A Cheap Script

You: Oh my God, you're really doing this. You're actually blurting out these deviated words? Fuck off. I have nothing to say.
Me: DO NOT TURN THIS ON ME. You started this, making it a minefield of deceit and hurt. You fucking backstabbed me. You put a knife in my back and fucking twisted it. Fuck you, for God's sake, fuck you.
You: I never meant for it to go wrong. You kept zoning out and leaving me to my misery, forgetting our beautiful moments. Snubbing my kisses, my looks of lust, my looks of love. What do you expect me to do? Wait? Wait for what? Wait for the rest of my life and see you smoke your life away, drink your emotions and gamble our life-savings? Your ripped our wishlist, the things we got together to do, to-fucking-gether. You have the audacity to come here and say that I stabbed you in the back? I didn't stab shit. I held us together. Held this together. Worked my ass off to feed us and your addicted self.
Me: SHUT UP!
You: That is you when you have nothing to say. Shutting everybody up. Shutting yourself up. Go fuck yourself. We're done.
Me: We're done when I say we're done.
You: Remove your filthy hand off my arm!
Me: I won't. You're staying here. I will never allow it.
You: Look at yourself. Smell yourself. You think I respond to you anymore? I do whatever I want to do, without anybody's consent, understand me?
Me: Yes. I understand you alright. Now my job is to make you want to stay, right?
You: Don't play your games. Fuck off, I'm leaving.
Me: Well the game just started.
You: Bye.
Me: Check your phone.
You: You wouldn't.
Me: I would. Now do you want to stay?
You: Come. Let's settle this.

I'm not that much of a writer. 

I

Nights are not so enriching anymore. I'm not moved by a cool breeze, by invigorating melodies, by enchanting poetry, by fast car rides, by conversations of intellectual magnitude, by teachings of substance, by idols and symbols, by celebrated personalities. It all came to a halt at a point in the last four years. Nothing heightens my senses anymore; nothing is of any value.

Where are those thoughts of passion when a glance is shared?

A lover is confined to the brown pages of a book, between two durable covers, to be imagined and not experienced. I should understand and remember that a human isn't just bone and muscle. The theory of instinct should be obliterated, as that would shatter what a human being is all about, a person of feelings. Love, a distinct, original entity which should never be forgotten.

I'm living but living what? A life, just a minuscule part of a larger haystack. No. This shouldn't be true. I should be meaningful, to myself at the very least, locate my own true north.

I'm not myself.

But I am really not my own property. I am completed by that other person, that gal whom I rotate around, and want to be next to. This is what I tried to suppress for the last four years. To get over, but get over what? I was getting over myself and living and living a life of others, a routine instigated by self-improving morons on the Internet and the pressure of educational excellence.

I'm not a person who conforms to a regular sleeping routine, and multiple hours of Engineering books, no. I don't have a bed, and an alarm and a daily time to wake up. I don't talk to people who don't interest me on topics that don't interest just for the sake of assigned group work. No. This is completely fake.

I don't compromise and lie. I don't keep superficial relationships or be cautious whenever I meet a new person. I'm a follower of the heart, a trustworthy person carrying the secrets of many, untangling others' problems, and harming myself for their good. Their problems, papers, lovers are more important than anything that I have. This is lost. I'm not me.

AND THIS FREAKING PIECE ISN'T ME, AS WELL.

Where is the fucking composure? Prowess?

I guess I'm stuck in that snowball called adulthood. Maybe a story of success albeit nonsensical success.  

"أتبعك، ويضيع العمر، ويضيع الطريق، وخطوتي
وأدورك بخدود الزهر، بالليل، بعيون القمر
وأدورك بنبض قلبي الجديد، كل ما لمحتك بعيد، وأسأل عليك الصبر"

Trust

You don't trust me, you don't give a fuck. You need me, and when you're done eating up my flesh, you'll dump my bones to the awaiting dogs. Your conscience is a lie. A bitch is what you are. A self-centered, bigoted, unaware whore of intellectual emptiness and a facade of fake kindness.

You obliterate the ritual laws of love. You know nothing of love but a set of traditional restrictions put forth by religious sayings and old tales, and you don't even cherish those. You're cruel, challenging a Disney crone on the extents of evilness your highness can reach, and you surpass her, as you categorize the means of wrong attitudes and hurting actions.

You can stare me down, citing your lies easily. You can't even recognize truth as you build a web of fake tales, and as you're caught in your act, the high-pitch of your voice suddenly pops up, invoking the racing heartbeats of my heart and utilizing its unknowing senses. 

Fuck you, may I say. Fuck you and fuck your deceit. Fuck the imaginary image of you, and fuck the thing I started with you. A thing which I knew of its deviation and never stopped, as I got addicted to your apparent easiness, which was all part of your plan. 

Fuck my heart which succumbed. 

The above is a burst of fictional emotion. 

To

I have nothing to declare. That should be enough for a long white page.
No. I want that look of determined solace.
I would like to call myself a poet.
I don't want to lose that essence within me, that untouchable entity.
I'm losing it. I'm losing everything.

What's an unwanted self but an average person?

"مساري ماهو باختياري، لها ساري."