The Other You

She’s in bed
it’s 10:00 pm, the series in the background
provided her with comfort noise
it’s odd, she always needs sound
not traffic sounds, but music,
conversation, brightness, light

She’s in shorts, in her room
facing a wall, with a painting
it’s not straight, but her body is too weak
to get up and fix it, yet it’s fucking with her brain

Her legs are exposed
her skin is happy, as the fan blows
chilly breezes across from them
lacing them with a coat of cold

Her legs are crossed, as if they missed one another
those long winter months, kept them covered
hidden from each other

She’s sitting on her bed
back relaxed on the mountain of pillows
that separated her from the wall
she’s sitting, lethargic
yet at peace

She’s enjoying her aloneness
it’s solitude, not loneliness
please don’t confuse
she picked up her wine cup
ornamented with droplets of humidity
she sipped it, licked her lips after she’s done

She’s not paying attention to what’s
playing on television, even though her eyes
are fixated on the screen,

She’s sitting on the bed, legs crossed, body stretched
back straight, fan on, painting in front, eyes on television
but mind somewhere else

Electricity went out!
“That’s great” she sarcastically uttered
she decided to light a cigarette,
she took one out of her crumpled pack
“PHEW, it’s not broken” she sighed in relief

As she sparked her lighter
she saw a shadow, in front of her
she took a short breath
counted to 3, then lit that flame again

With her hand shaking,
she could see the borders of the shadow
with anxiety seeping in, she moved her flame around
she could see her surroundings intact
but that shadow was sitting there, not moving
looking back,

it said nothing, it did not even flinch
after a second or two, she could see it
standing up and coming closer
her hand got numb, the light went off, dropping the lighter
she could feel the shadow against her

it embraced her,
she was stiff with fear,
she managed to grab her phone
she put the light on

Her walls were covered with writings
she squinted her eyes, since her glasses were no where to be found

it was her writing, or writings for that matter


she went on reading and remembering
each and every sentence, every quote
every word,

the writing was lit
it glowed,

the walls were covered from ceiling to floor
all four walls

She wanted to move but couldn’t

the shadow still hugged her, making her motionless

cigarette went out, she noticed there no smoke in the room
the room lit with words

She heard something, she couldn’t make up what it was
it felt like her mind was conversing with her

“you have a world out there
scribble those thoughts on walls
floors, ceilings, engrave them on humans
tattoo them on rebels
voice them across oceans and skies”

She felt as if she was drugged
she was numb, her mind was racing
so were her heartbeats

“who the fuck are you?
who is this?” she asked frantically

Electricity came back

she saw her wine cup was done
a pencil in hand and papers of random scribbles

“Could it be
that the writer in
me has a world
of her own?”

logan by oil Mcavoy



Jittering fingers she’s nervous
“what the fuck is happening?”
This is a first! IT SCARED her
of course it did

it was the first time
she experienced such a feeling, a loss, confusion
and even a bit of nausea

the fucking blinking line why isn’t it moving,
why aren’t her fingers dancing on letters?
Have they become weary
or is it that her brain has become dreary?

She wants to scribble and doodle
even paint a mural but why have her ideas abandoned her?
Could it be that her heart is empty?
Could it be that her spirit is slowly fading
into this so called routine
that they glorify so ideally?

what is happening,
her colors have darkened
and her eyes are dim,
lifeless indeed this is horrific

I am sorry but this does seem grim

Her nails are chipping
and her skin is aching
her brain is screaming,
yearning for a meaning

the loud noise in her head pertains to her,
she only hears it but she looks around,
seeking conformity
she wants to see if anyone else,
is listening

Could it be that those injections of “busy”
have sedated her wild spirit?
Could it be sucking her blood
deriving the color within?

Could it be that she’s overdosing on “busy”?
Slowly enjoying the things momentarily
before she’s gone completely

As I was ending this entry she looked at me,
got closer she lay her hand on mine
pale white cold skin, long boney fingers
“please don’t let me go”
she said as she locked her blue eyes on mine

I startled and confused asked
“Who are you?”
She smirked using her last joule of energy
“Your inspiration”

woman stare


When was the last time you actually looked into someone’s eyes
when they were talking to you!?

When was the last time you actually saw the words connect
your vision to theirs?

Did you ever notice that it makes them fidget when
you gaze at them, with full concentration?

Did you ever notice that it makes them feel awkward?

Why can’t I look you in the eyes and tell you my story
Why do you have to monitor my face
my lips, my cheeks
my hand gestures?

Why does it bother you that I see nothing more
than your eyes?

Eyes, they amplify
eyes, they diversify
eyes, they quantify


Try it, look at them straight in the eyes
while they are conversing, don’t look weird
just listen with your eyes
and watch the connection

There’s a whole galaxy in there!



You had that skin
it thickened with time
it was soft at birth
spurring jealousy
among the elderly

It was pale and naive
Attracting them with such ease
it was aching to be touched
it was luring them with no stop
ever abrupt

It had goosebumps
from a smile and warmth
from hugs, it was traced with nerves
that ignited from the slightest touch

It carried you through tanned summers
and cold winters, it protected you
from acid rain and coated your heart
with a thin layer of nerves, naive nerves .. again

The clock ticked
You were still being elevated
through the strata of life
thorns piercing your skin
experiences clawing at it
love sadistically enjoying it
and your skin, it slowly adapting
the way nature intended it to

slowly morphing from its birth state
slowly aging beautifully
forming creases of stories
slowly thickening
slowly filtering the real
from the fairytales

You realize your slowly shedding
that phase of innocence, purity
your skin is slowly
morphing, beautifying
the scratching claws
are literally removing pieces of your flesh
uncovering the glow within
that you so stupidly hid
for fear of social acceptation

You’re reaching the surface
scratched, tattooed,
pierced, scarred, and sometimes
even pulled down

You’re floating
exposing the most beautiful
parts of you
You’re floating to the surface
with naked

float 2


Her notes are everywhere
pencils and faded lead on paper
She even has used erasers 
scattered in places where you 
can detect are her “use zones”

She has that yellow notepad
with scratches on notes, 
parenthesis on clauses 
written with such depth
you can tell she was serious when she wrote them

That bic pen cap
Oh poor thing, chewed on 
it almost seemed like she was sculpting
her thoughts, as she bit it
thinking, igniting her neurons
into starting some electrical chain reaction

Her papers had circular coffee stains
she must be clumsy, but that did not stop her
from using that stain as a boundary for an idea
a creative limit, to enclose that floating thought

Oh headphones! That must be her secret to
her enjoyable seclusion
Her collection must be vast
since her headphones are big enough
to make sure she heard every note,
every decibel, every strum, every beat
every drop

Look! Her doodles wander from one page
to another, from one notepad to the other
signifying that none stop flow of random
little things in her head
Small pencils that have been used till the end
sit in a small bowl, to the corner of her
She keeps them, they signify a journey of doodles
they have utilized, they have been carried around with her
She wants them there, she collects them, like how people
collect pennies!
Each pencil had his share of writing!

Look there!
Pages and pages of clustered lines of writing
She actually hand writes!
It’s been a while, since I have seen anyone
or any paper that isn’t typed! You can see where she lay
her hand as she continued to fill the empty lines,
that lingered for be penciled upon similar to
how a tattoo junkie aches to be inked!

She barely kept any white space between the lines
She likes it messy it seems, juicy and weighty
filled with on going run-on sentences
and only she can probably know where
to insert the right punctuation, the moments to breathe
and the moments to smile.

Cigarette pack! It lays next to the phone
I am jealous of those death sticks that touch her
lips, she must be one wordy person

She probably takes a break
when she’s had enough of her rowdy thoughts
running in circles, rectangles, triangles
basically in any sporadic direction in her head
until they make her drowsy, dizzy with overthought
not the bad kind, but the kind that needs nicotine fix

So much un-wasted paper
so many blunt pencils,
random post its with fragments
sometimes with cursive and sometimes not

I wonder, do you think
she’s written so much
that she has stenciled herself
to the person she is today?

Has she drawn her thick eye brows
colored her eyes a darker hue
outlined her silhouette with charcoal?
Has she thickened her rib cage and
slowly brushed over those feminine
naïve feelings that have cost her
almost everything?

As I saw the progression of possessions
in her zone, I noticed,
more broken pencils
darker intensified notes
paper depths.
I bet it wasn’t always like this

She must have
started with shy blurry lines
that left mystery for discovery
Secrecy, beauty, rowdy, blurry
and slow
woman pencil

Valiant Times

Hey you, yes You!
The person who is surrounded
by cupid’s blood

You are not alone, this is a bias
piece, projecting the silliness
that has always accompanied me during
this stupid day

I do not understand why
the act of love or the feeling
there of is accentuated on this day

Does it die the rest of the year
while your cupid is sitting
somewhere drinking
finding purpose to his existence
and playing darts with his arrows?

The cash flow, that goes through
today is simply a norm, well a societal one
that increases the egos of men
and the expectations of women

“Oh he got me a rose” one says with
that sarcastic materialistically marinated voice
“But look at the size of this diamond” says the other
with a heightened sense of pride that is slowly
eating her alive, leaving her looking like
a leper

You, yes You!
You are valiant, you have dedicated
your love to life, to it’s natural presents
tangible or not
You are one brave soul, falling in love with
the known, the unknown, the beautiful, the nature of things

You are one true human being, walking along
side this life of yours, with your own thoughts
while your cupid is thanking you for giving him
more time for himself to drink,
and this time he actually
invited you to  join him for that one drink
and listen to the woe’s that he has been through
and the woe’s of his other friends, that have failed
miserably, their cupid arrows are running out of magic

They used to dip them in this potion called
love, but due to time, and people’s
distorted perception of it
the potion has lost its effect

You listen, praising that God of yours
that you are in this place with your cupid
alone, and loving the selfishness of it
with a heart of love,
love for everything
with a sly smirk, you pick up your glass
and cheer the poor guy,
Even his wings have wilted
causing him to lose that magic spark
that he once had

“You know, I had the one arrow
the I shot at you” he told me with his red drunken eyes

“That one arrow, was different,
you needed something with inebriating
I used maple wood
then let is settle in a pot of amber
and the tip, well, let’s say it
was made from one of nature’s blessings to mankind.

You were a project that I enjoyed shooting”
He said that, with a rewarding smile!

“It was one hell of an arrow
and I assure you, that you are one
valiant being, for withstanding
all that went through, the pain it caused
as it pierced through your rib cage
I aimed towards your heart
shot the arrow
and exhaled with
such relief
now you glow
with the magic
of that arrow”

arrow 1


They told me to wake up 
from the state of mind
that has propelled me
through the muck of harshness

They told me to sober up
from the natural drunken state
I have taken from life’s happiness

They told me to “man up” 
and be the tidied-up and be well dressed woman|
that they find pleasure in feasting their vision on
How ironic! 

They told me to straighten my curls
and tame that last strand of human 
that made me myself

They told me to abdicate my freedom of opinion
for fear of hurting others, fear of violating social norms
or for fear of raping their poshed up asses! 

They told me to dull down my colors
Since their signature glasses weren’t equipped
with the brightness of reality

They told me to avoid certain places
and head to the ones where the height of the heel
defines the the height of their intellect

They told me to control my urge to dance
because “nobody likes a spontaneous girl”
who does what she wants when she wants

They told me to out my drink down
and fix my lipstick
Really? Lipstick! 
Has our social caliber been diluted down
to applied beauty?

They told me to change my diet 
because skinny girls get more attention
their protruding bones ignite lust
in suit up men, lest not forget
the blowfish lips and silicon breasts
that balance
their stick figure accordingly 

They told me to put down my cigarette
cross my legs, remove that piercing
wear a bitch attitude
They told me to stick my nose in the clouds
because the fucked up norms of society
dictate attraction upon such actions

They told me to wear a dress
They told me to go with the flow
when the flow was so disgusting
motion sickness made me gag 
all that societal poison
made me regurgitate all that
has become normal in terms of 
relationships, mental stimulation
social norms, physical attractiveness

They told me to get the car,
wear the brands, eat there
drink there, read somewhere
where water is as expensive as the sandwich

They told me to grow my hair 
They told me wake up and grow up
They told me to ditch them
and click to them
They told me to clean my opinionated mouth
they told me to write clean, they told me 
to submit, they told quiet girls are attractive
they told me no one will date you
if you remain and maintain YOU!

They told me that you won’t get what you deserve

I won’t lie to you, every line they uttered choked me
like an unwanted bite, like a gulp of water down the wrong tube
like that spec of cigarette ash that gets inhaled by mistake
like that first prick of a needle when you get your blood drawn

They told me….

What if I told
What If I showed
them, the other side of every single line
the opposite side of the table, where they sat
What I showed them the beauty of colors,
drinks, lousy hair, jeans, flat shoes, cigarette mess
clumsy friends, hazy nights, beautiful music, definite
debates, artsy conversations, lazy walks, blurred mornings,
simple clothing, dingy places, creaking chairs, wooden bars,
drinking from bottles, biting nails, genuine

Stripped down to natural smiles,
beautiful skin, naked
in the face of society
and all it’s so-called

Stripped down to what
you always wanted to be

Stand in the face of your fears
undress slowly, enjoy every layer you remove
enjoy removing every burden you had to carry

Enjoy basking in the uncomfortable
nudity of thyself!




I passed by that drunken street
during the day
It felt like a different place
It was not infested with glamoured up beings
nor was it showered by the spilled drinks of others

I aimlessly walked and enjoyed a cup of wine
at 3 pm, marveling at the pseudo sober humans
holding conversations, conducting meetings
eating, having coffee

Oh my dear street, I have underestimated you
and limited your existence to a “stage”  (quoted)
for drunken souls, drinking their third world
worries away, enjoying induced pleasure
that will either be vomited or lingered
in your mind – knocking on your skull
“Hey, I am your hang over”

As I sat there, soaking in the sun
on that crummy wobbly chair
I spoke to a friend of mine,
I could actually hear him,
I sipped on my wine with no intention
of gulping it, I smoked my cigarettes
normally, not chain-ly

“Let’s go check out some art”
That statement rang in my ears
Art, my senses clung to that last wine sip
so as to enjoy it with the art that I was about to see

As we walked, on those streets
my eyes were gawking at the bits and pieces
eaten by the night, that our vision fails
to grasp, for some reason I felt like a tourist
foreign to the same streets I frequent
every freaking day!

As my friend opened the iron gates
those creaks initiated a sense of mystic
My body hungry for something unknown
my soul yearned for the cultural stimulation
that my brain climaxes to
My eyes forgot how to blink
aching for masterpieces

We stepped into a room
with patterned titles
in front of the door was a painting
black and white
Yet there was something mysterious about it
My eyes slowly moved my body
towards it, the magic halted my body
at a certain distance from it

My vision could capture the whole canvas
The yearning has stopped and now
it is at a loss of expression
it “froze” digesting the aura of this masterpiece

I fixated on the eyes
I could hear it, I could listen
to the chaos happening
in that brain behind those eyes
I could feel the sadness
the aches, the experiences
the happiness that has backfired
those endless nights homogenized
with alcohol and cigarettes
those days of being used and abused
or using and experimenting

I could see those eyes
looking back at me, and silently
relaying a response
“I’ve seen it and felt it too”
Shivers, goosebumps
trailed along my arms
my spine chilled with a peculiar feeling

I stood there, feeling small
I stood there absorbing the instant relationship
the one whose commitment was strongest
than any of my priors held with real humans
The one where a silent conversation
echoes in your body
The one where your space is its space
That one connection you have with someone
or something
That enigmatic feeling
where justification is not needed
nor required

I stood there, gazing
gawking at those eyes
Dammit, I can literally
in silence
I was taken
my soulful satiation has been complete
my mental cultural richness reached
the brim, yet my eyes
my eyes would not stir away from the sight
The connection was immense, it hypnotized my eyes
my mental capacity
the conversation kept going

“Shoulder pat”

“Did you see that one?” he said
My attention was abruptly cut
my eyes remembered how to blink

As I walked around the gallery
that painting, kept looking
I felt like a blushed lover, stealing glances
because of that connection
It was not all butterflies and colors
It was  a painting
in simple black and white
dank dark colors
harsh strokes and thin hairlines of paint

It was a portrait
of mere
a reflection
for the first time

art by Rafic Majzoub - Rain on Me solo show, Beirut, Lebanon

art by Rafic Majzoub – Rain on Me solo show, Beirut, Lebanon


“Someone asked me today

“Can you write the saddest thing
and make your readers vicariously feel it?”
I looked at him with a smile
a sly one indeed, for it truly
contradicts the task demanded from me

I smiled when asked to write
a grim entry, oddly enough
I didn’t hesitate projecting my
glee, again I say
what a paradox right?

I shall take joy and pride in dissecting
the events, in making your heart ache and
your eyes cringe, it inflicts so much
emotions that your heart will go into overdrive
but wait, I shall do this slow and dark
I shall bask under the grimness of it all
I shall be the darkness that will rain on your parade
the splash you mostly dread from cars
passing by,
I shall be the puddle with
the deep end, the one you step in before your interview
I shall be the heart ache that has taken so many years from your life
so much effort from your side
and I will burn as I heal and close the broken cracks within

I shall be the tune in a movie scene, that strums your heart
that generates ripples of goosebumps
that dilates your pupils
I shall be the epic downfall of your favorite character in that movie

I shall be the bitter taste of bad wine
the bottle you’ve waited so long to open
I shall be the stale chocolate
that you have craved for so long
I shall be the feeling that will make your eyes beat
before the waterfall tears

I shall be the escalation of events
that will generate aches of emotional
uneasiness, starting from your stomach
making its way to your throat
where it will nestle as a lump
before the cry fest

Ladies and gentlemen this is NOT the entry
this is a mere description of the melancholic
that flows superfluously like the smooth
golden threads of honey
collecting itself at the bottom
layer upon layer
it reaches that climactic height
and then loses balance
and falls
that tiny castle
of honey
that you have meticulously
and now you

Do you feel me?
I know
I made you



It’s been a while
You know it’s true
Since, the term
conversation actually struck
you like that last shot on the house!

You don’t know them
That’s what seduced you
You have no back history
nor any present attributions
that regards them
This is beautiful!

It starts, this conversation phenomena
You physically feel it
Damn, it has been a while

The subject of is no importance
but it’s of great commonality
The vagueness of those
engaging in conversation
makes it even more
interesting, more adventurous
since no lines are drawn,
no hindrances
no restrictions

When was the last time
you actually thought
before you uttered?
When was the last time you actually
spoke out of interest?
out of curiosity?

Escape that bubble of yours
that restricts your talk to
digital pixels, you’re not pixels!

You are way more than little squares
making up the whole!
Your whole is made up of a voice
a heart, a narrative of your past
mannerisms, gestures, features…

Each word is articulated in a way
that fancies your mind, you are actually thinking
Each word is conveyed with an indefinite perception
indefinite meaning..
Are you enjoying it?

Why do they say
we “carry a conversation”?
Carrying implies a burden
some effort exerted to do the act of carrying
Conversations are light
and deep depending on the parties
They can go from talking about
fireflies to political conspiracies
to the silly mysteries of human nature
That’s the attraction, we enjoy
the carelessness of it all, we enjoy
its ambiguity

But we don’t “carry” we “engage”
Much better right?
Wait, here’s a thought
How about we say “let’s light a conversation”
Now, that is luminous and oh so
Light that cigarette,
Oh how underrated is that word
Oh how gorgeous is the sound of that

Show me can a
do that?

Can it make your thoughts
dance in the haze of smoke
coming from those resting cigarettes
between your fingers?

I confidently

Pixelated Smoke