Poetry in flames

Whats your Favorite words?

The Sane Ones A.R.ABDULLAH They call us crazy when we stare at the rain, when we talk to the moon, when we dance with our pain, when we follow a dream that can't promise a name, when a heart full of fire won't behave like a flame. They call us insane for believing in more, for sleeping on rooftops and dreaming of doors, for finding a universe under the floor, for asking what living is actually for. But maybe we're sane, maybe we're sane, maybe the madness is part of the brain. 'Cause what kind of sane world teaches children to lie, to bury their wonder, to swallow their sky? What kind of sane world calls dreaming a crime, then sells us a clock and calls wasting it time? So let me be crazy. Let me be strange. Let me keep stars where they tell me to change. Let me write poems on bus rides at night, and cry over strangers and sunsets and light. I don't want a life that is perfectly clean, with nothing that trembles and nothing that's seen. I'd rather be broken and painfully real than perfectly normal with nothing to feel. Under the pressure, under the skin, something is screaming, something begins. Under the silence, under the shame, a beautiful madness is whispering my name. Maybe the dreamers are sick with a cure, maybe the poets are wounded but pure, maybe the ones who can't fit in the frame are the only ones asking why there's a frame. And maybe humanity isn't being sane, maybe it's feeling the unbearable rain, holding another while both of you fall, and saying, “I'm here,” when you've got nothing at all. The madman sees roses inside of the stone. The poet hears music when walking alone. The child sees a kingdom where others see dust. The lover still reaches when reaching means trust. So call me a lunatic. Call me naïve. Call me a fool for refusing to leave. If madness means keeping the heart when it breaks, then give me that madness for all that it takes. Because somewhere beneath all the noise and the need, beneath all the numbers and hunger and greed, there's a wild little heartbeat that still wants to know: Is this all there is? Is this all we can be? Or is there a stranger, more beautiful sea? And if chasing that question is losing my mind, then let me get lost where the dreamers still find a little bit of heaven in ordinary things, a bird on a wire, the rain in the spring. Maybe the crazy aren't crazy at all. Maybe they simply still answer the call. Maybe the sane ones are those who can see how strange it is, to be human, to hurt, to love, to dream, to bleed, To fall, How strange it is to be anything at all.

يعني محد يريد

منو يريد تبادل شباب

Oh to see without my eyes

Tender A.R.ABDULLAH I keep a little room inside where all my broken versions hide, they sit beneath a yellow light and wait for me to come at night. One wears the face I had at ten, one asks if we'll be loved again, one holds a flower, dry and blue, and says, I thought they'd make it through. Oh, honey, I don't know, I don't know, where all the tender people go, when they have given all they knew and still the world just lets them through. I learned to laugh, I learned to sing, to make a home of little things, a cup of tea, a bird in flight, a song that keeps me warm at night. But underneath the melody, there lives a quieter part of me, a little animal in rain that doesn't know its own name. And I have loved with both hands wide, with every door unlocked inside, then watched the wind come through the hall and wondered why I gave it all. Oh, darling, don't you cry, don't you cry, the moon has never asked the sky why it must leave before the dawn, some things are beautiful and gone. I wish I were a river stone, worn smooth by water, left alone, with nothing in my chest to prove, no fear of losing what I love. But I am only skin and bone, a frightened heart that wants a home, a thousand little prayers unsaid, a thousand ghosts beneath my bed. So if you find me far away, with half a smile and nothing to say, please understand,I'm not unkind, I'm just somewhere inside my mind. And if tomorrow comes too slow, and all the flowers fail to grow, I'll take my hand, I'll hold it tight, and be my own way through the night. Oh, honey, I don't know, I don't know, how long a broken heart can grow, but somewhere underneath the blue, a smaller voice is saying, you, you are still here. You are still here. And maybe that is all the lonely need to hear.