طارد خيالك

هيّا أحمل ذلك القلم المرمي هناك 

و غازله 

اسرع خلف خيالك المهمل 

و طارده 

املأ أسطر الدفتر المهجور فرحا 

و لوّنه 

تحايل على فكرك الضجر قليلا 

و نشطه 

سجّل تاريخ هذا اليوم في الهامش 

و ارّخه 

اجلب شتاء هذه الليلة الممطرة 

و دفئه 

تسلل خلف كل حرف مما كتبت 

و قبّله 

Romancing The Rain

Rain is pouring shyly. Afraid I'll be bored of it, it stops for awhile.  Afraid I'll forget all about it, it drips again whispering "missed me?" 

I'm not a heart-breaker neither a sentimentalist or so I boast everywhere, so I stay quiet hoping it would understand. But at the sight of me walking around a corridor it tempts me and I open the door and reach out my hand for it to take. All shyness now gone, it covers my arm with lovely drops, so full of itself isn't it? But who am I to resist falling into its mirage of hopes. 

Just now it drizzles for a few minutes to bring back the smile on my face. Forgive the self-centeredness here. It comes along with the attention today's rain has blessed me with. 

وداع. مطار. دموع. سيناريو كلاسيكي

هل لنا أية تحكم بالشكل الذي تغيّرنا به الأيام بعد ما تصهرنا الأحداث؟ أم أن الحسرة هي كل ما هو مسموح لنا  في هذه العملية المحزنة؟ 

لا أدري إن كان الجو السائد من الحزن في ذهني هو نتيجة يوم غير حافل أم أن الدموع التي ذرفتها في وداع صديقة اليوم قد جلبت هذا الحزن. خصوصا بأن ذلك الوداع كان في مطار قد شهد على العديد منها. ففقد أي اهتمام بما يجري فيه و أصبح شاهدا بلا شعور و تركني مع كلمات تتوق شوقا لأتفوه بها لكن يأبى لساني و تحملها دموعي بدلا عنه. 

و في طريق العودة التفتت لي صديقتي الأخرى لتخبرني بأنها ظنّت بأنني أقوى من ذلك. من عدم تملك أي قدرة على التحكم بمشاعري. لم أتفاجأ بهذا فإني على علم بالشكل الذي أظهر به أمام الناس. نظرتي حادة و أجيد التصنع بعدم الاهتمام لكن قلبي ليس بحدة نظراتي. بل العكس تماما. لكن أنا متأكدة بأن معظم من حولي لم يدركوا هذا بعد. 

هذا كل ما سمحت لي أصابعي بكتابته. اعذروني على فوضاويته. 

Naked Thoughts

Always blaming people for my sense of discomfort at being myself around everyone. I'm finally realizing that if there's anyone holding me back it's me. I am reserved because I think that I can't be myself around everyone. But why can't I? Why shouldn't I create that sense of comfort instead of waiting for people to give it to me. We're all selfish. In a way or another. Few are those who make an effort to get to know us for the way we are. Rather than the way they take us for. 

My opinions aren't to be stored in a locker which no one has access to. I can say what I think. Whether I like this or I don't. Yes, it's that simple. I know I have a good capacity for putting up with people but I don't have it. Not with everyone. There's a choice that I have to make to stop all of this worry, I already have several white hairs. Not long before I have more. 

My mother checked my hair the other day and was appalled at the sight of them. She told me to stop having this white hair. She meant to say stop this worrying and anger of yours. I know it's been said a lot but life IS too short. If I care about people and what they think more than what I think then it won't do. Is this a step towards change for the better?  I hope so. I hope it's not just an excited but soon to be forgotten thought. 

Noting down an accomplishment

I go out for a jog. Wait, let's pause before I continue and you think I'm this great fit person who exercises. Quite the opposite   I assure you.  Some think I'm slender, my older sister would disagree and say I could do well with a few kilos off. I switch between jogging and walking as I'm out of breath after 3 rounds in the basketball field.  Not so fit, see. But I manage to keep a good pace as I outwalk an older girl who's content with her slow pace, surely thinking of deeper issues as my self centred thoughts are residing.  

Having finished with an anatomy exam this morning, I try to brush away thoughts of it. Another girl might contemplate on which muscles are acting on her joints as she's walking because we've just finished the lower limb. But I do not. My thoughts wander to the book Im reading, The Hunger Games. How fast would I react when confronted with a life or death situation? My odds aren't good I tell myself. I fasten my pace, trying to shed off some fat that I've been eating for lack of food options around. The girl in the book is so sure of herself even though she won't acknowledge it. Storming off and slamming doors, not caring that she appears hostile and push people away. Huda-centered thoughts tell me that I can be or maybe am hostile but rarely show it to people. But why? I mean strangers who don't know you, why should they have a certain image of you? 

Self insecurity is the last thing on my mind I want to attack me so I focus on keeping a steady pace and not losing balance and falling off. I hear a girl shouting something as her friends start laughing, it was in paki and I had my headphones on so I had no idea what she said but it did register in my mind that she was cheering for me to keep at it. I ignore as I don't know the girl well enough to afford looking like a fool in front of her. Plus I need this time by myself unconcerned with what they might say or think. As much as I can manage that. 

Good night!

يوميات جامعية #01

هل سيقتل الطب أي حس إبداعي لدي؟ هذا ما بدأته أخشاه مع مرور الأيام. لن أدعي بأني فتاة مبدعة إلى أبعد الحدود و لكن ربما إلى اقرب الحدود قليلا. 

يومي  يمر بسرعة البرق مع محاضرات و ضغط دراسي و تحضير وجبات غذائية أحاول التنويع بها بقدر ما تسمح أدوات المطبخ بذلك. و عندما تقترب الساعة الواحدة بعد منتصف الليل أجد نفسي منهكة  كليا. بتلك اللحظة بالذات تبدأ المناقشات المحبطة تدور في رأسي. مع الأسف لا يمكن أن يمر يوما و يجلب معه شعور بالرضا عن ما درست في ذلك اليوم و بما أني أقضي اليوم بين تضييع الوقت و الدراسة الشكلية لذا أنا في فقد كبير للرضا في حياتي لأني ببساطة لا أفعل أي شئ يجلب لي السعادة أو على الأقل يفرغ من الشحنات المكومة عندي. 

لقد أنهيت كتاب قبل قليل، لا أنكر بأنني تكاسلت كثيرا فيه و كان يجب أن أنهيه منذ فترة ولكن دعونا من تفكيري المضني و لندعوه بإنجاز اليوم. 

 

هل هذه محاولة لتسليط الضوء عما يجري و ربما من خلالها إصلاح الخلل؟ كلي أمل بذلك. 

إنسانية مفقودة

من يجرؤ على إلزامك بطريقة تفكيرهم؟ على غزو فضاء امنياتك و وضع حدود ضيقة أينما يشاء؟ أيعقل يا إنسان أن ترفض جميع هذه القيود لكنك تبرر لنفسك عندما تفرضها على غيرك؟ ألا رادع لك يا من يجوب بقاع هذه الارض العتيقة بحرية؟ أمات الضمير؟ تنام ليلا هانئا لا منغص عليك. أراك تتحسف معي و انت تقرأ هذا يا هذا. لا عليك فقد هاجر الضمير الذي ولد معك الى الجبال العتيدة. لا تقلق عليه فقد اكتشف حديثاً أن الجبال بصخرها لديها إنسانيتك التي تخليت عنها. 

A Spark of Faith

I, hereby, post this for Noor El-Terk. Because she likes cheesy. <3


With hopes she wasn't fully asleep yet, he turned in bed. And with the street light that fell purposely on her side of the pillow, he saw the tears that were calling out to him. Instinctively he reached out for her and swiftly turned her towards him. Only then did she let out her first muffled sob that gave way to more tears, unexplained even to herself.

"I wish I was a rock, like you, unmoved by all the waves that hit me."

He pondered what seemed to be the result of a long thinking and whispered gently, "You forget that this rock you're talking about is yours. It would take those hits you get gladly, for you."

"I want you to promise me to always forgive my inconsistencies," said she, "I'm weak and I fear not living up to your expectations of me."

In the friction of the second he hesitated, she broke down completely. As he admitted silently to her weakness, or so she interpreted it. He held her tighter trying to keep her in once piece as he whispered, "It all depends on one thing. If you love me consistently then I will forgive you everything else."

"I will" said she as she finally closed her eyes, rested her pounding head on his chest and not so long after, slept.

He tried to recall why he sought for her earlier, but smiled slightly at the realisation that there needn't be a reason for it.
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Unfulfilled days

You know when you don't want to sleep? Even though it's late and you feel tired. But it's like there's something you're meant to do. Or maybe something you were supposed to do in your day but you didn't. Like the Quran you were meant to open and read. To prove that you were going to commit to your Ramadan resolutions. Or that topic you wanted to learn more about but once you're on your laptop, you're distracted by a million updates to check. Or that friend you completely forgot you had, but always put a mental note to check upon when they remembered you and made you smile. Or giving life to an idea you've been wanting to form into words for so long, but fearing it won't be as good as it is in your head. Or that unexpected call you were gonna make and tell your friend that you miss them. Or spending time with your family, instead of that phone you gaze at all the time. Or that part of your room you've been wanting to tidy and clean everytime you look at but that 24 hours the day never seems enough for your never-accomplished plans.
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A Take on Humans

I'm sure you've been bruised before, but have you ever noticed that you often press the bruise intentionally and repeatedly and feel the pain? I don't know why we do this exactly. Is it our constant need for a reason to feel sorry for ourselves? Or do we like the pain? Or are we hoping that somehow the pain will exist no more? We're all desperate. One way or another. And we try so hard to hide it. But we seldom despair. We hold on to the last bit of hope there is even when we show the world that we've given up.

I'm also sure a baby has held your finger in its tiny hand. It felt good, didn't it? We love the feeling that someone in this world is holding on to us. Even if it's just a finger of us. It feeds our ego of being needed. We're selfish. Even in helping others at times, we seek that peace of mind and sense of content.


Do you often look back on you as a child? Marvel at how the world was successful in quietening you up, stealing your boldness and perhaps originality. How we start energetically and slowly lose heart. From crying over a toy we didn't get, to being confused and indecisive.


There are issues, personal ones, we never get over. No matter how old they are. We exhaust them with those around us, after keeping them to ourselves. Maybe we forget about them for awhile. But there's always a trigger that reminds us of them. We ignore and go on with our day. But at the end of the day, when we're all alone, we feel bitter with those disappointments, regrets or whatever they are. And we wish we had someone right there with us whom we could complain to endlessly, even though they've heard the exact same complaints before. But it's hard, because we won't admit that things affect us all the same when we pretend to agree with the notion that claims that time heals.

Dismantled Syllables

Fingers tingling with words crammed and unwritten. But where is that silver hue that connects all the dismantled syllables and kidnaps them from their warm and lazy sleep?

Teach Me

Teach me how to warm up the gaps between my words. How each ending letter wraps itself around the word that resides next to it. Teach me how words smile, frown, and eventually stay put in their place, content with where they are.

Teach me how to bring out the words in my heart. How to write each word there distinctively without being shy of them. How to nurture each comma so it supports the preceding and brings it forth bravely to the eyes that are reading it.

Teach me how to be patient as I write up each syllable without rushing it. How to be content with what I have as long as it doesn't tell a lie. How to put down feelings that cost me tears without fearing. Without fearing anyone stripping me bare and finding out what I'm all about.

Teach me how to guide each phrase of mine home, maybe one day they'll take me there on their own.

Childhood Memories in Iraq

A college friend posted photos from her childhood. I viewed them with envy. I wish I had pictures of my childhood. Maybe I have some but they're in Iraq. And then I started wondering if I had had a fun childhood. I've lived 7 years of my life in Iraq. All the memories I have of that time are very dear to me. Me and Noor running to welcome baba when he came home from work and he'd drop the bags he's carrying and carry us both instead. This had to be somewhere before 1997 which means that I was 5. But I remember it still. I remember our friends coming over and playing in our garden but my sister was annoyed by their voices and kicked them out. I remember that big swing that turned over while 10 of us were on it. I remember my brother locking himself up in his room as he acted out the teenaged rebel. I remember being the girl who always fainted, broke her hair slides when she was angry and was the evil twin.

I remember leaving my friends and going to Jordan when I was 7. I remember writing to my best friend (who stayed in Iraq) letters and sending her pictures. I haven't heard from her in years. When most Iraqis suffered from power cuts, I never did as the house we lived in was supplied by the same supply for nearby factories. I remember how my grandmother, may her soul rest in peace, used complain of her eyesight and still be able to recognise actors on tv. I remember when it was damp after a light pour of rain, we used to go out in the garden and find colourful ladybirds on bright green leaves. I remember sleeping in one place and waking up in another and being convinced that I sleep walked. I remember being excessively but weirdly shy of our neighbour's son who was married to a Huda.

But I never learnt how to ride a bicycle, how to swim, how to dance ballet. I've had best friends who left me or I left them as either moved to a different country. I felt like an outsider. And that stayed with me for a long time. I still remember leaving Iraq in 1999 and how we stopped in the middle of nowhere because we ran out of petrol. How my sister buried her face through it all because she didn't want to leave Iraq. I remember the whole neighbourhood gathering and going to the nearest farm as they were afraid of a rocket shattering their houses. I assume this was in 1998, maybe the only experience of such kind I had, as we lived in a safe area.

Maybe these don't qualify my childhood to be called happy but I wasn't sad when I was a kid, I didn't know any better, and going to exotic places doesn't make it a 'happy' childhood. When my older siblings talk about the wonderful playful childhood they've had as they lived in better times and my father was there with them more than with us. But still the fact that I spent 7 years of it in Iraq brings me immense joy. I love it whether it was boring or not.
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ذكريات

يتسلل خفية بابتسامةٍ  شقيةٍ  

ذلك الشعور الذي يملؤني حنية

يذكرني ببعض من أحلامي الوردية  

و ماذا اقترفت من مداعباتٍ فتية

ثم يعيدني إلى زمن الخواطر السرية

عن هذا و ذاك و ما فعلنا سوية

و عن تساؤلات كثيرة حول الهوية

يردد على مسمعي 'ما بالها تلك الصبية؟'

للحظةٍ أكاد أن أخبره 'يا ليتها كانت قوية'

لكنني اكتفي بـــغمزة سحرية

و أتركه ليسافر بعيدا عني في هذه البرية

فقد نلت نصيبي منه و أريد الحرية

صمت ...

الى من وصفتي بانني "قلم نادر.. قليل من يفك حروفه"

صمتٌ توغل جميع نواحي حياتي

و أصبح أبرز سماتي

صمتٌ يلاحق جميع حروفي

يتركني لحظة ثم يقلق ثنايا رفوفي  

يجمع شتات الامي و خوفي

هل لك أن تبعد و تتركني و دمعي؟

لا تخنقني... توقف عن قمعي

Iraq in 2002

She was confused. He stared hard at her after asking her what did her mother do for a living. Even though it was clearly stated in her passport. A housewife. How did an electrical engineer end up with a "housewife" on her passport is quite another story. They weren't even at the Iraqi borders. Her mother was there to submit her son's university application. Baffled, the little girl scaredly said, "I don't know". Thankful that this man didn't think much of her answer, afterall she was only a 10 year old girl, she let out a sigh of relief. However, it was so traumatising to this young girl to be attacked in such a crude manner that she, a now 20 year old girl, was dwelling upon this incident for days. How was it related anyhow what her mother worked as? But no, you mustn't question anything they ask, it all serves a great purpose that you can't grasp with that limited mind of yours. Were they suspicious of her mother's changing her occupation in the passport? I don't know why but until this day, she thought it highly unlikely.


Now back to the little girl standing in line with her mother. She was feeling the urgent need to go to the bathroom. Where could she go? Now that the whole building who was filled with officials had a stinky bathroom; as stinky as the regime was. Such uncivilized men, she thought. Instead they were directed to go to a house nearby. A rather fancy one. The girl couldn't help but to assume the house's owner being a high-ranked officer. Although she only got to see his wife, she was intimitated by her. Supporting her argument, who had such a fancy house during his regime? When most were living under poor conditions except those whom he took under his wings.


Those men practised what little power they held on people beneath them. Maybe it was to let out the rage they held against those who were superior over them and  who also might be venting on them as a way of getting back at those in power above them and so on... Corruption is everywhere and that's no excuse for it.

A ready laugh

Writing for the sake of writing. Wishing I can write beautifully and express my feelings the exact way they are. I can't but I'll attempt to all the same.

It's nice having someone interested in what you're saying. Who's interested in getting to know you. Someone who dedicate some of thoughts to you and tells you I think you're like this or that. When you compliment yourself for awhile and you talk yourself out of many feelings and you feel like you're all by yourself, it's nice when someone actually wants to talk to you and wants to share things with you. You feel like they're highlighting you from everyone they know, maybe not always, but at that moment. And you feel special. It feels good.

You know what I seem to be appreciating lately? Those people who's laugh is ready at the tip of their lips. They laugh easily but not in a way that they're silly. No but their laugh is rather a true one not a fake one. Those ready to be amused by what you say. I like that.

Goodnight world.

Just Me

I'm not a writer. That I know. Not an avid reader. I wouldn't call myself a bookworm. But I write and read nevertheless. Words either come out without thinking or after over-thinking. That's why they're either rushed, or they're as slow as a snail to shape themselves into thoughts.

"He really had completely changed his opinion, though quite unconsciously; so desirous was he to comply with the wishes of others."

I'm afraid that's me sometimes, most of my opinions change themselves without me realising it. This among many other flaws of mine are beginning to surface. I'm trying not to let them all attack me at the same time, I'm being nice to them. But I'm not sure if they'll do the same.

Maybe I don't offer much, what I say could be a repetition of words I've said before. But one thing I know for sure is that I'm consistent. And when I stop being that at times it's because I either feel unappreciated or tired.

Longing-mixed thoughts

Here on this bed, through this window, years ago, I was consoled by the moon. Where he befriended me and showed up every night to watch over me. But I closed the window, left my bed, left this whole town. But the moon went along with me the whole journey. It ran as fast as it could to keep up. I never thought I'd come back here once in a blue moon.

I've lived here for almost 9 years. Maybe spent 8 years in this room where I befriended the moon. This room where I'm left alone to do what I want. To think that a few years back I couldn't wait to be out of here. Now I find myself longing for it every once and awhile. Funny how life works.

I'm here now, I need the moon again. I need to feel special again. I need comforting words. I need a spontaneous I miss you.
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No me

I search through your memories and try to find me there
To no avail
I look through mine, and you fill them

To S

She cried bitterly. Right there in front of us all. And all I could say was meaningless words. I wanted to get up, go to her and give her a hug, maybe it'd express what I wanted to say but couldn't. But I didn't, something held me back. I just sat there, and I looked at those next to her who claim to love hugs, why didn't they hug her? But could I really blame them when I, myself, failed to comfort her? I'm sorry.

سنيني

يا سنيني 
اجمعيني
بمن يملك حنيني 

يا صديقي 
احميني
مما يفنيني

يا عيوني 
لا تخوني
ما أخفيه عن كوني 

يا سمائي 
لا تباهي 
بما يزهو ببالي

Tired of myself

You can't blame me for feeling whatever it is I'm feeling. I can't help it.

I've always implored myself to keep quiet and let things go. But it won't listen to me, it always betrays me and says everything I've been trying to hide. I know blaming people does no good. But however silly the thing is, I end up saying it. People have their reasons for the things they do, mostly. I often end up feeling like it's my fault in the first place to be upset. That's how I work. The only person feeling guilty in the end is me. I'm left with doubts and insecurities as ancient as I am. And I know if they have any plans of leaving, they would have ages ago. But no, these insecurities are too attached to me. But I'm tired of myself and of people, of this feeling of guilt. I want to take a break of it. I don't want everything turning up against me and making me feel worse.

I'm not very good at cheering myself up. But I'm trying my best. Then a word gets thrown my way dismantles everything. But I'm really trying.

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Exposing Dreams

My dreams expose my heart
What my heart tries to hide shyly
They come and toss it publicly
They even point out my flaws at me
I wake up confused
Why would they do such a thing?

You do not visit my dreams
You've been residing in them lately
And you bring along weaknesses
Those I've been trying to forget
And as I'm about to sleep
I'm wondering whether you're about to emerge with a new flaw

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ناجاني قلبي

قال لي قلبي اليانع:
اتركيني هنا على الوسادة
و اذهبي لقضاء يومكِ كما شئتِ بدوني
أريد أن أبقى هنا و أتدثر جيداً
أصحو على زقزقة العصافير
أتأرجح ما بين النسمات
و لا أبالي لشيء


و ارجعي لي كل ليلة
و اخبريني عن حديث العيون
لا أريد أن أسمع القيل و القال
بل عن الذي لم يقال
فأنتِ يا حلوتي أكبر مثال
أنتِ تتحدثين عبر عينيكِ

و سوف أناجيكِ و أنتِ نائمة
و أمسحُ ذاك التعب الذي يعتري خديكِ
لا تظني يا حلوتي أني لا أبالي بكِ
لكننا متعبان
أنا و أنتِ
سأرتاح قليلاً
كي أرجعُ أقوى منكِ
و أحمل ألمكِ كما وعدتكِ
فهل تسمحين لي؟

School

6am. I look out of the window and see students walking in the street waiting for their school buses to come. 3 years ago, I'd be up by this time and get ready for school. As the bus comes at 6.25am and doesn't wait at all for us. I'd probably miss it and wake my mother up to give me a ride to school and I would miss the morning assembly or walk in to the tutorial we had during the morning assembly late, where I'd grin at my classmates who are used to me being late more than anything. I'd spend the first three lessons yawning shamelessly, and some girls would yawn and look at me and blame me because my yawning is so contagious. By the time the first break comes I'd be alert. It was a war zone at the cafeteria where girls from grade 5 to grade 12 fought to buy something to eat before the break was over. No one stood in line. I'd rarely go myself to buy because I knew it was a waste of time where little girls would sneak in between my legs or so I often joked about it. I'd let some classmates buy me crisps or chocolate, choosing the ones that can't say no. Then lessons would proceed and either I'd be bored to death with the lesson or as hyper as shouting to get the teacher's attention to pick me to answer. Yes that was in grade 12 mind you. We enjoyed such childish behaviors. Then came the 2nd break before the 8th (last) lesson. We'd spend it eating or joking around or copying homeworks from one another. We'd sit in front of our class and I'd take any opportunity to goof around, maybe sit on my friend's lap and force my whole weight on her. It wasn't done out of affection or hugging but mere joking around. Then the last lesson would come and each would be thinking of going home, having lunch and a nap. Then after lessons are all over we'd pack our bags and head to the gate. While waiting for the bus to come we'd spend time chatting with little girls who always had amusing questions or things to say. Some of them marvelled at the curve of my chin and wished they had one. I was surprised to see such observant 11 year olds.

Yes, I was rather shameless about everything. I sat in the last row and commented about silly things while teachers looked away. But they loved me and I tried my best to keep up with the amount of pressure and expectations. And I succeeded and managed to enjoy my last year at school. As my sister was in a different class so I had full liberty to make a fool of myself and not have anyone nagging on me to stop this or that. But I said it more than once that I won't ever miss school. Ever. My stride then was as confident as could be. However I had deep rooted fears of not being able to make it. Still, I miss who I was then.

I know I'm painting such a bright picture of how things were. Maybe because I miss it. But it was all studying and tests and home works and research to be done. But stress and pressure were dealt with at home, at school all was forgotten. Yes, there were some girls who envied me, didn't wish me well, were jealous, tried to make me look bad in front of some teachers. There were some teachers who embarrassed me in front of the whole class but those girls who were my classmates I'd known for years. I would hold grudges against some teachers and often get teased about being that teacher's favourite. I'd unwillingly give some girls whom I didn't like very much my notebooks to copy from. I'd receive 'huda what's wrong?' countless times from teachers who'd interrupt their lesson to ask, not knowing I was finding their lesson boring to death or that I couldn't stand them.

But I didn't want any of it. I couldn't wait to get out. I was expecting so much from the world. School wasn't where I belonged. I was meant for so much more. And even though I was uncertain about what I wanted to major in in uni, I didn't worry about it because I knew that I'd be able to get into whatever I decided upon in the end. Thing is the world doesn't have much to offer, that much I now know. Enough said.

P.S it was foolish of me to think I can stuff all the memories in one post, but that was my failed attempt at it.
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Frowns at This Heart

The dawn is breaking. Birds have started chirping and I am denied sleep. I've been restless for days now. I get up dizzily and can't even walk a straight line, yet when I place my head on the pillow I feel widely awake. All thoughts swarm into my head and keep me alert. I toss and turn, on and off, but I can feel every move around me.

My heart's been shifted in its position a little bit, where it's been squeezed around the edges in its new place. It doesn't fit there. I don't know how to bring it back to its place. I want to be at rest. You're a pain, my heart. Go back to your place and torture me no longer, I beg of you. I'm scared. And I'm admitting it to you with all vulnerability.

I am tired and I need to be taken care of like a child. I need to be fed, comforted, looked after, held tight, engrossed in warmth that make my body resist no longer and sleep. I need a shield against my thoughts, where it'd block them from reaching me.
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Carry me

A vulnerable heartbeat
Almost fragile
But heard and felt, it is
My breathes fear unsettling those beats even more
Eyes soaked with tears
Weak knees, barely wanting to move
A throat that refuses to swallow
Shakiness even in those words
Restlessness
Every bone of my body needs reassuring
That it'll all be alright

Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone from Oman Mobile!

حدثني

حدثني عن الشمس التي تصاحبك في طريقك كل يوم
و عن الغيوم التي تجتاحها و تبعدها عنك
حدثني عن الممرات التي تسلكها
عن يوم فضي تقضيه في انتظار المطر
عن الفضاء الواسع و ما يلفت انتباهك فيه
عن وردة قطفتها و تأملت ملامحها
عن عطر لم تفارقك رائحته لسنين طويلة
عن العصافير التي توقظك صباحا
عن فاكهة اشتهيتها في غير أوانها
عن ريح تغلغلت أعماقك و اقتلعت أحزانك العميقة
عن حقيبتك المليئة بأوراق تناسيتها
عن أغصان أشجار مبتلة بالمطر

حدثني عن قلبك هل اعترته هموم ٌجديدة؟
عن عينيك هل أغرورقت بدموعٍ حارقةٍ ليلة أمس؟
عن يداك هل امتدتا إلى أحلامٍ لا تعرف المستحيل؟
عن هاتفك هل رن طوال اليوم أم كان خجولا هادئا؟
عن دفاترك هل نقشت بها اسمي و لو مرة؟
عن نوافذ غرفتك هل أطلت الوقوف عندها و تأملت المارة؟
عن جبينك هل عكرت صفوته المحن؟
عن شفاك هل خافت أن تنطق بكلماتٍ تجرح؟
عن أمنياتك هل أنت على بعد خطوات أم أميال منها؟
عن وطنك الجريح النازف هل تصلي له كل ليلة؟
عن ذكريات الماضي هل تأتيك غالباً أم أنك تصد مجيئها؟
عن أبواب مغلقة هل تطرق بابها وحيداً؟

حدثني عن قدميك التي اعتراها التعب من خطوات الطريق الوعر
عن خد إحمر من الخجل
عن قلم نفد حبره و حزنت عليه
عن كتاب أسر عاطفتك أجمعها و أثار حنينك
عن سحر كلمة وقفت مدهوشا أمامها
عن تلك البسمة التي ترسم نفسها على وجهك
قد تسألني كيف و أنت لا ترى البسمة؟
لا أدري كيف. و لكنني استمتع بوصفك المثقل بالتفاصيل

أسئلة

لماذا و كيف و غيرها من الأسئلة أصبحت كخناجر
متعبة و مؤلمة
أسئلة شائكة
و البحث عن أجوبة لها يزعزع و يهدم ما أحاول مراراً و تكراراً أن أبنيه على قاعدة رصينة
لا يوجد لدي أية مواد بناء تصمد  و تتصدى تيارات التعرية التي تجتاح الروح
ارحني و لا تثقلني بكل هذه الأسئلة
لا تستغرب
فإن أسخف الأسئلة  قد يفعل بي هذا
لا تورطني في معركة مع ذاتي
كل منا لديه جواب
و لساني يقول ما يريد
و يحبس الأجوبة في داخلي

نمشي و تركض بنا الأيام
هي عازمة على ألا نجد طريقنا
تخطف  اللافتات من السكك التي نسلكها
و تسلب الثبات من خطواتنا المبعثرة
فتبعثرها أكثر
و نضيع أكثر و اكثر
و على مفترق الطرق
أجد رزمة من أسئلة لا يمكنني تجاهلها
إلى أين و ماذا اختار و هل من رجوع؟

    

ابتعد

تحت نور خافت
أجلس هنا
أكتب كلمات لا معنى لها
و أشطبها
أتطلع حولي
لا أحد
لا صوت
إلا إعلان الساعة عن مرور كل ثانية
لست وحدي
لا لست كذلك
و لكن أتى لي الماضي

دون إنذار مسبق
و عصر قلبي لحظة
أبعدته و فنيته
هل سيرجع بعد ذلك؟
مؤكد
لن يتركني وحدي