Poem soul by (Hala) Al-Logaha Hand
The irises of soul remain
To speak loudly they say I am crazy
Do they not see that I am burning?
The pages are not yet set into stone for me, they whither against tempered sea shells with an incised moon raging against the machine
I hit the wall
I was insulted for I am a proud woman
I am not a charity case
Would not your blood boil if you sacrificed everything mind, body and spirit just to be loved?
To then be spit out like an unwanted piece of garbage
Who is crazy but the happy feather?
The drifter who always smiles
The trash man searching for a hidden treasure who always helps an old lady crosses the street
Who is the crazy man who bangs metal cans on rooftops at midnight?
Laughs and sings that ‘The man’ will brought to justice
What does ones eye see, except the sandman coming home for a free meal in exchange for a smile that lights the world?
It is beauty in its simplest form
Raining form in fact
Am I not free to be raging against the machine?
Nine inch nails perspective, ha!
How can I push down all that grows inside me?
My body is barely a strong enough vessel to hold me
I explode then I laugh from deep within the confines of my heart, I keep no grudges, I always forgive and forget
Will not sense and sensibility still apply to me?
Cannot I be sane even when it all rains down on me?