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by muhammad ayman

A compilation of words.
Well, nothing.
Who cares?
Feel free.
This is not me.
You know I don’t want to be.
It’s okay.
The Atmosphere is not a perfume,oh that’s Whitman’s.
Almost three years.
Years?
Time.
So little time.
Like the past?
Feel free.
I can’t see the future.
I wish.
Words again.
Books.
Schools and libraries are full of books.
Pages.
Papers.
Woods.
The forest is crowded with books.
Exasperated verdant leaves.
I’m drained too.
Bed?
I walk again and think.
Alone.
Trying.
Alone.
Oh, the moon is up.
There’s Venus too, or I hope so.
Friends.
Lovers.
Friends and lovers.
Feel free.
A cup of tea.
Blanket.
Cushion.
Tears.
This is Twain’s ideal life.
How is life treating you?
Feel free.
Like the stars.
Well, the light of the dead.
There’s this one that keeps flashing.
Blinking.
Dying.
Probably.
I’m only her sister’s dust.
What should I do?
Light years.
Convergence.
Ocean of galaxies apart.
I’m not a prince I can’t save myself.
A lot I’m not.
Eloquent, patient, nor Darcy.
Feel free.
This is me.

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