If I should choose a direction
I would travel east
And count how many nights it takes
To return to the footprints of my soul
Or maybe I’ll get lost
And dance under leaves of trees
I’ve never seen before
The smell of freedom forever brightening my view

I might make a home in that moment
Live a thousand lives in that moment
And tumble over air, still warm with your breath
The harmony of my being catching rainbows
Tracing borderlines of countries
Insensitive for societies
Because my heart is but a thunderstorm
And rain is all that belongs to me

And I promise
I’ll make death wait on me
When the wind no longer burns in my veins
I’ll embrace my stellar destiny
Hide within Osiris and forever chase
The origin of my name

But for now, I would travel east
Trace the dust of the sun
And braid silk and satin words
Out of memories lingering in the
Hallways of my mind
Just in case you need to find me

I would travel east
And crumble the moon into pieces
Wrap them up in fairytales and
Shadows of unknown languages
My essence, small enough for you to
Wear under your skin
I’ll pin your smiles on the deep, dark nights
And when you finally travel east
You’ll understand the ocean’s song
As we count distance and time
With single eyelashes blown into the emptiness that you left
And when you’re far enough
You’ll understand that a mother’s love
Is the only thing pure enough
To create life
After death


Poems In Ink

This is a call to all poets for a new project: I’m looking for poets worldwide to exchange handwritten poetry with.

You know, the way people used to write letters, back in the day before Facebook and Twitter and text messages and what not. If you are interested, send me a message on here or by email (soraya_deb@yahoo.com). We exchange postal addresses or POBoxes and send each other 1 poem by regular mail. You can decorate the paper, explain the poem, tell me the background story, your inspiration,… whatever you feel like, as long as you send me a poem. Handwritten and signed with your poetry name or real name. Whatever you choose.

I will do the same for every poet who helps me out. This project has no commercial reasons, it’s just a way to satisfy my passion. Let’s get the ball rolling.

Oh btw, I’m located in Belgium – Europe, just in case you’re wondering

A gesture of appreciation

Five more days before school starts again. I can’t wait. It has been fun having the kids around all the time, not having to get up early and rush them to get in school on time. But two months is long enough. Not just for me, but for them too.

They are crazy about each other. Sometimes they act like a Siamese twin. My couch is big enough to fit seven adults on it, yet the both of them sit in the same corner to watch tv. Sometimes it’s hard to make out which legs belong to who. They find it hard to share a candybar, but not to share a blanket.

But sometimes, all this extra time together makes them rebel. Against each other. Against me. Against the whole world and the whole universe. All of the sudden an angry look on Kymany’s face will make Badu cry. “She is always angry at me. She doesn’t like me.” And once that storm calms down, Kymany’s world ends in tears because her sister never wants to play with her.
I’m not the best referee. I get annoyed when they cry over small things that really don’t matter much. But it matters to them. A long time ago we agreed on a rule: we only cry when we are hurt. So when they start whining and crying over something small like a tv program that hasn’t been paused because one needed to run to the bathroom, this little nagging feeling bubbles up from inside my stomach and I tell them:” Stop crying! You are not in pain!” Of course more tears: “Yes, I am! My heart is broken and it hurts!” Oh my… Here we go again.

This morning they were playing together and I was on the couch reading a book. I was happy that they were behaving, even though I expected some shouting and crying to erupt at any time now. After a while I’ve noticed that it got quiet. Then Kymany opens the door with a big smile (I still love her dimples so much) and Badu shows up next to her, with possibly an even bigger smile. Kymany puts her left arm around Badu’s shoulder and she responds by putting her arm around Kymany’s hip. I sit there, with my book open on my lap, looking at them.

“Mommy, we want to thank you for everything you do for us and because you are the sweetest mommy in the whole wide world, we are going to do the laundry for you. You just sit there and read your book, we will take care of everything.”

And before I can tell them how sweet they are (or that they shouldn’t put colored with white laundry), they both run – with that same big smile on their pretty little faces – to the washing room and start working as a professional two-little-girls-team to get the laundry, soap and fabric softener in the machine. No arguments, no tears, no fighting. No stress.

And even though they might have poured in just a little bit too much soap and just not enough fabric softener, it’s alright. They poured a lot of love into it. And in the end, that’s all that matters

Did he lie again?

9 p.m. Bedtime for the girls. I tuck them in, kiss and hug them goodnight. “Mommy, I love you” as I go downstairs. “I love you too, girls. Goodnight!”

Ten minutes later and Badu shows up in the living room. “Mommy, why didn’t daddy come back yet? Did he lie again?” All I can do is nod yes. I spread my arms and she runs to me. One single tear rolls down her cheek. And there we sit, hugged up on the couch, both unwillingly thinking about the same person who has hurt us in different ways.

I can’t help but think about the millions of times that I’ve been telling him, asking him, begging him to stop lying to the kids.I don’t mind him lying to me, I’m used to it and it’s honestly the only thing I expect from him. But my daughters are young, and they still believe that people are honest and keep their word. Especially when it comes to their father. A promise is a fact. Hope is truth.

He has put my girls through five years of lies, disappointments, heartache and pain. I’ve decided that it’s enough. His priorities are not in parenthood. I need to protect them from unnecessary pain. It’s not like he’s making a lot of effort to stay in touch with them. This is hard but I know that it’s for the best in the end.

But how do I explain to an 8 year old and a 6 year old that their father can’t handle the responsibility that comes with raising children? How do I tell them the truth without bashing him? How can you tell innocent children that it’s for the best to keep their father out of their lives? What words will help them understand without hurting their feelings?

I don’t really know. And I’m supposed to be good with words. But I wasn’t prepared for this. I never planned on having to deal with my children hurting over their biological father. And honestly, when I see my kids hurting, words seem to hold no weight. So up until now I try to help them make sense out of a senseless situations. By answering any question they might have. And so far hugs and kisses are our main comfort. We are like a bunch of huggy bears haha.

I do realize that I’m forced to be their mother and their father at the same time. I have to be both combined in one. But I’m not complaining. I get all the love back. A million times multiplied. I am truly blessed.

The Ugly Duckling – a real story

In elementary school they used to make fun of the kids wearing glasses, the one with the fierce red hair, the one with the terribly long legs. The kid with the braces, the smart ones, always studying, getting great results. The freckled face, the chubby one. Kids express terrible creativity when it comes to hurtful nicknames. The group against the individual. The ‘normal’ kids against the ‘weird’ one.

Years later and – all of the sudden –  glasses, red hair and long legs are sexy. Intelligence, straight teeth, freckles and curves are flattering. The initiation of admiration and lust.
A lot of adults still seek the safety of being an invisible part of the group, but it’s no longer a sign of strenght and power. It becomes the exact opposite. The one who stands out in a crowd is now the one they wish to be (but are probably too afraid to become). The group now looks up to the power of the individual.

Do we need to be tormented before we get appreciated?   Is it faith that the one who struggled his or her way through childhood and school now becomes the center of attention? How much sense does it make that being bullied for being different turns into being attractive for that exact same reason? Is the story about the ugly duckling turning into a beautiful swan inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s personal experience? If not, he was a great observor.
The underlying messages in fairytales never fail humanity. Morals and norms taught in a beautiful story. It’s a pity we stop reading them once we become adults. And it seems like a lot of grown-ups forget all about the fairytale lessons. Even though life really is better when you allow some magic in it…

Panick in the city

Every now and then, when I’m just strolling through the city, minding my own business, enjoying the sunshine warming my skin, my eye catches a random stranger with a look of pure panick on his or her face. And right then and there my fantasy and curiosity gets the best of me.

I’m a very curious person by nature. I love observing people and analyzing them.
So my mind starts racing immediatly. What is this person scared of? Why is he walking around so fast, not looking at a single person, trying to be invisible? All kinds of scenarios entertain my thoughts. Did he just steal something? Does some crazy mafia hitman have a bullet with his name on it? Or would he be just a random person who came in the possession of some secret government information and is now the main target of some secret assassin service?

Maybe she cheated on her husband and just learned that he found out. And the husband is a psychotic obsessive lunatic who’s already sharpening his knives to cut her and her lesbian lover up in pieces, while screaming “If I can’t have you for myself, no one will have you!”. Or she just escaped from being introduced into the prostitution network by human traffickers. She could be a nurse who just killed an old person after forcing him to put her in his testimony. And now she’s on the run, because she might have been caught. Or maybe…

I know, I know. My fantasy tends to get out of control. And I enjoy it. Usually. But honestly, it just looks weird to walk around the city or get of a bus with a facial expression formed by some secret personal terror. It leaves mere passants like me struggling with this nagging, wondering-what-happened feeling.

The things you see in the city….

LL Cool J is unconquerable

Ladies Love Cool J. Who doesn’t know him? Old skool hip hop artist to some, pop artist to others, actor to everybody else. Women drool over his muscles and lips. His eyes and smokey voice. Yes yes, he’s kinda sexy.

The thing I always liked about him, is that he never gave in to the hype, he doesn’t do gangsta rap. He stays true to how he started out. I think that is a reason why it was easier for him to make the transition to becoming an actor. His musical career didn’t pin him down to playing a certain roll. He has quite some titles on his name by now. I don’t think I’ve seen all of them. I saw the best ones. But something I have noticed over the years though, LL never dies in a movie. No matter how hard the beating he gets, how many bullets, if he gets electrocuted, stabbed, strangled and what not, no matter if sharks try to digest him, … in the end he survives AND saves the day. Oh and the lady of course.

It is a remarkable fact. Because usually, in action/adventure movies the black actor is one of the  first ones to die.

Well, good ol’ LL never dies. thats a fact. It’s also a fact that Cuba Gooding Jr. cries in every movie. But that’s a whole other story.

If you happen to be one of those die-hard fans who has seen every single movie he has been in and you can prove me wrong, please send me the title of the movie LL dies in. Until then, he will always be LL The Invincible!

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