Julaybib - S.T.I.C.S

A bird doesn’t rely on a branch of a tree to hold its weight, but for its

ability to fly, just in case the same branch was to break. Let’s take.

The time to look into these‎ mirrors that won’t truly mirror what some have

buried inside. As I often dream for my days to be felt like my dreams

I often wish to be invisible, so that normal people won’t give me the type of

attention that I don’t really want, nor need, my tree gives the same type of

oxygen for you to breathe but, I was built from a deformed seed, you see

Even trees are discriminated, rooted by the thought that all birds won’t have

their nests placed onto them, or me. Their eyes won’t lay more than a few

seconds to look, at me. They say the older women get, the more they miss heads

turning. But when you look like Julaybib; that’s not really what your soul

might be yearning for (4). Five (5) fingers that all point towards that

'disablism' should be seen as a hate crime, but the 6th sense only saw dead

peoples hope, in hope, for society to be woke

For he ‎felt Dante’s 7hells every day of the week. So gradually he’d eventually

have to feel, weak. He would stay indoors and stare at his ugly tree.

Occasionally even look inside himself, and find the courage to be able to

speak. Keep some of the wood to make an arrow like the one Marina Abramovic

made, but hoped for a result that wasn’t quite the same. «because we never stop

loving silently those we once loved out loud» but I’d never loved myself,

Ulay — Julay — bib

It’s difficult to see the light when clearly light has never been seen,

light has just made it easier for faces like mine to be seen. I am but an ugly

tree. I used to curse my ugly seed and hope that I would be of the elders that

would joke when they’d say 'age before beauty' for my beauty was engraved

inside of me like two lovebirds that managed to engrave their initials,

on a tree

But whatever happened to that one feeling that got away? That, late night,

watching the moonshine penetrate through my branches while those two lovebirds

would walk beneath?

She seems to be walking alone this time, accompanied by darkness and her own

tears, so I cracked a branch, 'Poet-ree, is that you?', she asked as her head

looked up towards the night sky. So I cracked another branch, 'is my heart not

beautiful enough to compensate for my looks?'

I cracked another branch. 'Poet-ree. How can you see what the blind can’t — but

can’t manage to describe why he left me because of how I look? 'He said that he

loved me.' But love had never known pure love so, no. No he didn’t

But you were too young to understand that, attention junkies come in every

shape and form