bumping shoulders with other half stripped folks like me after a long day of medical and physical inspections, I stood as the "inspector" yelled:" Alright! You stand in line, in the same order you were placed on the name list on the wall. You come in, lower your boxer shorts to the knees. I "examine" you. Then, you turn backwards, bend over, and pull your butt cheeks opened." He flipped his head to behind the curtain and added as he pointed away with the de-capped pen in his hand:" Stay a meter away from me at all times."

     They laughed.

Standing in line, all I could think of was how embarrassing it's going to be. Roosters in the flock were pampering their "junk". It was a testosterone show off. 

I entered when he yelled for the next and came out.

     Repulsive. Morally repugnant.

     I just wanted to leave, to wash my self from undesired memories. I wanted to retreat from signing up for the tryouts.

    
     It never occurred to me that I was "gay tested" until my pre-sleep sighs.

Three salutes to the lebanese army for its honor, sacrifice and loyalty.

Metamorphosis: Summer is gone!

Just when life is too perky and loud... When the sun throws it's golden sheet on the backs of those who kneel for it, when DJs are just implementing their joy in the disks before them, and when a tan is a common code for those who dare to fit in, a strange vibe strikes with no ahead notice. Something from above foretells a change.

The sun is lying. Its charismatic effect is suddenly fading away. A smile is no longer the same. Music is starting to take a slower and a more ritualistic tone. A chill is taking more of an overwhelming effect as it dances to the gods of tomorrow. Breezes have embraced a more confident sensation- a colder one indeed! I start to hear murmurs from the park across the block. It's the trees' merely silent sobbing. Pain arises on every leaf bleakly losing its essence and falling with yesterday's sunlight. However, change is inevitable. A squirrel that once pampered from a place to another is now still in his wooden shield and gently peering to what's about to embed. The chirps from afar are no longer to be heard. Life is grayer now. The windmill that cloaked once an owl is now revolting. Tension builds up as the last of windows close shut. When least expected, a lightening blooms. The only sound left to hear then is my own breath and heart pulse. Everything else is silenced. Not a single noise.Then, grey turns into a striking white then back to black. A roar from above declares a war, yet angels of mercy can't but weep.

Time is frozen. Every breath is now evident. Fumes of a sigh plead for company. A fire place is now bright and shimmering. Crashing sounds from the half ashed oak sticks can be the only sense of survival echoing along the ghosts of a cozy home. As I bury myself into thicker Kashmir sweaters, I hold in my hand a hot cup lying to my eyes. The vapor is but a warm trance. An illusion! A storyteller that, with the help of the fire-made shades, narrates a thousand year-old novel- a series of velvet incidents. A drunk flame of a candle to my far right ahead reels with laughs of irony. As I rub my clothed feet against the tamed lavender rug on the floor, the television screen ahead of me is almost mute. It's not about the words anymore, but rather about the signs of life or what seems to remain of it. The book on the coffee table ahead of me that pokes a plate of sweet potatoes dares to speak. I put the mug aside, reach out for it and flirt with the first couple of pages. I turn to my left where the vague scene tales the city showing from the pale window, then gaze back at the words in my hand and begin to dream. Tomorrow, is another day...

May I Dream?

It's strange how human greed can sometimes surpass our human capability of sacrifice. It is depressing how our strive for power mounts happiness. Desires become insatiable. We spend too much time focusing on the empty slice of the present that we forget the bless of what we have. We rush to cuddle a pillow at night to feel safe. When the cozy sheet hugs you, the breeze sneaks in through your window to put you to sleep. It's your pause away from the fast life we managed to give birth to. Sometimes, we must stop, take a breath and admire what we are missing. We spend our lives dedicated to fit the mold media has marketed. We renounce our natural uniqueness and scar it into what others consider acceptable. We end up losing our identity and bleakly fading away. We transform from being people to numbers.

You see, I have a dream. Imagine a world where everyone is different. You wake up in the morning and gaze from the window to find out that no two people dress the same. No two cars are identical. Some are randomly painted and drawn on. Green is a color that actually exists somewhere else other than in trash cans. Every balcony has green vines and  mini orchids growing out of pottery vases just like Grandma's do. A turtle may exist there as well for no reason. Everyone one is happy and satisfied with the prevailing simplicity. Everyone acts random. Our actions are to be the only identity to which we can relate to. Imagine waking up every morning wanting to be happy. Just happy. Whether it's by making a change, helping a kitten come down a tree or just helping an elder with his groceries. What I dare and say is not a pink dream. It is however a matter of perspective. Solid truth is but an illusion. What we see of the world is our interpretation of the truth. It's a self analysis. Our judgments are affected by our character and intellectual abilities. Since we all are different, we all have different perspectives of the world. This may be the main reason why we can't ennoble. We can't accept difference as part of our human nature.

Our deepest fear is not darkness but rather the bright light. It's the power that we fear more than weakness. When power is nurtured as a top priority, the addiction to its glamour grows a tumor on our human compassion. As a result, we develop the urge for self destruction.

When the last tree is chopped, when the last oil drill is depleted, when the last river is poisoned, when all air is contaminated, when pain is an everyday factor, and when Earth is about to quit on us, what will be the reason we fought for then? Would it be worth it? It's only then when we shall realize that we can't eat money...

Man's World

     It's hard when words die at the lips of mine not being able to venture out. When the yearn to speak is overwhelmed by restrictions imposed by the moment, every breath becomes a burden. When hope flees and the verging future seems so vague and puzzling, when my thoughts over thrive and music is so blue, smiling is too painful. Bumping against the windshield as screaming rain splashes on the glass, I bury myself deeper in a heavy coat as the sweepers slap water coats off of the front glass. Slight music playing on FM radio tempting me to over think, regret and grief. The vapor I exhale is plain sad. That of bemoan spilling. Those words I never dared to preach are suffocating. Life is just disappointing sometimes. When friendship is not enough, a high five is a slap to reality. Dreams may be the only resort. But then, aren't they overrated?

     Those  ferocious emotions can make an interesting story, a moving song or even one more memory. Are we broken on every occasion to be rebuilt? Maybe. God works in mysterious ways. That's for sure. The brightest of endings are reached by the most unexpected paths. A road to a golden chair is always reached by branching dark tunnels. However, that which gets me to your heart shall always remain unknown.

     I can't describe how warm pain feels around you. You're a random joy of a perky character that not only prints on every person you encounter, but "snowballs" to inspire people. Inspire me. Too cheesy? Love is supposed to be neither rational nor complex. Well, that's how it seems sometimes but shouldn't. It's good to be different sometimes- to be awkward. Being you is what categorizes you from others. A funny smile, a funky hair, a weird perception or even some weird shoes. Everything one coats himself with is part of his identity. It's trivial to stop at every howling pack to the throw a bone.

    I wish I was more capable of confrontation. I have dodged face offs often in my life. I'm still searching of an upgraded version of man in the mirror. Change is a must as I shed a part of myself to gain new layers. I will always have butterflies before flipping the page. New chapters are new chances to put into action skills I've gain before. But what about you?

     I wish I had more answers than questions, but I'll always wonder what would it have been like if you actually knew how I felt, or ever dared to. I can always write and wonder more as you can always smile and feel free to like what portrays to you of this...

Life of Me

I can’t quite remember how it all started, but I guess it’s true that you always carry a part of the past with you no matter how painful it is. Blurred flashbacks bring back places and voices that I manage to link together every once and awhile: confounded lost eyes of mommy and daddy lied, “Don’t you worry. It’s OK.” Sleeping that night on the floor of my parents’ bedroom was fun, yet quite suspicious.

In the early morning, when darkness hadn't completely faded away, my siblings and I were shaken from our mattresses to leave. Dressed randomly and shoved into the car, we watched dad fighting the gas pedal while yelling frantically to get down, but we had to steal looks to what’s happening up there. Carefully peering to the windshield, funny looking “Christmas lights” soared sloughing the peaceful silence off the vague smoggy sky. Still hypnotized, I watched them as they dropped bottles that boomed raucously when they hit the city. Blooming flames devoured everything in the territory. Dad drove faster.

After twenty minutes, we managed somehow to reach Grandma’s where it was safe enough to stay. We unpacked and sat frozen in front of the TV. Even when there was a power outage, shadows, so fierce, formed by candles all over the room spoke the news instead. At that point, I was still unaware of the fact that war was on and danger wasn't that of a Harry Potter confrontation with Lord Voldemort! At least I didn't until I started volunteering helping homeless refugees.

After a couple of days of fear and thorough confusion, lying down on my mat all day long was agonizing enough for me to decide to start escorting my uncles to the public school where they said they were helping others. I was kind of nervous at first for school meant more homework to me, and it was my summer break! Walking down a couple of blocks, people started to show up near the school. The sad crowd was all over the playground. Some gloomy faces were crowded around a board game, while others were trying to watch the news on a vague screen of an old TV. Lit broken cigarettes were the lovely companions of many. The kids, on the other hand, played together as if nothing was going on.

Somehow I sensed a weird connection with them. I never knew the true state of being of a refugee, although I was one, until I saw them. I was able to reflect my inner thoughts and feelings by mingling with them. In a way I find hard to explain, they have helped me see myself and the world from a different perspective.

Small volunteer work I did over a month made such a drastic difference. Little food I was able to give and little medicine as well made everything a little better. Standing next to giant hot pots, I used to wait for my uncles to pour the soup into bowls with a side of rice. Carefully, I would walk around and hand out what was in my hands. Most of the days, we had to wait until we returned home to have our lunch, or as others call it: dinner.

There’s even this one time where we were forced to go back home to get a few necessities we left behind. Strangely, unlike the first time we ventured on the road, I was totally aware of how critical and dangerous the situations was. In a way, fighting jets were more vicious and destructive than I remember. Images of the screaming victims were louder and remarkably vivid!

Fake laughs of an innocent childhood were forced to be washed away. Ever since, I've sought to discover the world that only few has seen before. Actually, I've tried to create the model of a better world as I see it. Sometimes when we fall down, we don’t pay attention to how the universe looks like from the ground. That incident paved the way to achievements I later went after regardless of how relatively limited they might seem compared to other achievements done by role models who got the chance to see the world from my angle. I’ll never stop evolving and giving to others the best of me for that’s the core of humanity. I shall roam the world, to infinity and beyond, for I’m inspired.

Bedtime Truth

Every now and then

Enjoy a treat

And stare at a shooting star

May we someday meet.

Ponder your thoughts at night

Dreaming of a day

Where the book you read is life

I shall see you there!

And when your eyes collapse

Wake up, arise and see

That the world is but a play

And truth is but a dream.

Fictions are but facts

That others can never see.

Kittens are so fluffy

And mermaids are so real!

Everything you desire

 Is within reach.

Girl I love your mind

And the words you have to say.

Maybe it was your lullaby

It played November Rain?

Maybe your bed time story

A thrill of joy and pain?

Could it be your cupcakes?

Or the foam of milky shakes?

You are certainly different

In a way hard to explain.

Sweetie, shop and never stop!

Even a flower needs its dew.

You deserve to have the glamor.

I met no one like you!

Maybe it's the blood 

Merging east and west.

Maybe it's neither.

Maybe it's something else.

Maybe you're a character...

Then, may all of this be true?

Does this chapter have an end?

Or does it have a due?

Is tomorrow made of choice?

Or a fate meant for you?

I know I can wonder more

But I just won't have a clue.

I guess we'll have to live for now

And give our chat a chew.

And may I say it once again

And will forever do:

I hope you have a happy life

And all your dreams come true

I have wrapped it well enough

And served it well to you.

My heart will forever now

Be a part of you.

Valentine

Dare I venture to your eyes?

Beneath the shine I shall find

Blur scars of mysteries

Of the cold fog to verify

That at the lights dim afar

Shining on a jar of hearts

Harvested when the moon is full

With a smile you coat your stealthy darts.

Along the words you defy

All attempts to rectify

The black intentions of what you see

Your conscience dies in agony.

From a home to another you enchant

The dark words of what you spell:

"Oh heart ahead, trick or treat?"

But both are one in what you mean!

Your veil controls what seems divine.

A victim of yours is hypnotized.

In the eyes of yours it's Halloween

yet others call it Valentine.

Grey

It was my bug indeed

I dream when life is pale.

I cling to thoughts that deem

That few of us are sane.

In a world of black and white

I always seek for grey.

In words that type and pause

I sense but fake bleak chains.

In a world that paints with numbers

I read none but names.

Could it be that I am different?

My thoughts are never plain.

I KNOW I am a dreamer

My thoughts just slide away.

When I first uncloaked your eyes

Your words were joy and pain

I proposed a hundred times

And laughed and spoke a cane

Which desires of mine crouched on

And splashed before you as rain.

I know that we're but people

That speak and dream in vain.

I swear I fell in love with you

And know we'll never gain

The chance to meet again.

I always thought I knew

But so never dared to say.

I draft in smiles when whisper

To you what I embrace.

I guess I'll have to bow

To the fact that we will now

And ever be afar

Compatible yet refrained...

Let It Be

Shall you know or no

My heart is what you own.

Kneeling at your shadow

No love was ever shown.

At the cross of a yellow road

I stood with a gaze and sigh.

Two paths diverged ahead

And I chose the less traveled by.

Enchanted to you meet

I marched against the breeze

Doubting if it's real

Or a dream within a dream.

Is it but a story?

Or a trance of what I feel?

Murmurs to my mind

Whispered by the trees

Chanting along your name

Guiding ahead the way

Foretelling mysteries!

A fleeting shooting star

Slashed above my head

Flashing all the cards

Shuffling my thoughts instead.

Lost with lots of speed

Blood pounding through my ears

My chest fighting the beats

Strident with ecstasy.

Living with the lie

That tomorrow it shall be

Days turned to nights

Hours turned to years

And I still have the hope

That you are not afar

Reaching out for me

Or so is what I want?

Or so is what I need?

Or so is what it seems?

Or so...

Let it be!