crimson deeds

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t bleed?
It’s not true
I don’t have a heartbeat and I still bleed
I’m empty inside …
I linger and yearn
For happiness to return

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
Is it just me or is it getting cold in here?

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t feel?
It’s not true
I don’t have any senses and I still feel
It tears me apart …
I will never forget
The hurt you gave with no regret

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
It’s getting cold in here

Have you heard them say that the dead don’t cry?
It’s not true
I don’t have my sight and I still cry
All I can see …
A happy ‘beginning’
All that’s left is this ‘ending’

How you made me bleed
With your crimson deeds
Did you bleed for me? No
It’s cold in here

Written by Charles Daaboul

this man’s shoes‏

There once was a man …

This man would walk in the shoes of others as he could never find a perfect pair of his own. He did not care for the colour, what they were made of or if they were branded. As long as they kept the blisters far and the pressure low on his heel, each shoe would be the warmer and protector of his feet.

The feet that these shoes cushioned would walk on many paths. Some were man-made, some were laid by nature and some paths did not yet exist but were created if the feet dared to journey. But the feet never journeyed this path; only walking the roads where the destination was too well known. So these feet roamed and roamed on the roads all too familiar, not knowing exactly the where, how or why. Each step moved to the beat of the same old drum, someone else’s drum.

This drum would beat, thump thump thump. It had no rhythm or melody. The beat of this man had yet to be found as he never realised that he had a drum of his own. So he did not dance, did not skip and did not run. He kept walking to the thump thump thump, along a path of another, in shoes that were not made for him.

One day, this man saw a lost pair of new shoes …

This man did not expect to find them. They were just there, so unexpectedly. He thought that maybe these shoes had found him. He took off his old pair and carefully tried on each shoe. They were soft on his toes, contoured to his feet and soft on his heels. These shoes seemed perfect. So he said goodbye to the old and welcomed the new.

The old paths he roamed were too familiar and safe, so he decided that it was time to try a path untouched. Now that he had found his own perfect pair of shoes, he thought it was time that his feet dared to journey. He farewelled the man-made roads and ignored the paths that nature laid. He travelled a path that did not exist, creating it as each foot took a step. Although he still did not know where, he now had a how and why. The thump, thump, thump was no longer a fitting sound. It was time to make music to the beat of a different drum.

This drum would beat, da di da do da bop ba bi boo, with a rhythm and melody that gave a bounce to each step. The drum of this man had been found, a drum of his own so he could dance, so he could skip and so he could run, on a path of creation in the shoes that were made for him.

Written by Charles Daaboul

painted faces (part 2)

(Read Part 1 HERE)

However, she is lonely inside. Broken up with seclusion and depression, she lives each day in a desert with no shelter and no comfort.

Pearls and diamonds no longer bring a smile to her face. Money cannot buy her happiness. So she sits there, looking at the queen she wants to be. On the outside, she is too beautiful for the world. Inside she is her mansion; another cold, bleak and buried soul, another corpse in a grave.

She knows she cannot buy love the way she buys herself through everything. She finds no sense of fulfilment in her life. She visits her memories and discovers nothing special or anything worth remembering. She listens. She hears nothing but the tick of an old Grandfather clock that is so synchronised. It fills every room. As she is what makes her mansion that way, it is her heart that makes her who she is - a heart that yearns for freedom, but where freedom is out of reach.

Her dreams flood in and out of her mind like a high and low tide. She knows what she wants, but does not know how to get it. She dreams for a place, a sunny place, with long green grass where she can run fast, lie down and look to the sky.

She wants to look up and see white wool floating in the blue pool. She wants to lie there, without her poisonous money, not wearing her suffocating gown and without the makeup that masks her inner beauty. She wants to lay there with someone else who will give her a reason not to be scared anymore, someone who will teach her how to love and what it feels like to be loved. She wants to be someone’s one, as the Sun is to the Moon, the clouds to the rain and the Spring to the flowers.

However, her dream is unreachable – an admired but untouchable fantasy. She is a butterfly in a jar unable to fly through her luscious paddock. So all she does, is slowly caress her thick, silky, black hair, as she looks at a forgotten figure in the mirror, alone in her mansion, to the sound of an old Grandfather clock.

Looking out into a crowd of a normal city street, everyone looks different. All wear their fake smiles on their face and wear enough gold to shine away the dark.

However, there is one thing that cannot be seen. Behind those put on smiles on painted faces lies a burden that no one wants to be wealthy with. On the outside it seems like a perfect world.

On the inside, the loneliness deteriorates the mind and soul. No one has a choice in the loneliness game. No one was given the choice whether they wanted to play or not. Everyone is simply a chance card on the board, unaware of what the future will hold for them.

Written by Charles Daaboul

That concludes this 2 part piece. I hope you have enjoyed it. Charles will appear on the site frequently as a guest writer on a regular basis. - Michael Daaboul

painted faces (part 1)

Welcome ladies and gentleman. This blog has been running for just under 7 months now and it’s in due course that a new writer is introduced to develop the blog even further. Please welcome Charles Daaboul, my older brother. His work will be featured alongside my own from time to time, and to start the words rolling, I proudly present the first post of a 2 part epic. Enjoy! – Michael Daaboul

In a world plagued with the diseases of humanity, not the physiological diseases, but the ones that influence the mind, society is worried by wealth, power and influence. Such wants only lead to the exclusion of happiness and make home to a silence known as loneliness. People can have anything material. Although, the happiness that everyone yearns for cannot be found. Furthermore, the truth is not far away. No one is left out of this loneliness game, no one.

A large Victorian mansion sits on a cliff with a view of the ocean that ends at the horizon. The mansion, bigger than your superstar, brighter than the Sun and full of life like the newborn, stands high and can be seen from miles on end.

The shadow it casts is an epitome of an eclipse that hides the world with its enigma. The gargoyle statues that cover the four corners of the roof heighten the grandness of what is sufficient to be named a palace.

In all its beauty, the arched-shaped windows reflect the rays from the Sun like piercing swords being thrown by a knight. No mansion is as overwhelming on the outside.

Inside it is a different story. It is like a fridge that radiates the cold throughout every chamber in its system. The darkness fills the rooms and make all blind to the surroundings. The stillness, the quietness and the emptiness make the happy bitter and drained as if the soul has been stolen. There is nothing bright on the inside or anything grand, nothing that reflects the glamour found only on the outside. Through every room, materialistic treasures add to the wealth and pleasures, but the dust sticks to them like a leech on a human. How full of objects, yet how empty of life?

A woman slowly brushes her hair as she looks into the mirror of her bedroom. A woman that is representative of her home.

Slowly, she lifts the brush and gently caresses her hair with it. She strokes it carefully and immaculately with perfection. No woman ever looked so perfect, covered in pearls and jewels.

Her thick black hair that is soft as silk, yet as striking as a bull, covers the sides of a well-defined face. Her skin is soft as fur and her eyes are deep blue like an evening sky. She can make anyone at ease by her beauty and is every man’s curiosity. She smells like a paddock of flowers and makes all men fall to their knees. She is so rich in her image and so rich in her wealth - a painted picture framed in gold.

(to be continued …)

Written by Charles Daaboul