Along the Wind

along_the_windAlong the wind,

I bend and I sway.

Time is slipping by.

The ground beneath me

is all I see.

The poison in the pain

is the illusion of hope.

It’s all lines; It’s all lies,

drawn with an artist’s brush,

beautifying and simplifying

the irregular rythmes of

the strokes that once

portrayed the truth.

The truth that is now so tainted

that compelled me to write these words.

Impromptu Write 03/May/2017 © Wassim Cherif

I miss writing poetry (I wouldn’t call the one above true poetry). Sometimes I get urges to scribble down some ideas so I do so without a filter and that’s what my impromptu poems are. I keep them untouched and unedited because they represent a state of mind at a certain time. It’d be interesting to go back to them years later and see myself through them.


[Journal]Impromptu Poem 23/09/2016

It’s been months since the last time I have posted poetry here. and It’s been even longer since the last time I’ve written poetry seriously; as in poetry for poetry not poetry for self-therapy!

We all have issues and each of us deals with them on their own way. mine was writing, even though i was never good at it. It’s not a problem for me, I’m even fine with writing ungrammatically as long as I transfer something to paper. But there are also times when I become a sort of a perfectionist. That’s when it takes at least a week for me to finish up a poem! and I haven’t done that in a long time. I guess I got distracted by whatever life’s throwing at me which between us is a whole lot of nothing. Perhaps that’s exactly why! It’s the nothingness, the utter plainness of routine and total detachment from the time-flow. In fact, it’s more like a nothingness that’s extremely busy! It’s somewhere and somewhen you get lost in pallid tones of life.

I gotta tell you it’s a pretty bad time and space to exist in! Well, at least I’m not alone there. I have my words and I have my people (and coffee too!) That makes it bearable.

This poem’s taken from my Impromptu Poetry notebook. Now that I’m reading it after a few months it actually doesn’t make sense. Whatever! I’m sure it made perfect sense back when I wrote it.


Memories lost in misty veils of grey

Fading into darkness elegantly

Leaving only poignant pain

oscillating in a hollow heart

moments I can no longer name,

carried with them a person

the person I used to be

feelings are now a fringe frontier

I’m in a transition into a dominion of

Processed poetry and unknown knowns

What remains is a distorted face

That doesn’t remember its features.


Wassim Cherif © Impromptu Poetry 2016


Unrevised Thoughts 05/07/2016

Walled inside a single thought
of stationary progress,
a ghost of a mind exposed to
conflicted consciousness;
perplexed by the innocence of its
self-created confusion;
worn out by the contradiction of
the passage of time across
platforms assert its erasure.
Within a multitude of axes,
an existence might even negate the
awareness of its own being.

Waseem Sherif © 05/07/2016

yeah, i write this nonsense on my phone while I can’t sleep at night. but this stuff comes out in such an uninterrupted stream that it makes me wonder if it’s really nonsense…

Happy Eid el Fitr to all Muslims around the world! ^_^ 

Nature of my Poetry

my poetry is an element of my existence’s character,
a timeless experience reigning the mind/soul complex throne
condemned to be dethroned upon articulation.

Language exiles it to the labels of timeline and history.

Confined to the prison of runes, glyphs and symbols;
receded from ethereal music to limited auditory markers,
from endless primordial euphoria to structures of consistent imagery;
morphed from an eternal wanderer sage into a soldier of syntactic rules;
it dies
my poetry dies
my soul dies


26/03/2016 © Waseem Sherif