Friday, June 26, 2015

There Was Once

There was once a group of people 
Under one ceiling
In union.
A union of abstinence, a religious duty
Fasting in a hot afternoon.

There was once a group of worshippers
Under one ceiling 
In union. 
A union of actions, of whispered words 
Whispered words of reverence 
And glory, glory to one God.

There was once a group of individuals
Under one ceiling
In union. 
A union of stances, reciting verses of devotion
Devotion to a lord almighty. 

There was once a group of humans
Under one ceiling
In union.
A union of prostration, expressions of humility
And gratitude
And love. 


There was once one lone coward
Under a veil
In solitude
Wearing destruction and hate.

There was once a monster
Under a veil
A veil of fake religious beliefs 
In an attire of abhorrence and terror.


There was once an attack
Under a dome of peace
In cowardice. 
From behind, sending to the heavens the peaceful
Injuring the unsuspecting
Shocking a community.


 There is now a country
Under one sky, on one pure land
In grief.
Exemplifying the art of giving
Honoring its martyrs, caring for its injured, 
Loving its people. 

There is now Kuwait
A haven of differences
In union
A union of tolerance and acceptance
An undivided home.

And it will always be. 

Monday, June 8, 2015


Where did the audacity go?
I miss you. I want you. I need you. To the churns of an Arabic Oud I divulge my feelings.
The yearn to burst into tears is audacious. What do I need?
What's there to miss and need and want?
People lose their loved ones easily, and for what? A wrong turn? A stupid teenager in a fancy car? The random behavior of a body unhappy of one's dietary cravings? And here I am mourning my own happiness, my contentedness.

And it's not really specificity which I need. There isn't a particular being owning the keys to my smiles and true laughs. But on the contrary; it's a random grin that pours love into my unbelieving soul, and then it subsides and everything is back to normal. The sickening type of normality.

I lost the ability to express. I have many things to say and limited abilities of expression. It's like everything is another language, and I can't understand it nor does it understand me. I have a knack for rhetorical questions. I can't stand it.

I over-appreciate beauty. I'd love to think that I don't, but I certainly do. I expect a lot from a beautiful person. I expect their goodness to be of the same level as their beauty.

Days go by without anything of value really. Nothing to consolidate anything. Just the movement of time uncaring of whatever that goes on in life, and it's really not fun.

Complaints following complaints following complaints summing up the attitude of this writer. A highly-regarded personality among many, and a lowly character in the senses of his typing fingers.

Put that fragile little abhorrent manifestation
Of a cylinder between your lips, 
And carry that filled up canister, 
Strike your thumb once, 
Or twice.
Make sure of your success
Hear the hiss of chemistry at its finest,
Breathe in. Breathe in more, 
And stir up a true smile,
True fucking laughter.

I guess that's my way of trying to be audacious. 

Monday, June 1, 2015

The Absence of Quality

I despise the absence of quality. The recurrence of similar episodes. The previous idea awaiting a paraphrase, and that's it. Nothing to come out of it but a statement of presence and maybe the feigned satisfaction of imaginary accomplishment. And maybe, just maybe, what is done is hailed as evolutionary, revolutionary, innovative and whatnot, but it's just a fucking paraphrase.

I love myself. I admire what I'm doing. I think that I'm better than a lot of people, and I acknowledge that I have no right to such whatsoever, but I actually do. I take the smallest of accomplishments, the minutest overcoming of hardship, and magnify it in my head as a landmark of many sorts. Again, I have no right. I'm kidding myself.

I do not recognize my shortcomings. A blatant failure, to me, is automatically translated into a courageous escapade into the impossible and the impossible just caught up. Simple as that.

I'm not complimenting myself.

There are a lot of "I"s in this piece.

There is no ending to this piece. It will be left hanging. It's the same as the rest. A recurrence of similar episodes, lacking quality and a para-phrasal of previous ideas.

I'm tormented by the thought of abrupt ends. He's absent, and that's just excruciating, or an excuse to do whatever I want. The relativity of morality. Haha, haha. Or maybe I should be grateful for the law of mankind.

I want to write. And yet it's just a statement of presence which results in a feigned satisfaction of this imaginary accomplishment. Yes, I accomplish random writing vomits, and I am actually proud, for maybe this, one day, may be called evolutionary or revolutionary or even innovative prose. For are there worthy synonyms to Him but the creators of poems, the litterateurs of universe?

"I loved a pretty one, 
O how I desire to be his shadow."

Fuck domestic, societal, communal, traditional pressure. 
Fuck being realistic.
Fuck being oblivious to destruction.
Yes, sit in your Dewania, play a useless card game and do nothing whatsoever in your life except the action of inserting sustenance into your body keeping you alive for another day of uselessness. Fuck your inaction. 
Yes, be a factor of the damning pressures of society, but do nothing to actually better it. 
Yes, sit comfortable and complain, like I'm doing right here. Be a peach. A rotten apple. 
Let them clothe you, feed you, bury you. Let them move you right and left and stay as the puppet that you are. 

Okay. I think I went overboard. This took too long, and I thought of many things throughout. And quality is certainly an absentee.