So you wrote a poetry book

you are so young

everyone praises you for being

so famous, so beautiful,

your words so fabulous,

you stare at yourself in the mirror

take pictures of how truly wonderful you are.

Forget how years ago

you almost killed yourself

that was not you

who put stones in your pocket.


You cannot remember that girl anymore.


Now you are number one all over the world

and your poetry is a best-seller.

This praise has left you fully clothed

with designer shoes and purse.

You feel so content and send pictures

from your book signing,

one day you are in London,

the other in Paris

all these cities you’d never thought you

would ever see.

You post your uplifting quotes

and get five thousand likes in seconds.

You have truly made it in 2016.

Congratulations strangers boast

friends compliment

emojis placate your cell phone

your battery dies

you feel lost

you need to see how many likes

you have on your last poem

but your

family bakes you a cake

to celebrate this journey of yours

and the last place you want to be

is at your grandma’s sharing cake

with all your family

who never even read your book.



You fell in love with yourself

when you sold so many copies.

Everyone’s version of you now

is exactly how you knew

you would come out

You were destined for greatness.

Every friend on social media

says your book is phenomenal.



A poet arises

she is not as glamorous

she does not care for

designer scarves as much as you do

she speaks in a language you never heard


You never read poetry.

You only speak from the heart

and this is all you have ever known.

She comes from a place of silence

cares about the trees and the oceans

more than her likes.

Suddenly, she passes you in followers

overnight success.

Jealousy and rage turn you into

a monster,

the one you forgot about,

the one you left hidden.



Her book is number one

and she uses this imagery

you never imagined existed.

You cry at the injustice of it all

and how

you now have to defend your quotes

about how beautiful you are.



You make up lies.

you are desperate now

she is on television

and she is so ugly

how could people love her poetry?



Your book is still number one.

She only sold five thousand copies

but she is getting some kind of award.

That night you get so drunk

you forget who you are.



You give in,

you buy her book.

You cry at her words

and find yourself in her poetry

more than you ever found yourself

in your very own.









At it again

I woke up early to collect data for poets

that know how to write but not how to read.

I woke up from dreaming about you,

to pointed fingers and mirrored poetry.

There is this effect of how the sun

reminds me of cool sand gliding through

my fingers on a black beach.


I lie down

and stare at the blue sky in awe. Nineteen

years old, dark tight skin, golden reflections

in my hair, I was a brunette then, pure olive

love. One foot is on a rock, flat belly

yellow striped bikini, puffy eyes behind

liquored nights. You’re an ellinitha

the Greek men would say and admire.


I write poetry for fun apparently, but you

do not know how it hurts. I submit to be

recognized and sell my soul some more,

but you do not know how the perfect amount

of ice, vodka and cranberry can knock out

the slips. I forgot how to type to remember

how to think. I hope you understand

all the secrets can only be spilled

over eyes on eyes

feet under the table

hands holding a glass of envy

it is the ways of the social media underworld,

the selected few

who have the perfect tattoo,

smile, angst, whiskey breath,

it is the epitome of everything

we are against.

Trust me, you are better off

not knowing and judging

from afar.


Thank you for taking the picture.

Anytime, he says and winks

in that flirting, I’m on vacation way

where nothing matters

but the temperature.


I am at it again,

the addiction rising.

The morning coffee stirring,

the need to find all the information

at my fingertips, except how

to get to that sky again. IMG_9615




If I ever had writer’s block you would see me dead

at some corner in a bar with your typical

bottle of Jack and burnt notebooks. I swear

if  I lost the ability to think through poetry

and write about my ripped up demons,

my past haunts, my future encounters,

then I would be dead inside for sure.

I can barely breathe now with how

real life sucks up my soul in conference

meetings, evaluation of employees,

frustrated children, parents who

neglect, my faults piling up

as I see how awful I could be

when confronted with life,

car crashes, headaches, aging,

poems pouring out like coffee

from a pot.

I took a class at Concordia

called The Renaissance

the History professor

proved that all these statues

had a story, all these white perfect

Roman gods had the same life

as the Greeks, changed a name

deleted a column, added an arc

and revived humanity.

If only I could do the same with poetry

make it my battle


to the art that few protect.

Grab your pen


raw words

and create

a new renaissance.

What else is there to do

except your nails? or your hair?

or your membership at the gym

needs renewal,

don’t forget to post pictures

of you and hubby at so-so restaurant

yes, I’ll be over here,

writing poems

and showing you my heartache.

You never knew I could write.

I know.

You thought I was just another wife,

but you saw it in my eyes.

You told me that once

I remember everything.



Angels and Devils of Eden

We created a garden out of poets

placed letters to sprout words and sentences.

Each poet wrote with fervour and conviction

one said he saw angels in his sleep,

another claimed to be a devil in torment,

a woman came by and said she rhymes her poems.

Most mocked the poet who kept to himself

and claimed to escape his prison

to create a sanctuary.

They felt his talent threatened the crop

they wanted him out, exiled

but no matter how hard they tried

to kill his psyche

he always sprouted a new poem

that left them envious for his fall.

Plot and scheme. Point fingers at him.

Until their sheet of lies became

truth. They convinced themselves

of their deceit. But the poet found

a fresh crop of poets in a hidden garden

where they  planted words

and treated them as jewels.

The others possessed one object

that the poet could never hold. It was hidden

under their crops, it gave them fuel

it whispered secrets, it fed them poison

to continue their decent into killing a soul

with no water. The poet knew where the

snake lived, but he never gave it

ammunition nor guns. He fought his own

demons instead.

The battle never ends with angels and devils

of Eden.

The poet keeps on writing.



The Arch of 2016


It wasn’t up until the year ended that I thought of all the things I replaced you with. It was how the sun sets from my balcony

how the sun sets when I drive

It was how the day never ends early enough. How the night is so long that even sleep does not help.

I have been writing before you existed and when I do not reply to the calls,  I have stopped the sucking of my soul.

I hear the crying, but lock myself in rooms and escape. Make fun of me,

joke about my art

watch me drive on black ice

never  buy my book

you were the first

and the last

typical cliche

horrible poetry being written

on the other side

and sometimes I compromise

other times I stand tall.

Why didn’t you kiss him hello? I’m moody.

That’s not an answer.

My daughter tries to get me

but she questions my motives

I have no reply sometimes.

I don’t conform sweetie, that’s all.

She breaks the rules

and here I am

trying to guide her

in this mess.

No answers to the arch of 2016

but do not want to see death

this year

want to bury the past

and conjure it up

in fragments

in poems.

Never challenge me

I break down

too easily.

Change my mind

like the Montreal weather.

You deplete me

with your absence.

No more fight in me.

Focus on my books

and bury the year under the rubble

of regret.

People on the other side

of the screen

mostly want

to bring you to your knees

and point fingers

at your weakness.

it’s toxic in here

in my head,

in my world

but it’s a new year

and I must charge up

my battery

or I’ll be drained by

the scavengers

that hunt for the art they can’t make.




raping Lana

I couldn’t finish watching it

I couldn’t understand rape balloons

and how far do we take

this fucking glamour of rape

and submission

coming from musical “artists”

who should empower women

not bear black nail polish

and streaked tears like a red dress

under the grasp

of tattooed director

hiding footage

until the right time.

Is there even a right time

to show this to the young

minds that are already

fucked up

with the garbage they

hear and see?

Take me back

to the time

when “like a virgin”

caused enough controversy

to sell records

and get me away from

raped singers

raping social media

to shreds

with hits

and its manic faces.