Always on the receiving end Of brutal beat downs And scathing attacks Handed down to me I carry myself And walk around With bloody palms A cut lip And a swollen face.
Among hundreds of thousands Standing in line You can always tell the difference Between me And the next one.
Those who are unique Or special Are always alone A voice repeated in my head
Only I didn’t know Who that voice belonged to Or how it learned that sentence It kept repeating to me.
In any outing I looked at the other men Flirting with the pretty ladies And seducing them with the worn-out Cheap lines And false promises Their manly macho and bravado And I was jealous of them For not being able to behave like them Because something urged me not to And convinced me I was worth a little more Than that.
Then I’d look at the women All those faces lighting up in the darkness Those cherry lips and brilliant faces And I was jealous of them too Just because I knew Each one of them Already belonged to someone else; Another Who wasn’t me.
And fitting in And trying to act like them To reach the same ends Was like trying to fit A square piece In a circular hole It was never going to work And I was never going to match Any of the things they did Or grew up doing Since I was set along Another path To begin with.
Well There’s always that one thing They say I’m good at; This time It’s another voice That pops up occasionally And urges me To write about things About things like this And other things Sometimes simpler things Sometimes more complicated things But at the end of the day I come through And find a way To get it down.
And I still wonder If what I’m trading Everything for Is worth it After all If all those sleepless nights Lying awake in bed thinking about the girls I’ve never had a chance with Except on paper Are worth it Just to bear the name Of a word smith
These sacrifices And restrictions Are chopping me to pieces And preventing me from living As a whole individual
When I’ll finally get these pieces Back together I may never know.
Sometimes you watch the sun rising And you know it’s going to rise again And sometimes you see the stars shining And ask yourself whether they’ll shine again
There is beauty in not knowing And it’s a beautiful form of torture When they dismissed the notion that broken hearts are fatal They were wrong about one thing – They make excellent scars To write about
And I’ve gathered a lot Of writing material from them Much more than I need Much more than my hand can possibly write
But sometimes there’s also beauty in the brief instants Things that are captivating and leave us out of breath But are ephemeral and temporary Like shooting stars Or a rare and wild creature that appears in front of us For the first time
And you were that rare star You were the exceptional comet You were that rare creature That appeared in front of me For instants Brief little moments That I counted As the dripping drops stuck at the bottom of my finished beer Were leaking against the border of my table
Your curly messy hair Black, dark, black As the night And your brown eyes Were everything
And it won’t be long Before other men Start noticing these small things about you Like the sweetness in your voice Or the ease with which you laugh Things I’ve already noticed and know
And they’ll soon be competing for your heart And I am not a man of competition I am not a fan of facing off against others I prefer to collect my things And return to my quiet corner
So they’ll be going after you They’ll be chasing every curl in your hair Trying to hold on to it To see whoever outlasts the others And I will have renounced my feelings I will have taken them And placed them in my small carton And shipped them away Before even telling you Something sweet like a compliment Or that little sentence about your hair
But these things need preparation The good things always do And I would have to practice them overnight While other men prepare themselves for war And invasion For your heart and soul
So it’s bad for me To step over the shoes And efforts Of other men Who are probably braver than me Funnier than me And wittier than me
It’s bad for me to be competing with them In the same barn Over the most beautiful thing To walk right in front of us And engage with us in polite conversation While we sort out our child play
Maybe some women eagerly anticipate Or wait for that To pick out a winner From the bunch
Well honey Tonight I go to bed Knowing that I am already A loser From all of this A fool who refuses still To learn from the teachings Of his predecessors And his bag of experience About the recklessness And disappointment And bleakness Of love And infatuation
I go to bed tonight Knowing the sun will rise again tomorrow Knowing the stars will shine again for another night And knowing I will undoubtedly dream about the girl With black, dark, black curly hair Brown eyes A tender smile And she will never Be mine.
Coping with perfection
She was perfect She was perfect Beyond any possible Measure Or means of expression
She was perfect That the mere sight of her Walking in a room Was an insult To any man Alive
She was perfect That anything one could say to her Would’ve been considered insulting
She was perfect That no man Of any nationality – Lebanese, French, American Or any other – No man of any race Or color or religion Was considered good enough To hang with her
She was perfect That if the gods up above Were really observant and just They’d destroy everything left on this planet Send us all packing to hell And leave Only Her.
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