Ilhem Issaoui is a 27-year-old Tunisian researcher and writer. Some of her poems and short stories have appeared both online and in print.She is also the author of a collection of poems entitled Fragments of a Wounded Soul.
Hell is that black smock emerging from one’s eyes Saddened choleric colours coming out of tubes An artist can never be trusted with her own soul, her own hands, her own body They are someone’s material Someone’s brush and world, own world When outside is eaten with boredom And everyone is devouring someone else The artist is aloof, devouring herself Isn’t he the most benign and banal of all?
Here is the thing
The real thing Everyone will like you As long as you keep performing With perfection But only you know the pain within That comes with the aspectabund form you have You have been formed well to whelve that rancor A rancor that That tingles At times thorny At times an amarulent lump in the throat They go chasing, chasing, chasing! Your crooked and fleeting shadow When it is snuffed out They are doomed On the stage of ill-famed mummery called life You always knew you are alone They deep down bring you the worst of all thoughts
how is one supposed to function when thoughts moribund farragos inside the skull, the pulverulent, the deathly you killed one, no you killed many all is well, that feigns to be well feigning is an art, to embrace when the light is dim dim dim this is fleeting, perhaps aeonian, who knows when you are old with the older noblesse oblige, you know but we are old before we are young how is this even possible? a friend is to slacken the appearance of furrows but I want none, I have never wanted any...friend I keep the furrows when everyone is but a temporary cloying lie she feeds me sugar, day and night, it will happen inside the skull, I take them all, cloying lies, and bury them inside the skull, a heinous rat with voices that madden and deafen is confined inside a room that has a window outside the window, there are prying eyes of golems