box of fake mirages
love is a cliche
and the rhymes are just a childish way to decompress your soul
lets have sex and drink coffee in the cage of escaping cliches
your mother was a bitch
and she threw you in this world like an empty bottle
which would never be filled with the empathy of your already dead words
change the colour of your brown eyes
let us smoke cigarettes and irritated ourselves with the weather
while we wait for the bus to nowhere
it’s ghosted and most probably not coming
Infinity in a glass
I am a poem hunter by the boiling gloomy sea
like the heat that wonder in the cold of Kebili.
I am sacred water splattered on a dirty mirror floor.
Can you see the prisoned thunders while watching from above?
As if I know forever that when you fall asleep
the constant transformations render the notion of your own eternity.
So you can shape my magic with your biased mind
only if you dream the dream I dream at night.