22 7 / 2014

Make me
Your 8th deadly sin
Then show me
How much of a sinner
You are
-HZ

#micropoetry #fieryverse #poetry #poem #poetsofinstagram #poet #notes #sin

Make me
Your 8th deadly sin
Then show me
How much of a sinner
You are
-HZ

#micropoetry #fieryverse #poetry #poem #poetsofinstagram #poet #notes #sin

21 7 / 2014

Oh greyhounds
And beautiful hurricans
I feel The wind leaving my lungs
Forgetting it clung
On your Words
Taking leaps & bounds
In a mind unknown
-HZ

#hurricane #poetry #poem #write #writersofinstagram #poet

Oh greyhounds
And beautiful hurricans
I feel The wind leaving my lungs
Forgetting it clung
On your Words
Taking leaps & bounds
In a mind unknown
-HZ

#hurricane #poetry #poem #write #writersofinstagram #poet

20 7 / 2014

I write letters
To Aphrodite
Asking if beauty
Was the real reason
He loved her
Or if he
Loved her at all
-HZ

#micropoetry #poem #writing #writersofinstagram #aphrodite

I write letters
To Aphrodite
Asking if beauty
Was the real reason
He loved her
Or if he
Loved her at all
-HZ

#micropoetry #poem #writing #writersofinstagram #aphrodite

20 7 / 2014

And we lay awake
Til we dont
Spinning stories
Sitting still
Refusing
To leave each other’s sight

#micropoetry
#blogger #writing #writersofinstagram #poetry

And we lay awake
Til we dont
Spinning stories
Sitting still
Refusing
To leave each other’s sight

#micropoetry
#blogger #writing #writersofinstagram #poetry

19 7 / 2014

Dear Mr. Clem

I have never been a fan of history.

Although, history is just a collection of stories of those who lived before us; the heroes and villains of our age, I have never found an appeal in reading the tales of our times. I have always prefered the fictional, and this, may be a fault of mine.

You see, the concept of history repeating itself has always scared me.

Once, you told me a story of your pain, I could tell from your narration that you left out the parts that really hurt, fearful that I would judge you or hold it against you I do not know, but you never told me the whole tale. But even when you cut pages and chapters from the book, I could see you bleeding through the papers, cuts and bruises showing through your eyes, through your words and I could not but want to help you…save you.

You told me about how your pain was repeated two times over; how you never thought you would get punched in the same place twice, how it hurt both times as if they were the first.

I told you about my pain, in detail, leaving nothing out. I told you of every cut, every scratch, every arm twist, every heart twist and I trusted you with what is left with my blood and you promised you would never risk it.

History, dear Clem, tends to repeat itself, and I see the pain coming back my way. I do not know whether it is reassurance I need or preparation. I do not think I’d survive the cuts again.

Maybe that’s why I stick with fictional stories rather than real ones; in fiction, I can control what happens to my characters, I can stop the hurt. In reality, however, I can only try and brace myself for what is to come.

I hope you stocked up on band aids, I may be needing them soon.
Love,
H-


#mrclem #letter #letters #writersofinstagram #bloggersofinstagram #blogger #cuts #bruises #bandaids #writing #write #history

Dear Mr. Clem

I have never been a fan of history.

Although, history is just a collection of stories of those who lived before us; the heroes and villains of our age, I have never found an appeal in reading the tales of our times. I have always prefered the fictional, and this, may be a fault of mine.

You see, the concept of history repeating itself has always scared me.

Once, you told me a story of your pain, I could tell from your narration that you left out the parts that really hurt, fearful that I would judge you or hold it against you I do not know, but you never told me the whole tale. But even when you cut pages and chapters from the book, I could see you bleeding through the papers, cuts and bruises showing through your eyes, through your words and I could not but want to help you…save you.

You told me about how your pain was repeated two times over; how you never thought you would get punched in the same place twice, how it hurt both times as if they were the first.

I told you about my pain, in detail, leaving nothing out. I told you of every cut, every scratch, every arm twist, every heart twist and I trusted you with what is left with my blood and you promised you would never risk it.

History, dear Clem, tends to repeat itself, and I see the pain coming back my way. I do not know whether it is reassurance I need or preparation. I do not think I’d survive the cuts again.

Maybe that’s why I stick with fictional stories rather than real ones; in fiction, I can control what happens to my characters, I can stop the hurt. In reality, however, I can only try and brace myself for what is to come.

I hope you stocked up on band aids, I may be needing them soon.
Love,
H-


#mrclem #letter #letters #writersofinstagram #bloggersofinstagram #blogger #cuts #bruises #bandaids #writing #write #history

07 7 / 2014

Dear Mr. Clem

Dear Mr. Clem

When we were younger, boys played make believe war while girls were asked to fill imaginary pots with imaginary tea. It just so happens that imagination follows us through the rest of our life; we all fight wars we cannot see and we can pretend to drink from empty cups.

My imagination has done nothing but hurt me, Clem, I keep spinning stories in my head about real life characters that refuse to act as I wish them to. I have been using ink from an empty pen to write tales that have never and will never exist.

Fiction is a fickle friend, and I have never been able to count on him except when real ink hit real paper, and even then, sometimes, he disappoints.

I’ve read somewhere that- contrary to popular belief- fiction is what has to make sense because real life rarely does. The things that happen to us, the situations we are put in, if they were written down, would never be believed.

The kids were fighting a war with imaginary guns, but we are fighting wars with ourselves, wars that we only can see, manage and be the victims of. Over the past months, I’ve treated my ribs like steel cages and my mouth like a defensive tank. I have been building walls to prevent a war I lost once already in the fear that the fires that burned down everything I owned would somehow come back, and they have. My walls did not hold up for a minute, my cages opened wide and let all that was inside burn once more. I am, once again, defenseless, burning and noone is there to see or save the damsel standing in the fire.

H-

27 6 / 2014

(Source: dorahunt, via poetry-mania)

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26 6 / 2014

On Red and Stagnant Waters

In lakes and glistening lights, I found myself floating. It was not the happy elevation of spirits but more of a light headedness that lead me to rise above the crowd, leaving behind crumbs of smiles and dreaded times. His hand touched hers, surrounding palms with palms and leaving touches of red roses on her cheeks. I smiled, knowing that his palms promised her eternal flowers, a rose for every day, palms on palms forever.

As I rose, over lakes and glistening surfaces, the crowd of happiness rose with me, touching only my elbow, my knee, the back of my neck. Too fast was it for me to catch but lingered too long for it to leave lasting burns on places I can’t reach.

The water seemed stagnant, having stayed still since the beginning of time and a time before that, it knew every molecule of air that touched its surface ; knew every piece of grass and all its ancestors, all the trees that bloomed and the ones that refused to abide by the rules of mother nature who kept the water prisoner all those years. And because it knew everything around it, it knew when someone sat at its bank to enjoy a quiet moment, when two lovers made the side of it their own, when a father took his girl to show her beauty and when someone like me sat near it.

I came back down, rejoined the cling and clatter of humans, for I wasn’t one anymore. You see, when you rise and fall, the space between you and your body morphs into shapes unseen before by the eyes of humanity, and when you return you can only see them.

Red seemed to be the order of the day, for after her flowery cheeks shined scarlet, the red in another’s eyes took place. Strength is a great burden to bear, and he knew not how to put the weight down. His eyes started glowing red at the corners and metastasized to the middle. Tears were insufferable, tears were never an option. His eyes grew red, his fist clenched, not a tear slipped by the gates.

Another’s crimson dress flew with the breeze that visited every few moments to greet those who visited the lake. Short at a side, long at another, the beauty of her body was only highlighted by the crimson fabric that encircled her. Her face was pale, though; no flowers touched it, not a rose in sight, not in a million years.

I watched, different forms of red, different shades, different reasons. Ah how the beauty of one color can make itself out to be so damn versatile. I didn’t want red, I tried to float again, but red was the only way to float.

They were a nice collection of people, beautiful, in fact. If I had been a painter, I would have spent the rest of my hours perfecting strokes of their faces, shades of the reds; They would have been…beautiful.

Red was the only way to float again, and in the midst of their happiness, their sadness, their occupation with each other, they missed me showing my red. My version of scarlet, that trickled slower that I thought down a white blouse’s sleeve. I regretted ruining it, but the white on crimson made it much more dramatic, prominent, but they still couldn’t see.

I regretted not saying goodbye to the circle of painted souls. They were, as a said, beautiful and they could not see their beauty amidst the waves of red. I regretted his eyes, their palms and her dress, how magnificent they were. How beautiful would they have been, had I stayed.

Instead of painting them, I decided to leave them this note. Beauty was tainted too much by strokes of paint, but writing them down can reserve their youth forever. Some would call this a “Suicide Letter” but I think of it as the only way to float.

10 6 / 2014

I AM

Look at me

Do I look weak to you?

Do I look like the fragility you make me out to be?

Do I sounds solemn, afraid, do I sound like the chirps of a baby bird stretching her neck out as far as it goes waiting for a crumb?

Does my face tell you I can be broken?

Do my scars show tenderness in a face that refuses to smile

Look

At

Me

Do I resemble princesses in tall towers, too scared to climb over the ledge?

Do my arms not seem like they’ve carried more than the mere pain of one?

I am not the soft petal you have to caress lest it tears

I am not the morning dew on a summer day

I am not small, delicate, I am not a humming bird

I am rage

Storm

I am blizzards in all their forms

I am the roar of mighty beasts as they anger

I am the crush of stone on stone

I

Am

the scorching heat of burning suns

I am the howling of tidal waves as they fly next to the wind

I am crushed glass as it crashes

I am wielded swords

I am rage

I am Rage

I am not a weak damsel, sir

I am rage

I am war.

07 6 / 2014

So, this happened.

This was one of the most stressful, emotionally stringing, highly nerve wrecking, best nights of my life. I was making something. 

Ok context

This is a project I started called @TheWordProject  مشروع كلمه and it is, for all intents and purposes, my baby. It is made to be a two parter (a series of poetry slams and an online literary journal)

It was an idea I got a couple of years ago to make an outlet for writers in my country, a country that birthed so many literary geniuses yet was so slow in helping them grow. 

Now back to my story.

Eighteen writers and seven musicians were gathered under one roof. eighteen writers and seven musicians felt comfortable enough to stand in front of everyone and speak their words. Eighteen writers and seven musicians shared their talents with complete strangers.

Can you imagine the energy it took to listen to so many emotions in one sitting?
The sheer amount of verse, heavy with the experiences of friends and strangers, was beautifully exhausting. It was as if I was bombarded with feathers, seemingly harmless, beautiful, sweet, yet after a while you start to feel their weight.

I have learned about pains, thoughts, idea. I have seen glimpses of how people think, why they do what they do, who they miss, who they love…

That day, I met old friends and made new ones. I was surrounded by talent, emotion and passion. In those few hours, I was where I belonged.

I said that I started this to give people an outlet, I lied; I started this for the purely selfish reason of getting bombarded with emotion filled talent until they exhaust me and for that, I am grateful.


#thewordproject #blogger
#writing #writerofinstagram
#writersofinstagram #poetry #slam #bikya #egypt #love #post

So, this happened.

This was one of the most stressful, emotionally stringing, highly nerve wrecking, best nights of my life. I was making something.

Ok context

This is a project I started called @TheWordProject مشروع كلمه and it is, for all intents and purposes, my baby. It is made to be a two parter (a series of poetry slams and an online literary journal)

It was an idea I got a couple of years ago to make an outlet for writers in my country, a country that birthed so many literary geniuses yet was so slow in helping them grow.

Now back to my story.

Eighteen writers and seven musicians were gathered under one roof. eighteen writers and seven musicians felt comfortable enough to stand in front of everyone and speak their words. Eighteen writers and seven musicians shared their talents with complete strangers.

Can you imagine the energy it took to listen to so many emotions in one sitting?
The sheer amount of verse, heavy with the experiences of friends and strangers, was beautifully exhausting. It was as if I was bombarded with feathers, seemingly harmless, beautiful, sweet, yet after a while you start to feel their weight.

I have learned about pains, thoughts, idea. I have seen glimpses of how people think, why they do what they do, who they miss, who they love…

That day, I met old friends and made new ones. I was surrounded by talent, emotion and passion. In those few hours, I was where I belonged.

I said that I started this to give people an outlet, I lied; I started this for the purely selfish reason of getting bombarded with emotion filled talent until they exhaust me and for that, I am grateful.


#thewordproject #blogger
#writing #writerofinstagram
#writersofinstagram #poetry #slam #bikya #egypt #love #post