رسالة مواطن

يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

أتحب لبنان محتل
أتحب شعبه مذلولاً مظلوماً مقتول
أتحب أولادك و أحفادك مبعثرين في أرجاء الأرض
وأنت متباكٍ متكاذب متحالم،
تبيع أرضك حاضراً وتصرف روح أخوتك ملاذاً وإنتقام

يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

أحببتك فكرهتني،
فكرهت أعداءك فتحبّهم غداً
وأنت غير مبالٍ بحالي وحال أمّتي

يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

أنت لبنانيّ وكنت الأمس لبناني
كنت حسن الزعامة فأنت من قتل نضالي
لماذا الضلال في اللّيل عندما أشعلت أنت ناري بعدما إنخمدت
فاغتيلت كما اغتيل أباك وأخاك وإبنك فأهلي وأخواني

يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

أحببتك فأحببت لبنان في حبّك
فصفعتني وأرديتني تحت الأرض الديدان تأكلني
حتّى صفي دمّي هدراً في تراب الغربة أشقا
وأنت تبيع تراب أرضي حيثما تمنّيت آخر ملاذي

يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

لعلّك تصحو يوماً وتراني،
عاشقاً عشقتك ولم تنلني بنظرة
تابعاً ولم تسمع خطواتي
وفيّاً لقضيّتك ولم تعلم بقراءتي
مذلولاً لإسمك ولم تعرف إسمي

أنا،
يا أيها الزعيم اللبنانيّ،

أنا الّذي زرته فدعسته فقتلته
أنا الأبيّ الصامد الشامخ من دونك
أنا الّذي وصفت نفسك زعيماً له لتحميه فهدمته
أنا الباقي وأنت لست إلّا زعيماً منسيّاً منفيّاً في بلادك

أنا لبنان وأنت لست بزعيم إلّا لنفسك
أنا لبنان أشعّ نوراً وسوادك لروحك
أنا لبنان وأنت أمريكا وإيران وسوريا وإسرائيل
أنا لبنان ولست أنت بلبنانيّ

أنا لبنان،
أنا لبنان،
أنا لبنان...

يا حبيبي يا لبنان
يا نشيدك المخلّد بدينتي
يا أرزك المزروع بروحي
يا زعيم الكلّ وما إلك زعيم
وحدك إنت بقلبي...

يا لبنان

N.B: Please be patient with me. This is the first time I ever write in Arabic.

My Queen

I miss missing Lebanon. I miss the feeling I used to get when somebody mentions Beirut. Now all I see is a fake city with fake people and all of the sad memories that killed those butterflies in my stomach one by one.

Beirut was mine, I loved her, I loved to share her, I gave her, they took her and abused her. She's just a memory, a dream that used to be.

Enjoy your Beirut, your Lebanon.

You will never have mine.

You will never smell and taste, or hold and feel mine.
My Beirut, free for all.
My Beirut, free from all.
My Beirut, she wasn't mine, she wasn't yours, but we were always her people.

Your majesty.. We miss you.. I miss you.. I miss you..

I miss Beirut.. I miss لبنان

Location:Akosombo Rd,Tema,Ghana

Jump

At the end of the day,

When you jump, you jump alone

.

.

.

Morning,

Sun is shining

No cloud in the sky

Rainbows up high

Beautiful garden

Lying there, no burden

Enjoying the light

Touching me, so bright

Noon,

Clouds seem soon

No worry

Nothing needs me to hurry

Just the heavens

Me at cloud seven

Next, cloud nine

Everything is still fine

Evening,

Drizzle as I'm sleeping

Woke to a drop

On my forehead it just flopped

Nothing to fear

You're in Eden up in here

So I keep on lying

Even if it feels I'm lying

Night,

I've lost my height

The storm persists

I can no more insist

I try to fight

Return to the light

I jump

Hit another bump

I struggle, I bruise

I have no excuse

I knew it all along,

I should have long gone

On my knees I pray,

Give me back my rock, my stone

At the end...

Bored... Missing My Babies

Twenty Nine

I wanna write
I wanna fight
I wanna bite
I wanna ignite

I wanna scream
I wanna wake from this dream
I wanna stream
Far away from this scene

This boredom is killing me
I need to feel useful
This routine is bringing me
Down, I'm no longer youthful

I wanna be eighteen
I wanna go back to my being
I wanna be lean
I don't wanna be mean

I'm aging
I'm raging
I'm no longer engaging
In whatever life may bring

I'm nagging
I'm bragging
I'm faking
I'm no longer being

Mr, who I am
I'm no longer me
I lost my once glam
I forgot that "I" used to be... "Me"

Location:Hospital Road Link,Tema,Ghana

Handwritten Past

I miss handwriting.
It used to be fun for me. It used to be one of the biggest joys when I was younger. I felt like an artist holding that pen and scribbling nonsense, making endless vocabulary and structural mistakes.

My handwriting has gone to hell nowadays. I can't even read most of what I've written. Last time I even felt as if I'm barely able to hold a pen correctly. It used to come so naturally to me. We were one, my pen, my paper and I. It was me.

I was Soul-O. I forgot that now. It was about 12 years ago. I was SOUL-O: the romantic young writer with his head in the clouds, dreaming about the day his dreams of a loved one arrives to give him his true freedom to love and express every emotion that he could only write about back then.

I miss that guy. So honest, so fluent and so Soul-O. The man of soul, the solo writer, Mr. O. We forget these magical things that made us unique as we grow older. Maturity and responsibility kill the childlike innocence within us and forces us out of the dream and into this reality of life. But every now and then, we still need our pen and paper, our uniqueness... Our Soul-O.

Where’s The Fun?

I miss the fun

Fun, for the sake of fun

We went to the resto-pub

Had a few drinks with some grub

We wore some cool clothes

Laughed with these, danced with those

That used to be fun

Wasn’t it fun?

We went to the sunny beach

Had some vodka and peach

We hang by the pool with friends

Since morning till the day ends

I remember t’was fun

Where’s the fun?

Run

In the sun

Just for fun..

Now the gun

POW!!

The sound just held me stunned

I heard the sound when nothing went off

I heard it, I do not bluff

He told me she’s no more

I looked down, saw nothing but floor

Drip, drop, drip drop

I don’t know how, how can I stop

Rivers run deep,

I wanna escape back to sleep

Close the doors

Give me dark

My eye pours

Give her back

It’s not funny God

That’s too much

You can’t steal her blood

You can’t do such

You gave her to us

You gave her to me

Is it such a fuss

If I want her to still be

Take me instead

Take what u please

Don’t tell me she’s dead

She was such a breath

A smile to the heart

A face of an angel

Now we’re apart

For her to be an angel

In the skies up above

She sores like a dove

But I remain on the floor, yet below..

Asking where’s the fun as I bellow..

Where’s the fun?

Go.. Keep going.. Gone!!

Dedicated to my late sister, Zahira Hamoui. I love you sis!!