Life As A Writer

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

the exiled poet

the exiled poet - misery (finale - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 4 HERE)

He looked at the clock; it read 11:55 PM, 13-02-2011.

"Valentine’s Day!" He said.

The poet sat back down on his bed and read the skies painted on his bedroom ceiling.

"This is where I write my best, on Valentine’s Day. The pen I hold shouldn’t rest, but my hands are getting fatigued, I should let them instead."

His mistress didn’t make an appearance. The poet thought hard. He thought, what if he wrote words peculiar enough for them to come alive?

A little voice stargazing inside his head said, "You’re only a poet, how can you make words come alive? You’re not anything special."

The poet looked at the Moon as it seemed like it was frowning at him. The Moon floated away, as it was turning away from the poet. He fell to the floor knowing how powerless he could be.

Were the words he wrote stronger than the sword this time? Or was the sword just too sharp and torn his words apart?

He is still waiting.

The poet still dreams this endless dream, a state of sedation, a dream of consequence.

The poet is still on his way to her … somewhere … he never really knew that she would become his misery.

He never knew what he lost …

The … poet … was … exiled … forever


the exiled poet - the king (part 4 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 3 HERE)

The poet woke up, ending his dreamy bliss; the dreams that won’t let him forget.

Never forget.

The poet noticed that she was a long time ago and yet his mind doesn’t want to leave her. I guess the poet is still thinking about his mistress … or the girl that he thought was his mistress. The poet forgets. He had trouble separating reality from fiction, he could never be certain.

He lives in two worlds, one he is like a king, the other, a slave.

When he dreams, he didn’t hear that voice that told him how "defenceless" she made him.

The poet sighed, and as he woke up he received a message from her, or did he? It was a note on his workstation that he had kept from his dreams. He forgets about this particular note, a note that he could only read.

Suddenly, the poet’s emotions took a different direction. His emotions twisted and turned, out of nowhere his mood changed. He didn’t belong anymore. He came to this sudden realisation, the state of sedation his dream bestows him creates a world of side effects.

"Side effects?" He thought.

The poet dreamed a dream of a scene that didn’t exist. He dreamed about what would become his consequence. Like a drug, like an illusion, she was a part of his head, a part of his heart but not a part of his reality.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - origins (part 3 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 2 HERE)

He felt his heartbeat again, this time; it felt remarkably different from before. His body arched backwards.

The poet dreams this endless dream.

His mistress was there of course, she was hiding behind that tree; but, she came out and this originality and colour of mass charisma fused into her.

The poet pondered, "How could anything compare to her?"

It made sense, it somehow escaped from her, it was his mistress! She was that amazing cosmic immense, one that exists in the poet, so strong and powerful; one small step can blow him away for miles around the poet’s imaginary, fanciful world, which now exists as … her.

Like the words he writes that can move the most toughest and coldest of mountains, the poet finally belonged!

This voice that the poet could not hear told him his mistress was "faithless".

The poet was on his way to her. Writing about what would end up becoming his misery.

The pen wrote what she didn’t feel, but he thought she did.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - the dream (part 2 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

(Read Part 1 HERE)

Originality and colour ejected some of its material in the shape of a cloud and became more luminous than before, almost as beautiful as his mysterious mistress, can you believe?

The poet stood and thought nothing more amazing existed other than his mistress. Even his precious words didn’t come close.

He felt his heartbeat. It was beating with such force; he fell a little to the right. The poet isn’t clumsy, it’s his heart. Depending on the beat, it makes him flinch from left to right, side to side, sometimes even being surprised.


The poet was on his way … watching, dazed, it was like a cosmic explosion, similar to the dance and encore that happened when the universe was forming. It blew the poet away several metres, landing in a state of bewilderment, just missing a tree!

It marked the beginning of something inside of the poet … he never knew, it would be the start of his misery.

(to be continued …)

the exiled poet - imagination (part 1 - a valentine’s day special: 2011)

The poet was on his way. He just descended out of a dream where his mistress dominated all the fields of colour flowers.

He’s late, but still, it feels as if every time he enters the room, he makes it just in time. The feeling of knowing he could enter that door at any moment makes your palms aroused enough that they perspire.

The kingdoms have no sanctions, no authority figures. They didn’t need laws to control the people; they’re civil, sane, and moral and they value life. Different to our world; an imagination, that seems so far away in thought but so close in distance that order has become forgotten.


A discussion spurred from the mouths of those that knew him or felt like they knew him, they always wondered if the poet dreams in black and white or in colour.

The poet said, "They were wrong."

Every conversation is floating above his head and he could tune into them without being seen.

"Sometimes, words are enough to see the bigger picture."

They don’t know that he is there, but everyone feels like a ghost is in the room.

(to be continued …)