You No Longer Have Hands
To destroy the journals I had kept for years
I feel ashamed to read my sorrows with a
language other than my mother tongue.
Beautiful silky skin and blue watery eyes are
the reasons why my disappointments are restless.
In my shadow, I see myself free from the coffin
Yet, everyone dies when I pretend to be asleep.
I jailed my poems, my tales, and tears in my heart.
The prisoner asks if I'm ready to close my eyes
I give him my watch “Take the time and slaughter me”.
You'll peel my skin and sip my blood in less than a year.
You no longer have hands to bury my dream yacht
O Baghdad, why am I in the blues when I feel like a
dead soldier in exile, or a stranger in Montreal corners
Lots of bare hands with blood splitting on my sad face.
Bleeding Heart Poet