Poetic conversation #2

“Here you are darling,
in a strange city,
walking in a street you have never seen.
How does it feel?”

“It’s overwhelming.
My heart is pounding with curiosity.
I want to touch the ruins,
caress the grass,
smile at the people
as they mumble their foreign words
to my peaceful face.
I want to breathe in that sour air,
and let the ashes that have been
clogging my heart fly away.
I want to cleanse my soul with everything strange.”


I wrote a poem,
inspired by all the lovers my chest ached for throughout the years.
But you,
the person I did not write about,
floated through mind,
as my hand traced the remains of their being.
They pained me with their love for my sorrowed soul,
while you sheltered it with the hope you etched in my dismay since I saw you;
There you were,
buttoned shirt,
yellow like your aura,
perfect skin,
a full smile on your lined lips,
your presence illuminating me,
embracing me like dry trees on a rainy day.
You made me wonder.
Your gaze made me wonder.
Those eyes still make me question the phrase:
“Only God is perfect.”
They looked at me with all their majesty,
and saw the sparks my electric soul emitted underneath all those dark shades.
You, my love, took in all the tears that made my veins burn.
And tonight,
I’m loving myself,
through the light I absorbed from the lightning that reflected in your mirrored eyes.

A poem that came out different.

I do not understand how you can fall in love with someone that never gave you a piece of his mind,
that never stripped down in front of you from all the layers society made him wear,
someone that never told you what he thinks of the moon and the stars,
that never sank his teeth in his own skin in front of you,
that never told you why he likes his coffee bitter and his tea cold.
How can you love someone you never saw gaze at the night sky,
read his book by the shore,
smash his glass into the wall?
How can you love someone just by the way he calls you in the morning,
or smiles at you?
How do you have the guts to call something –
that does not crush your windpipe as you exhale its sour elixir,
— love?
You crave his attention.
You love what he offers you;
pleasure, satisfaction, comfort.
You never saw him naked.
You never asked him about that scar on his neck.
You never noticed how he spaces out when death pops into the conversation.
Do you know why death intimidates him?
Well, I do.
You love the rainbows he gives you,
the cotton-candy he buys you.
I love the cracks in his coffee mug,
the blackness under his eyes,
the pages he shredded from his books,
and the blood he bleeds while picking up broken glass.

I love him wholly.
You love him lowly.

Enchanting Chaos

I shouldn’t write about you.
Writing about you is like removing a bandage so slowly.

I know we’ve been distant.
I know we’re incompatible.
I know that I’m acid and you’re base,
I’m fire and you’re ice,
I’m black and you’re white,
but our love has always been neutral,
it has been a flame in the middle of a pond.
Our love has always been gray.
We somehow managed to balance each other;
my maturity with your foolishness,
my rain with your sunshine.
But what’s happened to us now?
I ran into you, and I didn’t even hug you.

I should not be writing about you.
But my clothes are hanging in your closet,
the journal I wrote you is laying dead on top of your bookshelf;
I bet it’s dusty now.
I wrote you masterpieces that represent the illusions we lived in.
We’re real now.
Everything real is fascinating,
no matter how cruel it is.

We’re a fiasco,
but we’re beautiful.

The love of my life

I am not a lonely soul,
constantly reaching for drops of affection
in this big, vague ocean.

I am solitary,
not alone.
is finding peace in oneself’s presence.
is finding agony in the other’s absence.

I miss opening my journal,
and smiling while no ink leaves my pen,
because the emotions are too strong to
be a dead poem laying on a paper.
If I were to write about the love of my life,
the letters would abandon the paper,
and engrave themselves onto his heart.
No one would get the chance to taste my lips,
when it’s three am,
and they’re brunching past his ear,
as his hands draw my silhouette,
and he exhales ‘I love you’,
and my skin shivers,
as my soul leaves my body
to enter his ribcage.

I am not alone,
because I got a heart telling me
that the future is bright,
just like the stars I’m seeing right now.

Small Minds versus Big Spirits

What is this I’m feeling?
My whole body shakes slowly
as I walk across the table.
Has it come this far?
My system refuses being around people?
All it’s asking me to do is
drink more coffee,
stay in bed,
and read drunken poetry.

Maybe this is what happens when I sit around
small minds that cannot comprehend my big spirit.
They see everything I’ve grown attached to
as shallow as my love for gentlemen in suits is.
They think that my atoms are linked together
by the need to fit in.
They don’t know that I’m stitched by the stars,
my morning coffee,
my favourite books,
and the beautiful souls I am yet to meet.
They don’t know that I am transcending,
that I am galactic,
that I am opening my third eye to the unseen vision.

They are oblivious.
I am aware.

The Blooming of Madness

Here I am,
sitting in a strange cafe,
surrounded by strange faces,
smiling as I hear glasses clatter.

— I’ve said this so many times.
you feel like home.
I do not know your streets,
but I know they lead me where I belong.
I will never get lost in them,
but I am lost in you.
I dream of tomorrow;
Living here,
between your desolated corners,
your huggable trees,
your noisy people.
I see myself as a flower,
that refuses to bloom in another place;
I’ve been blooming in my hometown,
despite the rocks engulfing my being,
but it’s ripping my petals off.
I won’t lose my beauty,
to people who see my creativity,
my longing,
my colours,
as craziness.
I want to gaze into your skyline,
and find my muse.
I want to steal success,
and shove it into my hometown’s face.
I want to remember this day,
this hour,
this moment,
and write:
“Ah, Beirut!
The raindrops on my window,
caressed by your sunrays,
sparkle the way the bubbles in my champagne glister,
as I drink a toast to my dreams coming true.”

Beirut, you’re the blooming of madness.

‘Soulmates’ II

Why did I call you my Soulmate?
You don’t even believe in fate.
You don’t believe that souls meet before the bodies do.
You laughed at me when I said the universe manifests itself through love.

I’m so ashamed of the universe because
I said that you embody it.
I said that you embody the whole transcending universe!
The universe is endless,
mysterious in its darkness,
fascinating in its wisdom.
While you draw limits to your mind,
and let people define what you love.

How sad!
You will never find enlightenment
because you’re too busy looking for everything ordinary.

‘Soulmates’ I

Why did I call you my Soulmate?
Despite all our differences?
They say opposite attract,
but the truth is,
they wreck each other.
They love each other down to their bones;
A passionate,
innocent love.
They ignore fights by telling each other that they’re the only thing making them smile,
that they’re the first person they talk to in the morning.

Why did you call me your Soulmate?
Knowing that I’m the most peculiar soul that ever came across your path?
You used to tell me that my weirdness made me special,
that I’m good influence,
and I make you crave intelligence.
But you called me boring when I started discussing Freud’s theories with your cousin.
You called me stupid when I told you about my insecurities.
When I was too sad,
you asked me to ‘cheer the fuck up’
You never loved me, did you?
You loved my spring,
and deplored my winter.
You’ve been engulfing my mind with doubts and anxiety,
since that March night;
I was always scared of losing you.
I realised that I’m not anymore.
I was always scared of being left alone,
but it’s two in the morning,
and you told me to forget about us ten hours ago,
and I haven’t cried a single tear for you,
my knees aren’t shaking at the thought of you,
my chest is moving like a Lotus flower.

I’m building myself,
while you’re searching for attention in every corner.

Maybe you’re winning the world,
but I’m gaining the universe.


You’re yellow.
Your soul gives out a yellow aura.
Not the yellow that comes on too strong,
burns your eyes with passion,
and leaves traces of wild authority behind its egoless steps.
You’re the yellow that brushes past my skin,
and paints it gold,
the yellow they use to draw the stars that expel fascinating beauty.
You’re placid,
full of hope,
and heartwarming, calm energy.
You’re yellow.