Argan tree

The poet must be a fool

if you're not foolish enough

you won’t be able to reach certain distant and thrilling places in art. No matter how skilled you are, the fool in writing knows no limits; he sees the blank page as a refuge for all his disturbing thoughts. He ventures into places that sometimes only he can find his way back from

The normal ones lack the courage to do that they always prefer conventional sometimes emotional methods to stir the crowd’s feelings, and they never like to trouble their nerves for the sake of creating raw art that might one day become timeless

I wrestle just to find the right word it’s often not easy to catch. I see it like fishing, a hunt in itself. If you're not an experienced fisherman, skilled in the secrets of the sea, its shifts and how the moon affects it,you won't catch it

I see words exactly like swordfish sometimes, and like squid at others. Like swordfish, they’re hard to reach usually hidden among sea rocks, and they don’t appear when the sea is calm, only when it’s wild. That means you must risk your life to earn the honor of catching one. Poetry is just the same—the poet risks his life daily to catch the right words, words that someone might read without ever knowing the pain behind them. That’s the rule, not the exception. If the poet hasn’t been through hardship, where would the inspiration come from the very thing that drives his fingers?

As for squid, I see them as poetry too, but in a different sense. Unlike swordfish, they don’t need crashing waves to be caught. But they require harsh conditions—you must stay up deep into the night if you want them. They're like the poet’s words, as inspiration usually arrives after midnight. You must endure insomnia and heartache just for that rush when you finally place the last period on your piece. Honestly?

I think it’s worth the pain.

I will keep writing about love until I leave this life

for all my strength, I’ve given it to love and love alone
Please, just ask about me

only for the sake of that love we once had, if it was ever worth it
I swear, I’m afraid to die full of regret regret over you and over never having had you

My thoughts got tangled in my head like the intestines of someone suffering from digestive disorders...
Our threads became knotted like the strings of classical music records. But where would I find the strength to rearrange and align them as precisely as the Chinese arrange electronic accessories to look perfectly engineered?
Maybe I’m overthinking after all

I don’t even fix my hair more than once a week haha

Where can anyone escape the contradictions of this world?
I wish I knew a refuge where I could build a hut from the branches of the argan tree
There I would settle and draw my strength from that mighty tree

a symbol of endurance and charisma.
It endures the dominance of hot climates and thrives even when out of season in our region (which bothers me, as I adore cold nights).
It also survives on very little water, which I see as a true mark of its charisma
It usually grows in mountainous areas, far from the valleys that could easily nourish it
Yet, its pride allows it only one direction upward.

I swear, every poem I write—I swear I must share it
What’s the use in keeping it to myself?

I benefit more than the reader when I lay out my troubled thoughts
In those moments, I’m like an addict increasing the dose—briefly euphoric

but it’s not a bad thing.

I can’t let it go I told you, no, I will never forget it.
Even if life gave me another chance I would still press that same button.

What I was never meant to know burned me, then left

without even the effort to look back or glance at my shattered remains

not even with a mocking gaze.

Fate didn’t allow us oh horse, to ride through the days together
You were destined for another rider

so share your days with him and enjoy them as much as you can
Fate tore us apart and still, I’ve never wished you harm
When I sit with you, my heart remains pure

I advise you, you with the fringe falling over your enchanted forehead,
Even after our parting

I wish you nothing but good

nothing else.
Let her go wasn’t she the one who rushed to leave?
Let her go until she sees that the road is completely closed
Then, let her remember my words.
I don’t need ink or quill—if I wish to write about her, I’ll write with the blood in my veins.