Why Do I Write

Somewhere in a dingy old cafe

A boy sits alone

Relating to Amir

Trying to trade hurt for love

Stealing love from his father's pocket 

Slipping hurt into his friend's 

And closes the book shut

I am the book

Making guilt look okay

Bringing to light

How we are all crafted of sins and forgiveness

There is this girl

Very far away 

From herself

Listening to

''Baby don't cut''

On repeat

With a blade in her hand

She cuts anyway

Seeing silver turn to crimson

I am that drop of blood

That falls to the ground

Screaming

The tear that refuses to drop

I am nothing more than a drop

In an ocean of ache

Or hope

You get to choose

In the broken land of Syria 

A child prays

That he doesn't fall prey

To death tomorrow 

Like his mother did yesterday

That when he wakes up

His home is still there

He sleeps within a giant bomb 

That explodes 

When you least expect

I am Syria

I am the prayer

And the thin line between 

Life and death

I am the poem

That a poet spills

While loneliness 

Paces in the backdrop

I am the artist

Who invites anxiety 

To dinner every evening

And then moulds her

Into an invisible portrait 

I write for everything

Not happy

I write for that boy

For Amir

I write for that girl

Who let's blood speak

I write for Syria

For death

For the people who fear death

And the ones who know it too well

I write for everything ugly

And sad

I write for agony

For joy always comes in a crowd

But agony comes alone

Is alone

Has always been alone

Let's not leave it alone 

This time

.

.

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Why do I write?