All
You
Need
To
Know
About
Life
Is
This:
At the end
You die.
death
The End Of The World
If
Because we’ll be reduced to aches
By a chemical blast
And tonight was The last night on earth
—
I’ll take you out on a date
—
One last candle lit dinner
Because at the end of the world
Every human should enjoy their favorite
Thing one more time
—
My favorite thing in the world
It turns out
Is sitting at a table across from you
listen to you talk
And watch the corners of your
Face make up an exquisite
countenance
As you tell that story
About how you enjoyed making
Someone feel awkward
—
And that should be the last thing
A man witnesses
As the world becomes
A burnt collection of things
That once were
And as you make history
A love story
Mornings and Nights
Those nights
When you go to bed
With dreams of grandeur
Then
Wake up the next morning
With a glimpse of the future
With a certainty inducing
kind of hope
—
Those are the good days
They will pass
—
And then comes those nights
When you go to bed
Thinking
What the fuck am I doing
Why the fuck am I here
—
Those are the better days
And if you don’t get those,
Then you should go to bed but refuse
To fall asleep
Because if you do
Then you will just wake up
Then fall asleep again
And then you die
—
Until then
Try to go to bed early
And hope you wake up.
Or stay up late,
In case you don’t
Sunshine
My poems don’t kill. They give life, by killing. It’s a form of a curse. A source of merciful torture. A peaceful evil. A world where everyone is the hero and the villain.
I’m a cursed poet, by an ugly form of beauty. A gorgeous kind of monster. I hate loving it, and it loves hating me. But we live together, because that’s the only way we’re able to be.
That’s my simple tale, my dear. I have very little to do with the decision making. I hold the pen, and close my eyes. The rest is up to the gods of poetry.
You see, That’s the whole problem. A conundrum of authoritarianism. And I don’t even know what the word means. That’s how crazy they are. But what can I do.
I just let it happen. And wish for a day when they let me go, but that’ll be the day I vanish. So let’s just hope for another day, another poem. Another heart to feel less lonely, and a world where the sun is the currency.
Abdulrahman Khawj 