Bøger af Syeeah Jarrule Bahshay

I scooped out soft buttery tissue and ligaments before my body had a chance to rot.I noticed the air. I could almost taste the sweet clay; my hunger had been breached.A liter of pus landed near a broken tangled cord, at the base of my neck. Cadavers that couldn't be fixed were placed on wooden benches, and their toe tags removed.

To be a poet:She was told to sit on the faded red chair(but it was honey she wanted)With the gray exchange of leather that dated back to 1960.It was a political nonescape phase.She was already broken at the age of two.And told-obey the mazeSo you aren't cut while they check your eligibility(but it was honey she wanted)Broken from the womb of folded mirrors.But it was too late to drop pennies into the well.All she wanted was to stop the tease of loneliness.Her mother never smiledMaybe never learn't to.So she was told to sit on the faded red chair.And watch the gray exchange of trees vomiting up their leaves-But all she wanted was honeySo her tongue began to scratch at the dryness.She never smiledMaybe never learn't to.