Life As A Writer

Michael Daaboul. 26 y/o from Australia/Melbourne. Creative/Digital Designer & Writer.

The Darkest Ashes (From My Broken Body)

And I have declared that feelings are first
I hope you pay attention to what matters
As with the small things will never kiss you
And a fool will never see you through

If my body approves and my kiss a foresight of fate
With all the falling petals
That came from the flowers I sent
There’s no wisdom greater than
My heart’s beating torment

I have declared that feelings are for me and you
And if you decide to not love me so I will not love you
For everyday you do is another day I have forgotten you

I have reached up to the moon
The dead stars and the curious black crow
I have put my hand through fire
And saw the darkest ashes
From my broken body

And as far as I can reach to the unknown
I am carried by the dashing aching wind
Feeling your flaccid hands that brings me back to you

And here I am again curious by your heart’s decay
Of not loving me anymore but you insist I should stay
And little by little I will wander away

What Missing You Sounds Like

I’m sorry that I didn’t do enough.

I want you to know that each day hurts without you.

I feel you’re fading away from my mind, but not from my heart. My heart won’t let you go and it holds on to you with claws anchored in as if losing you will cut open a wound so large it would flutter an abnormal rhythm from every chamber. All the contractions will be in shock, the lower chambers will hum the Valley of Death and the music to my ears, and how your smile looks to my eyes will all be out of sync.

I hope that you will come back to me and we can start again.

But you are gone.

You are gone.

Cut open and flutter abnormally a rhythm and dance with me in the lower chambers, and you walked with me holding my hands in the Valley of Death and left me all out of sync.

What is there to do?
What is there to see?
I don’t want to be stuck in the ordinary
I don’t want to be a victim of the routine.

I don’t want a 9 to 5 job
I want to be different.

I want to disappear into your arms
I want you to take me away.

Show me a place where no one has been
Show me the place where your heart has been.

Show me, you.

Show me what it’s like to dance between your legs
Show me what it’s like to touch you.

Michael Daaboul

The Day I Decided to be Broken

Why did I stay?

I have never seen a mind quite like this one. I couldn’t sense her; I couldn’t feel what she was, or what she was feeling. I couldn’t read her.

Naturally, I wanted to know more. I was instantly pulled towards her, she fascinated me. She baffled my understanding, my logic, everything I knew, when I looked at her, I felt like I knew nothing.

I had this howling desire to be with her. And I did just that, I hurled my entire existence in her direction, every part of me. It was an obsession, it was freedom, all strangely intertwining together, kissing and being stubborn all at the same time.

Nothing about me or her, or our unbending minds could change it, both strong and weak, soaking up every moment.

All I did was let my emotional universe become consumed, I let it become, in its entirely, completely consumed. My mind had an equal, every thought expanded to the point I had no more understanding of what was happening.

This whole situation was awfully blemished, but she was there, larger than the planet itself, looking straight at me; this one person, precarious and so fragile.

I knew from the beginning that she would destroy me and for a fleeting moment that seemed to last a lifetime, it didn’t bother me. Every emotional tug-of-war and every crack that surfaced, I didn’t mind. My mind was feeding from the calamity from her lips and my whole existence was one with her.

Why did I stay? I stayed because I wanted to be broken, I wanted to be destroyed in such a way that I didn’t recognise who I was anymore. I was terminal, emotionally exhausted and weak. There was nothing left of me which was the perfect opportunity to evolve into something much more. How well did I know myself? How could I become someone else in a state of crisis?

I thought I knew who I was, but, I knew nothing at all.

What Nostalgia Sounds Like

I used to write to you all of this cute stuff that only you would understand. I would put a goofy emoticon at the end, because I would be smiling; and I know you would have a goofy smile on your face reading my silly stuff.

I will then ask you how your day is going. If you slept okay last night? Talk to you about all the small details. I will read with such curiosity, my eyes would anxiously wait for every detailed letter from your fingertips. I won’t reply back straight away, but you’re as bad as me, and we both can’t wait more than a few minutes before breaking and reply back at the exact same time!

I will tell you that I need to get you a gift because your birthday is soon and you try to guess what kind of gift I will get you. You know I’m not going to tell you, but it’s your cute way of dropping small hints. Then I will tell you I can’t believe it’s almost DECEMBER, and we’ll both lay down and wonder where has the time gone? Then we’ll talk about our little adventures putting up the Christmas tree and you will tell me about your special arrangements with all the decorations.

After all of that nonsense, I will quietly tell you how beautiful you are and you will be silent for a few seconds as if you heard the most amazing melodic lyric you have ever heard and you can’t reply but faint just a little inside.

What Love Sounds Like

You have always looked so amazing, if there ever comes a day where I don’t love you anymore, I want you to know that everything I said wouldn’t have been a lie.

It was real once upon a time.

I know it’s sad, we won’t be how we used to be. I will miss how we used to be, just like the first time that I saw you. We will remember how we laughed nervously and when our laughing fit has subsided, you would look at me, like really look at me and without saying a single word, your heart will sync to the beat of mine.

I can’t really remember, but I think you will hold me tight and you won’t let me go, always and forever you would say, and I will always love you, but forever is not such a long time when you say it.

You know, there’s not much point to your love when you have disappeared from my life. What exactly are you loving? The memory of me? The history?

Life is not about who you have had, the history, it’s about your ongoing experiences, who you will spend eternity with. Your distant love is a word. Your sentence, your text messages, your feelings are in the moment.

What does your love sound like next year?

If there ever comes a day when the routine becomes a loud echo, you will become boring and annoying. When you become nasty and a miserable wrecking ball, you will compare yourself to your friends. When the whole world is moving forward and you’re standing still, you will start questioning the relationship you’re in. If you’re not growing and your mind is a wretched mess, you will run away.

Your love is weak like me. You’re fragile like me.

Who are you looking for when love sounds like me?

Susie’s Sorrow

The curtain’s drawn on a dark, dusty room
That once was alive with the sound of voices
But when one voice chocked and never retuned
What lived and thrived had become an echo

An echo that drifts and never fades away
Resurfacing as a reminder of what once was
Where the memories explode with each drop of rain
And where the heart lingers and yearns for closure

What perished is gone yet its presence is here
Disembodied and robbed of what it was owed
To be here for today and to have a tomorrow
But where tomorrow will be one less reason to smile

One reason less for one imprisoned soul
That befriends a pillow that once rested and warmed
The one that remains but will never grow old
Forever to be wept for it is Susie’s sorrow

Written by Charles Daaboul


They told me to fight for what you want; you know, grab it with both hands and don’t let it go.

I was inspired. It lifted my self-confidence and self-worth. Made me believe, I should fight for everything.

Trying to absorb everything that life is and what it’s about, trying to learn how to present myself and subconsciously placing mines in the back of my mind about what a particular person thought about me.

Am I good enough? Can I make a mistake? What if I make a mistake? What if, what if, what if, what if.

I was always concerned about what other people thought. Did I have to set a standard, do I care what the person in the white shirt thought?

Why did I care? Why do I try to be someone that I’m not? Am I trying to be a better me?

All these questions, no one hands you a manual about anything. I learn best when I make mistakes, but why? Am I too stubborn to see otherwise? That I need to inflict enough pain, cause enough damage for life to uppercut my understanding in such a way that I bleed enough to stop and learn.

I need to lose. I need to feel loss. I need to fear. I need to understand if I’m too scared to do what stops me from my dreams, I’m missing out on achieving. My lack of confidence is destroying me.

They say you should aim for the stars, and don’t aim so low. They seldom talk about the in-between; the pain and understanding to enable you to aim so high.

I’m not taught to fight, I’m not taught to grab anything with both hands, and I’m expected to do it.

I’m expected to.

If you’re not going to help yourself, if you’re not improving, no one will do it for you and you will find something in-between.

It might not be what you want.

Because You’re Pretty

What do you do, where do you go when all hope is lost?

When you feel cold; feel a part of you die, do you stop?

When you’re running out of time and you’re growing old, do you feel like you have left your life behind? Are you telling me why?

No, this is not goodbye, I’m telling you why, it’s not too late.

I’m not wasting my time defending your misery, don’t tell me. When you need me to remind you hope is not gone when you have misplaced it.

When you find hope, you won’t wait for me and I will say goodbye. I wasn’t wasting my time holding your hands when I told you, you’re pretty.

Will you come back for me and take me? When your misery is gone and when you have found the place you belong, will you show me?

I’ll wait for you, even if I run out of time; I don’t even question why, with your hope filled words … because you’re pretty.

You Can Lie and Say That You Care

So I would rather sleep
Rather than being awake
Should I care should I not care at all
I rather not ask if asking is what I need

So I feel how this should be
Thinking about guessing how I should
Want to be or need or needing to be … loved
You can lie and say that you care

But I would rather sleep so I don’t feel
How can’t I feel when I’m in so deep
So when you go I may want you dead
Because I would rather feel
That no one else can have you

So I would rather sleep
And dream of a world
Where you are
So I would care
And feel like you still care
About me

Sometimes I feel
That nothing has changed
And you can tell me
What part of me you need

Everyday Pill (New Year Special: 2014)

It’s quite eye opening when you realise how fast time goes whether you’re working, keeping yourself busy or waiting for the weekend. In one aspect, the weekend seems so far away, but when it arrives, I feel as if time has jumped the queue.

Where has all the time literally gone? I know how I spent it, I can create a time map and it all makes sense, but it doesn’t feel meaningful. It seems as much as time likes to run with the wind caressing its hair, in life, it can stand still.

After a good conversation with the important people in your life, after listening to a great song, attending a function or playing a great video game, you’re left with an experience.

So I measure the happiness that these ‘experiences’ provide to me. My measurement relies on my memory, which is x amount of years on this Earth being my sample size. I can recall the experiences, one by one, but it’s a shadow of its former self. The feeling is as saturated as the memory.

Like medicine, does time need an everyday pill to provide the level of fulfilment? My experience and happiness is formed by that moment which is now overshadowed by its expiry. Quite empty in the present time.

The further time runs along the time map, the further the meaning depreciates. Our species have a biological drive for producing, and by understanding what this means, explains our experience and this fading feeling.

Can you enjoy a movie, a conversation, dinner or travel on your own? You can, but are you forming an experience which caters to our species biological role for happiness?

It’s not as complex AS it sounds. Just the way it is and the level of difficulty.

Solitude isn’t a final form, it’s neither here or there. Your experiences intemperately rely on companionship, your relationships, marriages, families, boyfriends, girlfriends and close friendships. Some relationships are complimentary, others are indispensable that make your heart beat.

Whether it’s creating a purpose or catering to our biological needs, our livelihood requires lasting, ongoing experiences and happiness.

As fast as time is going, if our withering memory isn’t reminded why we’re really here, it’s as if time is standing still … and then, we die.

Tiptoeing Across Your Lips

If I told you to find things that are hard to see, so tiny to anyone, if I told you to find all the small things and hold on to them, you will tell me why? And I will say to you madam, to never let go of these tiny things. And you will ask why? And I will say to you madam, it’s the small things that become, beyond your expectations, boastfully large that will surprise you. If you truly hold on to them madam, if you truly love these tiny fragments my dear, your life will become that much more enriched, more composed. Everything will make sense, more logical, freer, become content with your thoughts. Don’t fall into the pits of haste, there’s no rush with patience my dear.

So I ask you to stride with your heart’s undecided ways and find what is often left behind. You are young madam, filled with curious questions where you would stumble over the answers. The tiniest moments, all the little things my dear, is the point of it all. You’re not living to find answers, you’re living to breathe in those moments that sneak, bit by bit, that tiptoes across your lips. And perhaps my dear, you will go far and between what you held on to and see how big the tiniest things no one could hardly see became to be and how content you will be.

And will I be happy you ask? If you’re pure, if you continue to learn and trust in the moment of what comes your way, to put aside and live without hatred, inside of you, living throughout your life that you were able to see what hardly no one else was able to see through their lack of living, bitterness and vile distrust.

the blue striped box

I was cleaning my room and stumbled upon a box with pictures of my ex, letters and ripped letters from me. Even the wrapping from gifts. I didn’t stumble upon it, I knew it was there, under my bed. I like to think I ‘stumbled’ upon it.

I have been conflicted whether or not I should throw the box out. You know, almost effectively consolidating that part of my life into oblivion. Sure, I have the memories, but how long before they fade? I used to keep everything. Anything that represents sentimental value, and I mean anything. Something she touched, notes she wrote, text messages, emails, pictures, wrapping paper, ribbons, envelops, chat logs whatever she was a part of.

I deleted most of these things because I had lengthy negotiations with my mind and heart. After replaying back many memories and adding up all the shit that happened, I came to the conclusion it was not needed. I find that hard to accept. Mostly because I hold on to emotions and the past like an aggressive form of cancer. In my opinion if you don’t inject meaning and feeling into everything you do, especially relationships, than there’s no point.

This is why I have such a hard time eliminating things and people that were a significant part of my life. I have repeatedly removed emotional splinters so I could continue to carry on. After all, why should I keep a part of her in Pandora’s box when she removed me in a heartbeat?

What am I exactly holding on to? A fake ghost in my dreams who smiles at me, holds my hands and we walk towards the sunset? That’s not her. I’m falling in love with my own perception of what I want, not what she is in reality. In reality she doesn’t exist like that and I keep these lingering pieces inside the box as if she was really like that, someone amazing. She appears in my graduation photos, in the family shots because there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I would be with her until the end. I have no doubts. When she graduated, I wasn’t included in a family shot. That action didn’t speak volumes to me, it was a tumour subtly planted on my lungs, ever so slowly taking my breath away.

What’s in front of me is my past and a thousand torn pieces of coloured paper that are my letters that I spent days perfectly crafting for her. I took the shredded pieces when she ripped them without any sentiment. A fit of rage that spoke more of judgement than a human emotion. It has taking me a year and with all my calming thoughts and memories vividly growing as the days continue, I am still contemplating whether or not this box of broken dreams and empty hopes should be removed. It was with a heavy heart and always is to part way with not only my past but a time where true love existed. What holds me back is emotion and every nostalgic memory attached to an anxious feeling when it comes to her.

Does emotion hold me back? If there was no emotion I could freely destroy and forget everything and anything without a single thought. That’s great. At the same time, I might as well not exist because if there’s no emotion, what’s the point? There isn’t any point. I would rather be broken a thousand times and sit in a rabbit hole for all eternity than to be living in a state of numbness, placed in an abandoned city cesspool filled with dead cold hearts.

After all my words, I continue to stare at the blue striped box, the box I used to put her very first gifts in. I would eventually part ways with what’s inside, one day. I can no longer stand to read what she used to feel as that was in another time, in history where you will find only me; and if it was your history and you young lady, and you sir and your daughter and your son and your father and your mother, if it was your box that only you existed in where it was made for two, why should you stay there? There’s no one there anymore, absolutely no one but you and your maddening thoughts.

She has moved on, departed from your box and destroyed every word, gift and hand-crafted letter you ever gave her. She kept nothing, absolutely zero.

And yet, with all of my madness, and poetic words, the box still stares at me and taunts my every effort to remove it from my heart. Haunting me until my sanity overcomes my emotional burden.

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