Poetry

The people of Israel cry out in the streets.

They now hear the hoofbeats.
The Europeans coming on to attack
Only this time we can fight back.
For now, we are not weak.
For now, we are strong, so to speak.
In the streets of Amsterdam, they cry:
Oh G-d, why, why, why?
This is history repeating itself,
This makes one want to end themself
While the people of my country plea
The world reacts “Free Palestine, let them free.”
But, do not fear, my country will survive.
Not just this, we will thrive.

Oh, what does it feel like to love?

Please do tell.
Oh please, my G-d up above.
Is it felt in a smell?
Or is it felt by touch?
Who can tell?
Who really knows that much?
Oh please tell me, anyone, anyone at all.
For if I don’t know the answer, I may fall.
YES! Into the pits of deep despair I fall,
I cry out to G-d, does he hear my call.

I want her.
But she doesn’t want me.
I feel unsure.
Because I want her.
And she doesn’t want me.
This feeling of one sided emotions is baffling.
She doesn’t feel the same way.
I think that with her friends, she is laughing.
And much to my dismay,
she doesn’t feel the same way.
I don’t think I love her,
I simply don’t know her.
But I like her.
Her, her, her, her, her.
I feel that all I think about is her.
I want to know her but I don’t know how.
Do I start now?
It’s awkward.
Can I move forward?
I feel unsure
Because I want her
And she doesn’t want me.

The big city,

Oh, it’s so pretty.
I love it so.
Life here certainly isn’t slow.
Every day has something new,
something cool, something sweet, something to go through.
The big city is divine.
My one true love,
the big city is so fine.

She’s sipping a gin and tonic

In the jazz bar.
It really is ironic,
because she’s so far
And so close.
I watch her,
She tells the barman “The usual, sir,”
“Thank you, sir,” “The check, sir.”
She’s very polite.
It’s an understatement to say she looks alright.
She has this ominous beauty,
I see the other men look at her lewdly.
They see only her looks, I see more.
But what is this all for.
I’ve only just seen her,
But I feel I’ve known her for a century or more.
I am an Israeli.
I have the hands of an Israeli.
I have the eyes of an Israeli.
I have the nose of an Israeli.
Are we different, you and I?
Just that I say Am Yisrael Chai,
And you say to Israel: goodbye.
An Israeli and a Palestinian are the same.
We have the same hands, eyes, and noses.
It is such a shame,
that each side opposes.
I want peace,
I want the death to stop.
I don’t want you to have to worry for your niece
You see that if we swap,
We want the same,
We have the same,
And We are the same.
After all,
I am an Israeli.
I have the hands of a Palestinian.
I have the eyes of a Palestinian.
I have the nose of a Palestinian.

The red, white, and blue.

America.
Some call it a zoo.
I call it a replica.
We replicate the best of every other nation.
We have everything, we’re a hub, a station.
Our architecture is Greek.
Our food is German.
Nothing about us is bleak,
Sure we might worsen.
But after day is done,
We are America,
And we are here to stun.

I hate poetry.
Did I say poetry?
I meant poverty.
Did I say hate?
I meant love.
Did I say poverty?
I meant Pavarotti.
I love Pavarotti, final answer.
How silly of me to mess up so much.
I lack self confidence,
So I mess up and my words become slush.
For me speaking clearly; there is no evidence.
I sincerely apologize for my mistake,
Should I retake?
YES! A second take!
I hate poetry.
Did I say poetry?
I meant poverty.
Did I say hate?
I meant love.
Did I say poverty?
I meant Pavarotti.
I love Pavarotti, final answer.
I can’t continue to mess up in this manner.
I’m done with words for the day,
So for now, I shall go away.

She wears spectacles.

At first glance, it looks like they just help vision.
But I know they help perspective.
She sees the world and she finds a mission.
She has a mission to make my day bright.
She may not know it yet.
For maybe in her mind it’s a small light.
But I won’t fret,
Because when I’m with her I smile.
This feeling isn’t new,
I’ve known her for a while.
At first I didn’t have a clue.
A clue about who she was, it was mysterious.
But now with her I can be silly, but also serious.
This feeling has been here since day one.
When I’m with her, the time is fun.
It feels as if we’re so far,
But she’s so close to me.
To see her: all I have to do is get in the car.
But when I’m with her I’m so free.
I miss it dearly.
Seeing her every day is what I valued the most.
But now it feels like seeing her involves going from coast to coast.
If that’s what has to be done, I’ll do it and I’ll travel with class
I’ll even dress like a clown.
Because she sees the world through a rose colored glass.
And who am I to shut it down?

She asked me what my niche is,

It put my heart in pieces.
I think I love her.
But I’m not sure.
Because maybe: Love is just a thought.
Some people say that it is, I say it is not.
Love is your heart racing when you hear her name.
Love is something you cannot maim.
Love is something you are dedicated too.
Love is there, even when you are feeling blue.
Love is her.
I love her.
I love her?
I loved her?
I will love her?

Oh questions, I love them so.

My love for them, no one may ever know.
William Shakespeare poses the question
“To be or not to be?”
With questions; there is a collection.
There is no limit to the amount of questions to be asked.
Why does Shakespeare limit it to only one?
Are the other questions being masked?
A question can be serious but also fun.
We ask questions to find.
Asking is searching,
And asking is an art of some kind.
And I am constantly thirsting.
I am thirsting for an answer,
Because I have a million questions.
Questions such as “Will they cure cancer?”
Or “Who will win the next few elections”
One day I will get an answer, an answer to all my questions.
But, by then I will be gone,
And a new me will spawn.

I am a mime.
I am stuck in a box.
But when I’m out, the slight taste of freedom will be sublime.
This box has indestructible locks.
I always look for a way to get out.
It seems that the day will never come.
In my head I shout.
My heart starts to drum.
I hear the pitter patter,
I murmur to my self “What does it matter?”
I am on the brink of insanity,
I think nothing of humanity.
And yet, I start to sweat.
I am panicking,
And my sanity is vanishing.
Oh, G-d help me! I’m going insane,
and my death will not be in vain.
I am dying and I am only thirteen,
I am packed in this box like a sardine.
I’ll be dead soon,
And the only thing in sight is the blue moon.
I see the light,
And I fight back with all my might.
My cause of death is insanity,
What I have gotten from this experience is that death does not care about vanity.

I woke up at 6:00 am.

I woke up with a dream.
I woke up with a gem.
It is now 10:00 and I want to scream.
I woke up wanting to improve.
But now no one can approve.
This work that I do seven hours everyday.
It doesn’t suffice.
Approval is a needle in a stack of hay.
No one says that what I’ve done is nice.
I hope that when I wake up tomorrow I’ll have the same dream.
A dream to be better.
But now all I have is this letter.
It is a letter to myself, but still
Nothing excites me more than a paper with a quill.
For now I have nothing left to share.
Except that I woke up with a dream and I will go to bed living in a nightmare.

I’m bleeding out.

She put the knife in my back.
I scream and shout.
I see only black.
She twists the knife.
OH MAKE IT STOP!!!
I wish I still had so much as a life.
I was on top.
Now I am sinking to the ground.
Bleeding out, making no sound.

I go out onto the street

And I look down at my feet.
I see shoes.
I decide to go inside.
I take a stride,
And I see my house.
I go into my kitchen.
I begin to listen.
My refrigerator is running.
I want to nap,
And without having to look at a map:
I am in my bed.
I sit in my bed,
And you see my head getting red.
I am so angry at the world.
Why does everyone have more than me.
I start to whirl.
I whirl down the path of uncertainty.
Then I look down at my feet,
I don’t see my shoes!
I decide to go inside,
I don’t see my house!
I go in my kitchen,
I don’t see my fridge!
Where did all this stuff I took from granted go?
I am feeling woe.
I then realize that what I have is what I need,
And what I need is what I have.

She’s my Helen of Troy.

Her beauty is beyond compare.
All the other men look at her like a toy.
Trust me, when you see her, you’ll stare.
When I see her name, my heart skips a beat.
Oh, and she’s so sweet.
Her kindness is only matched by her beauty.
She does not one act crudely.
How can one be so perfect?
I wish she were someone I can predict.
I can’t comprehend such beauty and kindness.
When I see her I go mindless.
If someone were to say that they love her;
I would concur.
My stomach is filled with butterflies.
Seeing her is a way to energize.
I can’t believe that she is right before my eyes.
She had obtained perfection.
It’s there from her brain to her complexion.

Her beauty is the morning sky,

A canvas where the colors lie.
Soft notes of rose, the gold of dawn,
A light that stays with me, never gone.
Her hair, a painting of night.
Catching stars in its light.
Everything she does, subtle, wild and free.
A work of art created with by G-d with glee.
Her eyes, like the sea, deep and wide,
Where everything majestic seems to hide.
But when she looks at me, I find
A universe reflected in her mind.
Her lips, a curve so gentle, sweet,
A promise that my heart will meet
The softest hands, the truest touch,
A love that holds me close, as such.
Her skin, a feel that makes me beam,
A gorgeous glow, like a dream.
I’ve waited for, but never known,
A beauty that feels like home.
But it’s not just her face I see,
It’s every movement, effortlessly.
The way she stands, the way she speaks,
A quiet power, soft yet sleek.
And though the world may call her fair,
To me, she’s more than just compare.
She’s everything that makes life bright,
A beauty wrapped in endless light.

Is her beauty comparable?

Shakespeare would compare her beauty to a midsummer’s day.
That is not beautiful enough, much to my dismay.
Some would compare her to a sunset.
That isn’t beautiful enough yet.
Edgar Allen Poe would compare her beauty to home.
Can her beauty be compared to the Putrajaya Dome?
NO! NO! NO!
Her beauty is incomparable, incomprehensible, and incapable of being benign.
Her beauty is divine.
I want to cross this line.
This line of friend to lover.
I want her to be mine.