miniature failure.

I have had
a miniature failure.
I suppose,
to an extent
if I were to compare my self
as I always do
to all those
scattered upon walls
and dormes
and textbooks
this would be
a stamp
of vitality.
I have had
a miniature failure
a miniature end
a declining
tumbling fall.
and I could feel
the particles of shame
collaborate
in a mascare of flames.
I am ordinary.
amongst the masses
nothing within me
glitters:
an intellectual.
yet
as all my
equally dull fellows
and I
sat down
morning
and sulking
our loss
I vowed
to never more
miniature-ly  end
and that made all the difference.

nothingness.

I`m afraid.
most days
I`m afraid
more than dreamy
or thoughtful
I am afraid.
there is much loss
infesting each corner
and I see people
especially in my
compressed, oppressed, depressed
town
who walked into nothingness.
and I am afraid
I shall too.
I am afraid
that my words
and my little
child play
with big tools
and big experiments
decay
into dismay
if I
could pray
more
could live into today
more
could be young
for once.
but into nothing
like everything
I walk
no words of whalt whitmen
no thoughts of thomas adison
no sheer
"maybe"
roar
of poetry
nothing like Maya Angelo
nothing of the sort.
I am Saudi Arabian
and I am a girl
and though I tend to be average
I scream in protest
my country abandons my mind
all shall bury
my unread lines
I scream once more in revelation
I will not
I shall not
walk into nothingness.

Turky.

Across closely put contenents, i visited the wounder of orginized turkish lights.
I visted history, i visited roman battle sights and roman shrined and a pinch of onflwing roman mythology. But there was a part of me, that could almost smell, the stail cent of extravagent misery.
I visited the asian side, my history. My teratory, my ansestors unleashed ,in quivery.
I stand upon yhe well decorated streets of turky, there is something about this country, that crawls up to me, infesting my holes of loss, my holes of unsymitry, it's litiriture,it's far too bitter coffe, it's faintly lit cities, allowing a crak of a room for privicy.
It's almost everywhere sence of poetry.
I have a girl who's been unfaithful to me, her mother snatched away her sence of fadility. I could always see a slip of an orang strand out of her velvet hanckerchif, covering her relitavly small head, her hair, once sneaking out, almost aleays seems as if it were sit on a great heap of fire.

untangle me.

I am seduced by feminism.
I am seduced. slowly lured in by the craft of becoming like her.
unknowingly grand, unspokenly poetic.
I am tempted to have girlish talks, to sneak in tubes of lipstick, to magically turn, my short fuzzy lump of hair into something long and magnificent.
I am tempted to be.
within volumes of poetry
of tender, gentle, fine taste.
and cups of overly groomed coffee.
I am tempted to flee.
I am tempted to escape this dead end job in this dead end town, where parasite migrate to rot, where fuck is fucked and shit is spat on. and it`s ungrown green begging for sips of water and glimpses of light.
I am tempted to sip like a girl.
to slick my golden curls
to be, the subject of you`re next, depressing, fall off the deep end, electrically shocking piece of beauty, out pour of poetry.
for you to whisper:
" I have grown over-charmed
with you`r flower-like motion"
but I, am far too ugly.
far to dark, and burgundy.
far too butch and unfree
never a subject, of Gothic poetry
so untangle me.
"she is so lovely
isnt she?"
you say as helen walks past us.
helen: whos beauty is utter and mass destruction
helen: the fire that grew the flames of troy.
why, isnt she lovely..