life is not a foreign language

count to three

Helping people notice that they’re alive, you try to protect what they don’t know in hope that they will survive.

You assist in their last chance for hope and you try to deliver their cause because they never cared about their own, but still you tried to help in the way you knew best.

You slowly realised how their hearts and minds found a way to protest. You turn around and you look at me; this is all you had to give and their expecting you with words that will somehow make them feel better.

You’re the one they will be relying on. You told them to please take all that you had to say and put it into action. You told them that you couldn’t help yourself and that you had always fallen so short.

You don’t have to take up all this concern, it’s hard to listen and act at the same time. When your time is lost and your pride is broken, the fire inside you does not burn and does not lie; you will know it will hide.

You turn around and look at me; this is all you had to give and their expecting you with words that will somehow make them feel better. You’re the one they will be relying on.

I’m just your friend, someone you can trust until the end. I will never pretend. I will help you before I begin to help myself and help the people I care for most. I will teach you that life is not right, life is not wrong, just sometimes like a badly written song.

You get your good days and the rest have gone by the count of three. Just like that, gone by the time you have counted to three. Always remember, you will be the one to save them all … you’re the one they will be relying on.

Posted January 31, 2012 at 2:36pm in creative writing creative writing filter writing lit trust
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Quote Post

If you only look to the left, you’ll be missing what’s right.

— Michael Daaboul

Posted January 27, 2012 at 1:35pm in poetry quotes quotes filter
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Photo Post

About Me

life is not a foreign language is my envisioned playground to post up creative writing pieces and designs to share with people worldwide.

My name is Michael Daaboul, most people call me Mike.

I have graduated twice (as if the first time wasn’t enough) with a degree in Multimedia Systems and a Masters in Creative Media (Creative Writing).

I hope to get published one day or if that’s not achieved, at least allow my writing to be accessed by millions.

I write about life’s stream of consciousness. If the wind had a voice, if the trees had something to say, if the silent rocks by the shore wanted to weep, if the languishing hearts wanted to break or a mime wanted to speak, it would sound something like this.

My age is irrelevant; my location is not on a map. I wander in space to think about life and drink empty cups of philosophy that never seems to cure the thirst or make me drunk enough.

That picture is what looks back at me in the mirror above. When I’m smiling, my other half is too :)

Posted January 24, 2012 at 11:12pm in about me michael daaboul writing cats creative writing multimedia systems philosophy
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Text Post

beautiful illusion

She had a face that was slowly dying, it was the only reason why she was crying. Makeup hides the world that she lived in and she never saw her troubles building.

When she moisturised her skin, illusion created the softness she was in. When she wakes up from this mess, she will realise life is not as she guessed.

She is stuck on thirty something, as time escapes from the sands of time, she has lost everything. She has never seen how wrong she had been.

She had tried to accept her situation but realises she is the cause of her own destruction. Wrinkles are the only thing left in her soul; everyone now can see what’s underneath.

No amount of makeup can hide you from your all time lows.

The sound of a flute tells the story, a sad ring that she will hear when she is forty; she still wears the makeup she used to wear at twenty.

When she wakes up from this mess, she realises life is not as she guessed. In life everything catches up to you, it’s a beautiful illusion she was subjected to.

From the same place she started to hate him, he couldn’t understand why, his heart is the place she used to live in, now it’s the place she will never be in.

When she wakes up from this mess, she realises life is not as she guessed.

She is stuck on thirty something, as time escapes from the sands of time, she has lost everything.

Now she has never seen how wrong she had been. She had tried to accept her situation but realises she is the cause of her own destruction.

Posted January 22, 2012 at 1:10pm in creative writing creative writing filter lit writing makeup relationships fear
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Quote Post

I’m afraid that somebody is going to take you away from me. I’m afraid that you are going to let them. I can’t believe someone compared to me. I’m afraid you will let them. I can’t believe … how you let them. They took you away from me, and you let them.

— Michael Daaboul

Posted January 19, 2012 at 11:44am in poetry fear quotes quotes filter relationships
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Text Post

barely breathing

Her tiny heart is beating, it’s barely breathing. It’s suffocating in blood; it’s feeling the weakness inside, like a flood that is drowning her.

The clock is ticking, she is fading pretty fast. The only person is Death by her lonely side.

She is running pretty fast, but she is falling behind. She is finishing last. The weakness is slowly killing her, her heart is barely breathing.

It came without a warning; it was just waiting to attack her heart. She found it hard to remember, that saying about the calm before the torture.

That night in December her name was picked from fate’s short hand and Death was gladly to be the only person by her side. Her heart is barely even beating, but Death is still waiting.

Death is always there, until she fades to the end, as her memories are on time, “Not a single friend to call mine”, she recalled.

Her heart closed its eyes; it blinked for the last time, that familiar irregular beat, that dear girl of mine.

Her life has gone and has taken what little she had left for a little ride.

Death had its way, she ran so fast to end up last. She was so tired; she kept on running … even in death she was still suffering.

That’s all she ever did in her life, because she didn’t want to die. She just ran and held hope by the hand.

Her heart was barely breathing, with her own blood suffocating her that stopped it from beating.

Posted January 16, 2012 at 5:50pm in creative writing creative writing filter writing lit death suffering hope
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Text Post

the page’s friend

Pages often hide between the binds of books. They can’t move, although, it is not like they have anywhere else to go.

Pages are stuck and cannot afford the price of freedom, even though pages don’t know what freedom feels like. But they have read about freedom in books that don’t end. They have heard of books that never end and books that haven’t got binds.

One day, a page fell out of a book. A rather old book that no one reads anymore, the type of books dust likes to keep warm in places no one knows exists.

The page glided over the air in hope of finding those books that never end. It glided until no more wind was present enough for it to move. The page cried the word freedom in its last attempt to feel what it had read long ago in a time where dust wasn’t the page’s friend.

As the page lied quietly in the midst of an empty space, in a place where no one looks anymore, dust came wandering by.

“Are you lost, page?”

The page replied, “I’m trying to find freedom …”

“You won’t find freedom here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Freedom is a place that no longer visits.”

“But, I have read in books that never end that freedom does exist.”

“Those books never end, although, they always do.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was once there isn’t anymore. Books that don’t end are when pages like you are read constantly and endlessly.”

“You mean the popular books?”

“Yes, those books are endless …”

“No one reads me anymore?”

“No one reads you anymore because no one wanted to read you or better yet, I don’t think they could reach. You were placed in here, where no one looks, on the highest shelf even the ladder is too short to greet you, page. The place everyone has forgotten, away from the popular books.”

“But you haven’t forgotten us?”

“I am dust; I don’t know how to read. I probably could, not like I ever want to anyway.”

“Why?”

“It’s not my job. I keep things that no one wants or uses anymore warm. Things no one uses or needs anymore get lonely and cold.”

“But, you could still read us though!”

“I could, but that would mean you would be used again and I can’t let that happen. You can’t be read.”

“Why?”

“Because it means I wouldn’t exist anymore …”

Posted January 14, 2012 at 2:37pm in books creative writing creative writing filter dust lit writing freedom
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Text Post

a bird’s feeling

Every morning I woke up to the songs sung by birds that lived in the tree next door.

I had always wondered if birds sung in a language other birds could understand, but even if I couldn’t understand the language, it had a smoothing sort of melody to it. The tune relaxed my body.

I wouldn’t get annoyed like my neighbours did. They told me how much they hated the birds that lived in the tree next door. They would label the singing as dreadful noise. I guess their light sleepers or they just like the silence; they’re pretty old and bitter. I don’t want to be like them when I grow old.

I couldn’t help but notice how cheerful the sound the birds made. It was like they were happy. It made me smile in the mornings; it was always such a great start to the day. I had always wondered if birds showed emotion or felt it at the very least. They just sounded so glad to see the morning greet them in such a spectacular fashion to be merely instinct.

I have been told that animals couldn’t understand emotion, maybe they don’t, I’m not so sure.

I woke up one morning much later than I usually wake up, something felt a little different. I heard silence, the type of silence that old, bitter people hear. You don’t usually hear that when you live next to birds. Well, these particular singing birds. I thought, all birds sing.

I made my way outside; I thought I should visit the birds that lived in the tree next door.

I looked up to see the birds, but one was lying on the tree branch. The other bird was close by the other bird’s side. It seemed sad. It might have died, I don’t know. I stayed there for hours. The Sun was close to setting, it was getting late. No bird made any movement, but one was clearly alive. She was alive. Apparently, it was all instinct it seemed. The bird didn’t know he died, but it just laid there with him … not moving.

I’m not a morning person anymore, because I realised that she would never sing again without him.

Posted January 11, 2012 at 12:54pm in creative writing creative writing filter writing lit death birds
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Quote Post

Imagine you were walking alone in the desert, abandoned. You’re the only one. Imagine you had no clothes … nothing. When The Sun is highest in the sky, you would burn because there’s no shade. Now imagine if you died all alone, abandoned. It doesn’t matter that you died, it doesn’t matter that you had no clothes on and it doesn’t even matter that The Sun was burning you. All that mattered was that you were walking and you were left to walk this path alone.

— Michael Daaboul

Posted January 10, 2012 at 5:19pm in quotes quotes filter poetry lonely
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Vid Post

Q

I loved the Dreamer's Conversation. I hope you have a wonderful new year and I look forward to reading more from you in the future! You are an amazing writing.

from:Anonymous

A

Thanks! :)

Hopefully I can write quality similar to the Dreamer’s Conversation often in 2012.

For anyone that wants to read it, click here. It would be nice to see that piece reach the 400 notes mark.

Posted January 10, 2012 at 3:22pm in questions

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