Stuttering

The heart aches

For exceptional things

I yell to the muteness

Of a life

Give me a taste 

Or better yet... 

An accidental stay;

A mighty fall into a powerful play

I want greatness

A fire to my stare

Collapsing every bit of dread-filled fear

My oh my dreadful fears

Oh

I am wasting away

Into freckles

Of sad nights,

Cold literature

& an familiar absence of cravings

That goes unnoticed

Inside a world

I hear the waves stuttering grey

They wait around for someday

For the world to answer back

To slip itself into words instead of echoes

Paint

they told me a lover of the rain is a lover of impossible ends, they said the rain only falls to watch life shivering at it's own fragility

maybe they're right, but I still wish they would know, how the rain lies down to embrace an empty appetite like mine

with it's soft drizzle, I'm reminded of my father's deliberate anecdotes, the curl of stories that settled in warmth deep in my bones

with it's heavy fall, I hear my lover's generous laughter, the one that carried the stars home, the one that always sees the beautiful parts of me

with it's grasp of lightening, an early  memory fills me, of my mother's tender touch at the edge of sleep, spilling Surat Yasin to drown out my fears

the rain holds so many of my memories, aloud and alive for my heart to always remember; that even in endings beauty still remains

Detachment

Happiness escapes me to free itself, leaving my emptiness completely untouched. Cowardly I suffer within an absence filled with an inextricable silence, speaking is impossible here.

I fell into his arms like a refugee, soaking in a lonely cry of a sadness I could never dare to share. His arms spread it's roots out, walked me slowly through the darkness; this long agony I wanted to burst open, to wreck all the ugly in the world, till my smile is pure again. I want to feel whole again. Please hold me again.

Hardness, hardness, hardness.

This world is so hard on my mouth, my language is so black, so afraid, so ashamed, so aware I'm tired of it.

People are voices lost in translation, how do I bring my own voice to life, when my speech could never sustain itself against the vast distance.

I never recovered from the taste of betrayal. I only collapsed and forgiveness became insufferable after. What is the meaning of torment, when the past will always remain an unresolved chapter?

It's so strange to think, I woke up from a dream to write this. 

Weight

I'm sorry that it's never how it's supposed to be, you straighten your back at the table, watching his lips dry of a language he smoked

I'm sorry he never showed himself, to you, when he posed himself, in front of you, imposed himself as an arrow, condemning you to a bitter side

I'm sorry you stop the conversations in your head when you're around him, fumbling to fill your cup under his conflicted breath

I'm sorry for the two different faces, that hide inside your pretty, how your anger never ceased, turning a desert of your tender heart

I'm sorry for all the times, you kissed the necks of loverlikes, you couldn't bear to love, with their cold hands squeezed between your thighs

I'm sorry for all the times he dropped in unannounced, carrying his hurt past, ringing your door bell past midnight calling for your arms

I'm sorry that all he left behind, was a trail, leading to his spirit memory, saying: I almost loved you

I'm sorry that his name falls into your  stomach like burning coal, why you bury yourself in seclusion, I'm sorry I was never a good friend to you

I'm sorry his voice crawls to your shoulders, like a rain cloud, dropping you to your knees in desperate hours of loneliness

I'm sorry that he made you watch life, with the sort of despair that turned your heart against you, to re-wound you, whenever you thought of escaping his clever lies

I'm sorry that it takes repugnance to rub his scent of your rough skin, always on your guard, damning you to a little room to keep his heat alive

I'm sorry that he emptied the fullness of your laughter, how you glance back with a flat gaze, unmoved by any banter

I'm sorry that nobody ever knew, how his dark thoughts touched you, to define and defile you as 'another thing he couldn't fix nor understand'

I'm sorry that you believed him

I'm sorry that you still do

I'm sorry he made a coffin of your dreams, kept you waiting in a tired half love, never much of a goodbye to catch your tears once again

I'm sorry I only wonder about you, shamefully, without the slightest intention to outstretch my hand, to know how you are doing now

I'm sorry

Perhaps

Perhaps it's our restless stubbornness that exhausts every possibility of a budding progress, how we're never at ease anywhere

Perhaps it's our inability to say yes, or no, ruffled so horribly within the tightening circles of indecisive maybes

Perhaps it's our aloofness, confining us to narrow fragments of sentences, that revolt against us speaking our own minds

Perhaps it's the burdening questions, we ask in the form of prayers; outstretched prayers yearning for answers to come in one day, embraced in arms wide open

Perhaps it's our spray of sadness, incurable, we learned so well how to carry it, we balance our weight with it, it's a part of us, a comfort

Perhaps it's the names of men, before you, names carved upon our soft skins, burying graveyards of memories, it's why we can't trust you, not fully, not quite, not yet

Perhaps it's our rash anger, so vengeful towards you, a knot knitted with fear, a knot tied so close to our heaving chests, we'd long forgotten how to breathe without it

Perhaps it's our deep need to be needed, we leap, we throw ourselves into the infinite nothingness of man, that swallows us gladly, it's why we're sometimes emptier around you

Perhaps it's our fathers, the first men who sheltered us, from a world of madness, we plead, then enslave ourselves to bring joy to

Perhaps it's our mothers, who never taught us that men will discolor our loyalties to ourselves, and how we will remain seated for a life of bitter tears and compromise

Perhaps it's the word love, that bandaid; the one we heard too often, in a paralyzing downfall of a tragic marriage, it's why we can't help but doubt it

Perhaps it's our obsession with the small details, that impregnate our desire to build a home for you, don't you know that's what our wombs are made of?

Perhaps it's our apologies to the unusual days, when intimacy is the enemy, and loneliness got here first, you can only wait your turn

Perhaps it's our bodies, crying blood every month, to give air to a world that lacks life in itself, we think we can still save it

Perhaps it's our suffering, so unnecessary you claim, and how we abandon ourselves to the boundlessness of it's heat waves

Perhaps it's the cruel pain, resting in our beds, that cold crowded space in between you and a lasting solitude

Perhaps it's our unresolved issues, shaping a shadow of a hard past, always, always one sneaky step ahead of you

Perhaps it's the tension birthed, inside generations of women, seeking perfection, gripping a glass image, so fragile and shaky in dismay

Perhaps it's how we hide our insecurities, self-consciously, how we silence the twist&turn, to make a room nursing yours

Perhaps it's the flowers blooming innocent promises, outside the locks of our young hearts, torn one after the other, one after the other, with no regard

Perhaps it's the dampness of disappointments, the dead-ends of conversations, the perpetual weariness; the signs we so wholeheartedly refuse to see

The signs we teach ourselves to misread

Perhaps...

Perhaps we don't really know half of what we think we know 

Read To You

All they've spent their time doing, was loving one another, they fell miserably in love for each other, falling free, passing every limitation, every boundary, they once upon a time set. A destiny changes it's course, when met with a powerful force, that is another destiny, one that is craving after love, attraction, stimulation, and companionship. He was a man looking for the one, she was a woman looking for herself.

                                                                      ***********

'Tell me..' she spoke while tracing her fingers through his back, he had a fading scar on the back of his left shoulder, she remembered the story he told her, when he was a kid, going on adventures on the playground, and how he cut his shirt, and scarred his skin, trying to squeeze himself through a locked gate, she remembered the joy, she had felt, and the big smile painting her face, when she unraveled another part of him, a part that is so dear and filled with hope.

'Tell me about forever', silence brushed the air, after these words crumbled to the ground, making little to no sound, he turned around to face her, the woman he dreams of waking up next to every day, the woman he dreams would bear his children, the woman who eclipsed every other woman, the woman who had one foot at the door, lost to her inner wars.

'The home.. I found in the open void, in the comfort of a quiet eternity; you.' 

'But we are not the same in so many ways'

'Yes, we've shown one another a different translation of the same passage, inside a text we've spent our entire lives trying to understand. I can't promise you I'll end your sadness, I am not the one underlining it with a black marker. What I promise you I'll do is; sit beside you, until you realise those sentences you keep repeating, have no secret lesson to teach you, and you are only hurting yourself by digging up your buried past for empty closures.'

'What if patience turns weary?'

'It will, it has before, and somehow I always find myself back at your door.'

'What if love dies of waiting?'

'Love never dies, it grows beyond that'

'How are you so sure?'

' "Doubt thou the stars are fire, 
   Doubt thou the sun doth move, 
   Doubt truth to be a liar, 
   But never doubt I love."

Keep reading, my love... The book is nowhere near done. It is yearning to be read and to be undone. '

Open Letter To My Father

At the shores of silence, we are embraced by all the words we lost to time, the most painful; the ones that never really stood a chance

                                                                     **********

Father, a part of me, parted into the deep in search of you, undoing tongue-ties of you, sewing threads to memories of you

Mother broke over night, I prayed for peace, I watched the moon turn grey-blue, lost in grieving you, on her shoulders I cried for you

Your voice still lingers in the mist of morning, awakening the ruins of people; buried deep in colorless dreams. Your people, turning, tossing each day, learning to live again

I glimpsed your ghost, wandering in passing, waving in difficult distance, without a mere willingness to surrender to my alone crumbled longing

I'm half chained, sleepwalking, this  world seems larger than my knowing; pale, plain and printing expired meanings to a season of dwelling

Your secret language haunts me, I hardly squeeze your name in conversations anymore, my heart is lost, looking for it's missing pieces, echoing for a place of belonging

You left without a warning, without the comforting sound of a final promise, in the deserted haze of a hushed hour, nobody was ready to let you go, Father

How could you just leave..

Because of you

Faith stood suspended on a tightrope, I forgot the sound of heavens, hollow hazy promises tweaked my dry throat, because of you

People twist the mountains to sweat the sadness temporarily, to wipe memories off their tired eyelids they laugh furiously, because of you

These walls wrapped themselves in breaths of you, emptying a home that killed every sound in wait for you, wouldn't stand on its own two feet, because of you

These corners plunged to blank days crushed in secret sorrows, voiceless weeping, thickness that aches for you, bursting with agonies, because of you

Every lullaby ends with words; heavy scattered words, drifting into the vague unknown, containing only one wish: to have you back home

Father,

This weight is slowly smoldering me, I stopped kneeling for The Lord of mercy, mourning unanswered prayers, mourning the past and a frozen present, settling in the strangling stand-stills

'Life is too short to live in isolating anger' you used to tell me, but anger  is chewing, spitting me out to the frightening fears, there's so little hope left here, an innocence that ceased to exist, estranged in perish

The ink dried on my hand, Father.. Who do I turn to now? when the days grow colder, melting into one another, the urge to fight this, fading away, one day after the other, I'm not okay, I'm not okay, not at all and you're too far to hear this, too far to see this, too far to relieve this

They all hear my cries but you, the only one I look for is you, all I want is to be reunited soon, and I'm trying.. I'm trying, because of you, because of all the dreams you had when you held me in your hands, because of the lessons anchoring me to the ground, because of the name I proudly wear, the legacy I carry on my back. Because of you, I stand

Perhaps goodbyes aren't scripted in life, so we stand, in the brilliance of silence, to embrace loss as a part of love, death as the darker side of life. memories of you, run deeper, deeper to cut the wound in half, for the heartache, the healing, rushing my way

I'm stretching my pain in the waters, to an image of you smiling down of heaven, to say: we'll meet again my loved one, to reminisce with lighthearted laughter, in the warming shade of the hereafter

This is the only reassurance that keeps me going,

Father,

I miss you 

Delivering

death does not frighten me. it's the comfort in knowing where I'll belong, the little that shall become of me. the peaceful darkness soothes the hard edges, it's fitting, this certainty in conviction, that in death; I will no longer matter, spreading into nothingness, I'll fade away gradually, & the poetic tongue that screamed bullets, will finally hold it's breath to find rest. I do not fear death, you see; there lies my hope for a silent, separate eternity completely beyond myself. 

What A Womanly Thing To Do

what a womanly thing to do, to conceal the sweetness of your bitter words, to quiver alone, to silence a love, for fear it becoming a backbone.

this unmasked love, my dear, is inflamed longing, all the poetry in the world will fail to contain.

what a womanly thing to do. to refuse to dance to the music of his heart, claiming it too loud.

to laugh away his sorrows, the sadness burdening his tired shoulders, with expectations of a father awaiting the coming of his eldest son.

to show him that heaven does exist on earth, a painting of two lovers, in a space of one, then build a barrier, preventing the future from holding the brush.

what a womanly thing to do.

trust is gazing faithfully into a heart that appears as a reason in the dark, against all your poor judgements, even lack of that.

what a womanly thing to do. to push away the unfamiliar, in order, to stamp, to prove a theory, your inexperienced mind decided long ago.

love does survive in life.

it does when you move together, if even separately, to a shared rhythm, when you strip yourself honest, when you question the rigid grip on the past, cleaning the wounds of all the hurt inside.

it does when you grow into your own woman, not a fragment of all the women who spilled down their painful lessons.

two stories never once shared the same character.

it does when fighting is broken down into remedies, to reveal the cracks, for understating to surround them from every side.

it does when steps are paved, plans are marked, to a road that sees two, not afraid to wait, to work together, against the odds of life.

lovers, take your time. in contemplation of thoughts. but do not take your precious gift for granted. in solitary, look at the result behind the force, then make your peace.

lovers, distance is the testing recognition of all that is true in love, absence is the beginning of every loss. remember, indeed love drives from a positive source of faith in the small details.  

Love At 4AM

Distance unveiled you to me, an incomprehensible idea of love that always eluded me, in peaceful silence I understood completely, what books never taught me

You held me like a promise, from the start; the promise of the young, to leave behind, ashes of a town that never once embraced the longing of it's people

With you, moments transcended the concrete poetry of the ever-present now, we are fashioned in an escape from the shorelines of time

I find no words in which to contain you, yet you stretch across the pages of contemplation, I know only that I love you: that I have only loved you

You spoke the raw language of faith, the one I once erased, eternal gratitude binds me to The One, covering two souls in an awaken infinity of signs pointing to the Divine

A thousand candles glittering with warmth, of trust that never once questioned itself

My breath is tangled with homesickness; home is you, home is the reading marks of last night, leaving a little note of you to say: I was here. 

Coil

she had an anguished knowledge of passion, no experience of love. books rendered a life of alienation to a girl who dreamt & drew a world shaded with literature, fiction as a commonplace; an unfamiliar fascination gloving her everyday, engaging timid fantasies with naive senses, and concentrated pleasure through the burning texts of desire, a vulgar tongue rushing a sentiment playing with hungry fire, the young girl confused an intimate contemplation of minds, with a howling need for a naked touch of bodies, lust illustrating a portrait of love, honest men compromised as characters to a girl trapped in a world of colors, no longer needing to investigate, to break free from the secret life she made.

Like Water

we lose ourselves in this love, in longing for this love, we do not wish to mark our way, to be traced back, because we believe, so earnestly that this love is leading us to much better places, we surrender, completely to a naked thought of union, we are no longer pulled with a need to resist, or to question in circles, instead, we are submerged in devoted trust; that is the gleaming torch that lights the dawn of days.

let go of the expectations of change, rooted entirely in false hope. guard your heart from the evil in some, redirect your focus, dip your feet in the ocean: the essence of who you are, & who you'll become. set free the grasp of negativity. your choices reflect the time of growth you're in, forgive the past for you knew less than you do now. have faith in the journey of knowledge, embrace the journey of the never-ending.

it is true that the beauty pouring from your soul is either rejoiced, by those who celebrate smiling alongside it, or it is envied, by those who spread poisonous toxic energies to oppress it. take your honest intuition as undying affirmation, the unsettling in the stomach is your warning sign. do not be consumed by the bitter fire, breathed by the ones that wish to burn everyone. value your heart, and you'll find it resting in reliant peace and reassurance.


think over your intentions, iron away the contradictions, surrender to the flow of the universe, when you give, do so fully and genuinely. the whole of your being is the secret garden you need to nurture, listen to your desiring heart more often. be patient for the ache of today, will surely be washed away as tomorrow's wisdom. 

Tampering

it is a force that runs itself through me, a bold pull, a soul-breath, a warm violet in between skin and spirit. I am robbed of you, my love. anchor my heart; laid in deserted need to recapture the forgotten touch of emotions, hidden in a plain abstraction of imagery, I am devoured by the cruel unconscious. this, another predicted torment, of one's own devil; secluded, buried deep in a violent loss of self. my direction is aimless, all that I am, is a speck of fearful hope sprinkled over the devastating ground of reality.

the loud splashing waves, of fragile emotional expressions, are quiet, within a mind that wishes to say nothing.

I miss you, terribly...

... And I'm terrified that maybe the dreamy song is ending.

#7

when I was younger, my father used to sit me down, next to him. I'd watch his mind unraveling. I'd listen to his thoughts, filling the background of my own desiring mind. he told me about loneliness. he told me about good company. about the burden of self knowledge. about courage, with gritting teeth he then spoke of defeat. he told me about corruption manifesting. about a love for country that cried for him everyday. about hope. about needing hope. about a drive for future. he was the man on the moon. he was the firm shoulder. he was my understanding staring back at me. he was the book of no ending. he was. he was.

he was.

father never once mentioned death. perhaps he too knew nothing about it, until he was embraced by it. by then it was too late, it was too late and our loving tune was interrupted.

my love was not strong enough to keep you, Baba. I wish you were here, Baba. living is getting harder each day, Baba. who do I talk to about it now, Baba?

I wish you were near, Baba.

Silent Hour

grieving the infinity of emotions stretching behind a construct; a language

passion and the tragedy of sex, imagine a sharp dialogue running the cliff, cessation of language. infinite feelings are made approachable, each recurrent moment, shadowed feelings are unfolding quietly, are interrupted, then confronted with an empty interpretation; many ruffled words on the surface. words disseminate outside of feelings, to create a composition of space within borders, expressions are determined firmly to limits set. incomplete words define feelings, words stand fatigued in the unveil, uneven unable to contain, to grasp these hungry feelings in. how incomprehensible soul is to the body?

writing, I suppose; is a tenacious practice of individuality, deceptive in it's promises for eternity.

Reverie

she sketched her delicate impulse on a salivating skin. his. embracing him with a flesh of innocence; a virgin naivety.

with rousing intimacy, resting her dreaming head on his silver shoulder. she unraveled herself, hurling in between, burning confessions.

'kiss me'
she said: with the fullness of your courage; bathe me in the certainty of a surrendering promise. yours. deny me a feast of doubts.

'absorb me'
she said: with an inquiring infatuation; a hungering sensation in lust for mindful conversations, yield to my abundant devotion.

'read me'
she said: with the curious thoughtful details of a writer, discovering a dashed narrative in the darkness of mind, immersed in naked dialogues.

'pursue me'
she said: with philosophical investigation; in close-corner confrontation with a crouched awaiting suspense.

'motion me'
she said: to the widening rhythm of melting blues, the groove jazzy afternoons of me & you, the comforting thrusts of murmured memories.

'draw me'
she said: in concentrated colors of a daydream, mixed with strokes of rich ecstasy, abstract conceptions; swirling beautiful lively possibilities into existence.

'contain me'
she said: within the distance of
unseasoned desires till they breed, within the guts of fresh honesty; the outlines of a scripted fate dancing away to destiny.

'engulf me'
she said: in the glittering chatter of midnight laughter, the savored-traces of shy pleasures awakened from an early slumber.

'seduce me'
she said: with the golden instruments of a throbbing longing, spreading infinitely;  translating sweet sweat, to the flinch of my young veins.

'crave me'
she said: with undying hope. with the intensity of bad habits; the birthing speed of new habits, through the pitches of a silent certainty.

'submerge me'
she said: in the flood of troubled waters; the river waves of experiences; the shading closeness of a bowing respect.

'nurse me'
she said: in a warm wrap of patient acceptance; youthful forgiveness; in the largeness of a heart rescued with compassionate understanding.

'touch me'
she said: longer than a glance; linger longer than the blush of perfumes, longer than the placed evidence of truth, longer than time's keeping of secrets.

'trust me'
she said: with the worst in you; the damaged hideousness of a hard winter, the salt of neglected tears; the aching stretched-open wounds of a cruel womb; of a Life.

'love me'
she said: endlessly.

endlessly like this. 

The HourGlass

a shrinking presence crowned with forgetfulness, break the shackles; the withered memories. let it die out it's poison. let it die with.

a thirst for hope; a will given to the greedy flesh drains you. pillars of excuses weakens the pulse of a second chance.

no more possibilities clung at half a truth. no summoning back a false fiction of companionship. those old times erased. the hour-glass has finally ran out. silenced at an end.

hidden ugliness reflected with the sharpness, the pitch of a mirror. those preoccupied, suspended at despair, a lack of reason. drowning in an abiding nauseating malice.

those in a conflicting pursuit of exaggerated selfish wants, crawling off to the emptiness of misery. those who perceive but their dim darkness, deaf to the cries in need.

I pity them.

Flashback pt.2

I look around at my childhood home, what remains; the house that is aging. the crooked walls standing tall in despite of it all, every corner reminds me of the untold history; the stolen nighttime hours, the hospital runs, the emergency lights, the ice cold floor, the resting of tired head on my brother's back, the waiting between flickering nerves, bitten lips and cracked nails, the reciting, the recording of Surat Yasin, with an insomniac heart kept & held clinging at my fathers hand. the children all grew up before dawn, look around, look around at the ruins of people. the aftertaste of sadness in the air breathed; the salt of tears. in the rooms that no longer contain it's people. my people; distorted and isolated. missing the one supply of relief: faith. look around at the memories ripping their sanity. look around at what's left of them. the house is dying. my home is dying. look around. 

Flashback

 the tenderness of her world, of a loose interpretation of a past that serves no purpose. the limitations she set upon her mind, upon a ground of reality not firmly held, tossed into an imagination stretched so wide. she carries paint alongside, colors on top of colors to hide behind. it takes a lifetime for a heart's healing. she's waiting with a brush, to touch boundaries yet with another stroke. death is slick with blows after blows. death is the hardness broken into pieces, scattering everywhere, crushed with an awful cruelty. death waits for no one, lurking in a darkness, ready steady to snatch an oblivious life. rampant states of hysteria, in the blackness of nights. the morning hours breathes the wind of peace so softly, before misery hung up the tired backs. death is all around. I hate that it knows I'm afraid of it coming back. 

She Told Me

She told me we water our grieving hearts with patience, silent prayers, yearning in trust of closeness with the Creator

She told me love is devoted, not the bookstore tales type, love peels the courage off his back, arching you to sustain him with both hands

She told me love is hope awakened at 4am blessing the ground, with wept whispers of his name, wet in the palm of your hands

She told me love is reciting the Quran, holding your breath in his precious hand, knowing it's the last time

She told me behind the mist of sadness, there's a river flow, a home all souls long for, there I'll greet my companion once more

- My mother 

Threads

loneliness is inescapable. it's roughness persist within, notice your detachment in an alienating prison of unforgettable past. some of us are lost in confusion, to the extent in a belief we deserve that. we attempt letting go. we test the waters, hardly ever do we plunge in. childhood is funny now, we had not the vague concept of things, but that never stopped us. faith showers us with awareness little by little. to pull ourselves back to gravity. how much of you, have you lost the past year? do you still remember, what the ache laid in front of you? touches of poetic reverie to calm the waves a little. little by little we regain trust. never so much devotion. is it selfish, to be engaged in the conviction of bettering oneself, deliberate to grow wherever it led you to go? do not question life, with like-minded people. reality is merely an expression. newborn details emerges from lengthily descriptions: insight into the interior nature. concentrate, you'll discover a new eye-view. float-in the river, to replace the burden to please, with rapid moving toward goals. illuminating conscious with sharpness. be gentle. be gentle with soft strokes. care for you. intimacy is imagination birthed into life. find pleasure-passages enfolding your body. make a home to home love. nurturing dreams for a future, containing the both of you. leave a little room to call change. always. 

Soft Language

The soft language of forgiveness is often imbalanced, unspoken. pride devoted. we water our grieving hearts, wash it gentle with patience, uncovering silent prayers, yearning for sustaining trust in closeness with the Creator. sadness swallows up life's identity, morphing it into a doom, yet sadness interaction is necessary, for emerging self out of dark alleyways. for arousing meaning, passion in the scenery with a fresh window breeze. pain stirs cruelty. aggression. stillness. numbing guilt. & estranged distance. yet when time is adopted, openness, comes together with vulnerability, fragile bonds believe in finding relief again. fear of mortality holds power, driving deranged focus into shallow rivers of short praise and hesitated applause. the reason art suffers. the reason art is a second-guess. the reason art is in deadness. emotions, felt experiences painted over with artists' mirror-impressions. shame. who is to blame? fear of solitude, caged in lonely separation, resisting to read the hurt history, to sprinkle peace along the pages, then close the past chapter all together. reflect: that is your provider for expressing regrets, for inhalation of sins. prayer of comfort. prayer of weeping. prayer of collapsing. prayer of begging. prayer of scratched backbone. prayer of prayer of prayer. prayer of in need of more prayers. prayer of forgiving the softness. prayer of soul. prayer of soul. 

Scribble pt.2

The torment in longing for an end; of a bruised quest for elusive ever-slipping meanings. The shaky uncertainties of the self, serving its feast of promising doubts, to the common-comic silliness that is the fellow beings.

Those withdrawing from a large reality, to dwell in a peak of loneliness, spreading over, their loose imagination, immersed in a cold penetrating ache, outpouring peculiar words after another. Grabbing the hard questions by the throat, hazy questions; indistinguishable from the thoughts that birthed them.

There is growth to endure, the impact is endless and interwinding, the truth is iced in alienation, forgotten.

The sounds you hear, splashing with the waves of unconscious, will string you along a path of reflections, will you trust yourself to suck the fruits of their efforts?

(Her) Habits

You, half ruined, with a flickering courage, unwrapped those 3AM thoughts, and tried to kiss her stone-dry wounds. Even rubbed a little, spilling secrets, with your own pain translation, drawn into them.

Who. Do. You. Think. You. Are?

To wander-lost into her galaxies, carrying burned promises and a hope for her to plunge to.

You are nothing but a force-fed lie.

You are shame-full.

Peeling her gentle dreams, only to desert her at the bottom. She poured an ocean for you, filling the cracks, her words failed to. She held the stars out for you, swimming the darkness, enlightening a trace for you. Just for you. A heart that cast a sunrise, reflecting warm joy for you.

Your insecurities collapsed on top of her, plucked her out of a roof, emptied on the inside, she swallowed more of your demons in.

Look at her. Look at what's left of her. Once a naked desire, entrapped her, and now it is destroying her. Behind closed doors, she is piercing needles into her honey heart, stained with your aftertase, she stitched her stories, anchored heavy, knocked falling, sunk into a shoreless sea, with a thread to live; so thin, tangled and incomplete.

The Rain

It hails with a simple forgiveness over your life story; andwhy it no longer matters how out of place you feel at times 

It kisses the earth with a soft longing, covering it with buried jewels, precious ones; that riff to the sound of an out-of-tune guitar with every drop that hits the ground

It does not look for a place to land, but free falls, immersing you into passages with the scent of old books, right from where you stand 

It’s the unfinished mystery that keeps growing over years, that reoccurring thought and feeling, you can never really capture to break down, let alone understand 

It’s the pregnant conversation you’ll never have, where you run out of things to say, for your heart to finally give in and look itself in the eye

It’s the touch and tap to gently penetrate deep into the underground, arching to muddy sounds of: ‘I’m here, I’m here, it’s alright’ 

It’s the thrill that struck the inside of your lungs; when the caged roars of thunderstorms, plot their walkout to smoulder the night skies 

It’s the clouds of creamed mountains that stretch wide the sky, steering colours from thousands of miles away, through hidden secret paths with the wind making a pretty sound 

It’s that part of you that’s long forgotten in the past, the innocence you left behind and now you wonder why 

It’s the spark of an endless desire that lead silence hand in hand, to ignite tanks of connection between lost lovers that are still waiting for the right time 

It’s the moment that resonate with an abundance of blessings that saw open the fragility of life, to sit me down on this table with a hugging plea, to end my brittle rhymes and reboot back to line

Strings

There had been moments, in the past, where I delicately tossed myself to the strings of escape, long enough, just about enough, for it to be slashed with a husk reality. To love was to roam an open road, fantasy was freedom, fantasy; so good, its never ever good enough, leaving a heart, thirsty after every run.

He would grab my hand, like he had a claim to it. Him, who smuggled me into an image, an idea of a woman, lodged so deep into his mind. Him, who lost tracks to the outlines of his life. Him, the identity scar, at twenty years young, when writers of my favorite books, were warning me about love, thats where I recognized, they were only painting pictures of him, in between red flags.

He couldn't weigh his shoulders heavy, he belongs to the curious crowd, those are not to be trusted, they tire easily, they are silver-shiver; their bones tremble as they hold you, afraid you might break them, they keep guard, they wear a lot of black and they chase after stories, only to leave unfinished chapters on their trail. The ugly truth only comes, too little too soon. They can never be done with you, because they never really started. They come back.

They always come back, to spill fresh blood over tired phrases to yet another start.

Scribble

The moist nighttime hours, the cloudiest, the muddiest, after my mind is done chasing you. Wither-pale thoughts of you, a blur in the weak morning with impossible questions that are larger, harder than to swallow. Nostalgia touch of blues, irrupting apologies that never caught the path they were meant to go through. Buried deep in a world I don't belong to. Tainted stains of yesterdays; pulsating hidden words and the mess they made. You split me with strokes of a tongue, a genius that fills me. Your gentlness that ran the long distance, exposing my hunches in the waiting. The faintest of ideas eludes me, I shovel all till all blows away, grasping nothing but empty pain. Is it the story or the ending, that I find my salvation in?

I never learn.

Portions

Traveling in eternal silence, with many unwritten words, flashing forward, I grab one or two but they always flee too soon, from this hand that can't support them. it can't support them. I'm sorry, that 'sorry' is needlessly my conclusion, with an awful lot of details above the surface, I sit-still and choose to pick sorry.

I'm sorry.

I want to be a part, contained by you, take me into your arms, as heavy as that sounds, I know I always linger on your shoulders, outside of time, with my hair nested, in between your neck. I know I moan too loud, to engrave my fingers on your back, I know I sting sometimes, half ruined with a past I can't seem to understand. I'm sorry, I've locked that door so many times, that you stopped wondering why.

Anguish and I share the same bed. desperately bond to each other, like two characters dying in a book; narrated with a foreign tongue, where the pain is only felt. 

Interlude

We lie down, in the whispers of a night, bare chested, skin against skin, clinging to the heat of our bodies, underneath a warm blanket. he puffs his cigarette, I circle my finger around the tiny hairs on his chest, feeling his heart beating under my palm. I watch his lips streching into a secret smile, I tug him, just a little, 'take me with you' my heart sings, to explore an expansion, of his mind, mine, ours, spending hours contemplating the insides, he looks at me and smiles, that patient loving smile, that speaks of gratitude, blessing the moment for its bliss-filled perfection.

We talk about life, painting meaningful explantions, we talk about God, we talk about devoted surrender, and fear of not being good enough; fear of never being good enough.

He brushes my hair, abandoning his cigarette with a third inhale, 'come closer', we lock in a tight embrace, I breathe his neck, he smells of everything I trust, everything I've longed for; sustainability, I once thought impossible. he smells of love, he smells of everything I love. he'd breathe me in, my hair reminds him of what he misses each morning, the fuel that keeps him going. 'home' he sighs heavily, a lonesome traveler's dream of saying this word.

I pull away, to take a look at him, him; whom I've been waiting for. with glinting eyes, I place my hand on his chin, leaning in, I kiss his lips, once again, I'm reminded of heaven's promises, 'make love to me' I kiss him again, tenderly over the ear. he rolls over to dim the light, and all I feel is union. I am one with the one, I am coming home. I am finally home.

This

This is not the two years I've spent in quiet resentment, wearing my denial as a veil, tip-toeing around my shattered pride, desperately trying to stamp meaning to the bottomless of a bad experience, peering out a hole in which to pour all self loathe

This is not my pity-filled pain of offering my heart as a consolation prize, settling for being the second act, to a boy who shoved his insecurities so deep down my spine, that so much as mentioning his name, my lips would drip of poison, and washing-off hate, is like melting ice from a worn-out heart

This is not my pathetic attempt of stepping out of the frame of a victim, scattering all pieces of a life, with it's full weight of hopes and dreams, disrespecting it, by locking it to the background of a sulky little chapter with it's drenched title that reads 'unrequited love'

This..

This is when knees turn to dust, when grieving turns to seasons, you wear it month after month, when brokenness makes you feel like home, and strangers become the closest thing you've known to comfort

This is all my prayers drifting unanswered, into darkness inside of looming darkness, with a piercing guilt hunching my back, bending the back of my mind in refusing to accept that reality still stands

This is when bitterness turns tasteless, timid, vague and shapeless for my sweaty shaky palms to pick it apart, to wallow in the aftertaste of it's passing flavor and the binding starvation it leaves behind

This is when loneliness becomes persistent, tempting and seductive beyond my flimsy ability to bear it, devastatingly watching, as the dread dawn in, encircling the ruins of my dead conscious

This is the exhaustion of not knowing how to communicate my feelings to my family, how to dress this self in words of stones for a connection to recognize the sealed-in noise, and alleviate this heavy burden feeding my tired soul

This is the echo of a million cries, ringing like old church bells, swallowed in the vastness of my own cowardly emotional blankness

This is all the late night thoughts I've poured onto the delicate papers, smudged in running black ink and pointless indulgence, only to numb my static senses, till I'm no longer in focus

This is all the sleepless nights, I've spent with anxiety crammed in my single bed, chasing after answers with a consuming desire that'll never allow me rest

This is the unsettling misery, skittering like blue birds, every morning, at the dusk of my window,  carrying forgotten truths from the blurry nights of before, waiting for a chance to get in

This is powerlessness, watching the one I love, breaking, suffering, fading away into sickness, stealing the brightness of tomorrow's promises with him

This is hopelessness cracking my rotten bones, tossing, stirring  memories of my passing father, unwillingly, dragging me through a doorway of a distant home

This is the sound of stretching arms, into the blue glassed sky, at the sharp-razor edges of a sunken sanity, asking 'Is there even happiness after this one?'

This is the wall of silence I've built, around the wound that'll never mend, the raging storms I lose myself in, the separation I'm forced to live with

This is anger confused with sadness, boiling an ocean inside my chest, burning every good thing I've got left, smearing the little faith that chain me in

This is sorrow tucked deep under my sleeves, searching the dark rooms, for a familiar face, to sit silently and escape the raining seclusion of grief

This is loss, tracing the emptiness of what once was, longing for, rewinding a past, knowing all too well, it's never coming back

This is acceptance, hard-knocking acceptance of a shivering naked truth: of a cruelty, of reality that doesn't wait for anybody, shadowing fear in every move

This..

This Is Life, both tragic and beautiful, and I'll never know the half of it, no matter how far I carry this brittle tune 

Dreamhearts 1&2

With you, In that window seat, that smells of newfound hope, where you leaned your head, next to me, whispering an eternal melody, while your breath danced circles around my neck, before melting your name to my skin; this very skin that is burning holes for you, urging you to persuade the wind off my feet to carry me and dance to longtime coming; to joy. again, again and again.

****

Silence stretched before us, between the distant gaps of longing looks; breathing became steady patience. I leaned forward, he froze. I froze too. we promised to make it worth the wait. a promise that is heavy with a foreignness, our bodies won't understand. lust dwelled in my fingertips. I seemed to have lost myself to his shadow again. words unspoken, I caught a few glowing my soul. my eyes dared to translate; subtle mouth emotions. 'here' my heart's awakening: 'I belong to only you'. he drowned me deeper into his water. singing tunes I never knew. 

'I love you'

'I love you' 

Melancholy

Melancholy is sweeter on the roof, after midnight; the isolated hushed hours, when life is enveloped in a quiet brush of memories, breathing becomes lighthearted.

The wind speaks of names, I don't speak of anymore. Its silent as I hand a fleeing short attention, I pray; questioning: 'did I finally wish my past away?' 'listen' it starts again 'listen to the silence'

I've loved many peculiar things; my father's favorite watch that stopped telling time out of respect, the loneliness at fourteen that taught me how to forgive, the warm beaches of my childhood where I encountered life's early myths.

Now, the night-sky echoes with a howling hope, few things are hard to understand; absence is one of them, loss is a close other. 'breathe' the wind says 'breathe before its too late' the dim of a timid star, wondering: if this will ever be, good enough one day.

How To Do This Again

Its been so long.

Oh, sorry. I've mistaken you for somebody else.

I miss this. typing. brushing my fingers on a keyboard, playing dress up with words, and being the all in corny. but in charge!

So this has been what you can call a breeze-er. an awkward first handshake with an old mate, who's been feeling quite rejected for a long while, but is too cool to admit it. (too personal, abort abort)

A lot has happened since January, I've wrote a little, cried a lot, learned and carried myself. I haven't mentioned it before, I've been working as a teacher, quitted only recently (as in a month ago) honestly, I want to write about my experiences in the school, I have met so many brave bright and beautiful young girls, who I have connected with so much, it was truly a sad day for me, when I had to leave, the love I have for them, the love they have shown me, I was immersed in blessings, gratitude fills me, till this day. Bless them girls!

Oh, I got a twitter (lets rip the band-aid off, and get it over with) if we had ever encounterd in life, the first thing you'll fetch about me is, I am (oddly proud) not in any social network. The incessant communication, and constant messaging makes me want to rib the hair off my very ends! but to my surprise, I like twitter, or should I say, *liked it for the first month, going bald, send all the help.

Blog Person. Because. Imagine. A. Cave.

Yep.

Before I run-off, I'd like to add to this pointless space:

I've missed you. have you lost some weight? 

Untitled

'You taste of lost dreams'
He said
'Waiting, shivering
By the corner,
Longing to brush skins,
Since the night you took off
And left'

'Home is somewhere I've never known'
I replied,
'And I've been led astray
By my heart before,
I've found familiarity in your arms
Like never before
You've set a burning fire to my soul
But honey, you wouldn't know
I have to find an exit door
My mind is uneasy
And my lungs are torn
I'm sorry but,
This is heavier than you'll ever know'

#6

I am never sure of myself when I start to write anything, only because I have absolutely no idea, what I want to write about. It's much easier to let my emotions flow freely in here, than to attempt to compose a brittle rhyme that is quite the opposite of what my intentions are, or is it not? Hmm... Let's leave that for another day.

I would like to take a moment, and write about my father. I went back to work this week, with the sole purpose of "moving forward" though knowing that "moving forward" implies taking a step toward a different direction perhaps, one that I haven't experienced before... Let's leave that for another day... Piles of crises, piles of crises.

The sadness that had been lingering in the walls of my room, is brushing me gently tonight, as I am writing this, I realized that I have been stressing myself over little things to be angry with, little insignificant things, that were the perfect distractions to not dive into the stillness of pain, to not attempt to melt down that ice; that huge weight pushed against my heart, to penetrate to finally cry over a loss, so significant, that I convinced myself was too painful to endure, better not think it through.

I was frozen, unable to make sense, because this little part of me didn't want to believe, didn't want to submit to reality, didn't want to make peace with it, didn't even want to acknowledge it, I chose to stay frozen, unconscious and hopeless, I didn't want to admit to myself that fear was in control of me, it had taken total control over me, and I surrendered to the nothingness it yielded, refused to unfold the messiness it did my relationships with people, in a time when I was most needed within my family, I chose to hide away, wrapped in a sad existence with a million echoes and cries, ringing in my ears.

I'm grateful for the ones that matter, the ones that stood beside me and held my hand throughout. I am so thankful for the love I found in each and every one of them.

I am learning to take a step ahead, to contemplate a future, that sounds frighting, because I am the master of it now. Decisions were always being made for me, and I never had to worry about a next step, because it was almost always scribbled down with a pencil that wasn't mine. I have this blank white page, and I see potential and drive, determination for this is only the beginning.

For the man that taught me that modesty is rich, compassion is eternal, wisdom lies in a few words, and education is the grace in which we transform into much more. I can never paint a fair portrait, I am for -as long as I live- grateful for him. My father was always my hero in disguise, he was the man on the moon, always away, always working, found in his own mind, always thinking, he was a great intellectual, and an even greater man, an honorable person who devoted his life, to his family and profession, the latter of which he built from the ground up.

Only a few days ago, I was organizing his many documents and financial records, I took it upon myself to make sure that every paper, is in it's rightful file, though I know that it's probable that no one would examine these documents once again, it was almost a duty, to keep it tidy for him, for this is his life's work, his pride, and I wanted to honor that side of my dad. I found so many articles, cut off from several newspapers, this was a habit of his that he kept alive for as long as he lived, he used to call me, to tell me to read this "particularly interesting article" (given that a couple of days earlier there was another one of those exceptionally interesting ones) he loved to read, he especially loved politics and economics, he loved to talk about those -two sides of the same coin-, he could -and would gladly- talk for hours, a point would turn into a discussion, into a rant, into a conversation, that would be picked up the following day, he kept a lot of those articles he enjoyed in one place, where he would sometimes reply to a few, he wrote a few articles himself, where my heart ached a little when I found those articles in his handwriting, that one that only he could actually read.

He had a warm spot for each one of his children, he had such a tender heart that I was only beginning to see in the final months of his life, where illness shown my father exposing all of his emotions, dropping his defenses, and taking pleasure in having all of his family around him, words would never be enough to express how much I miss him: his laughter, the gentle tone and concern in his voice, his compassionate touch, his consistent urge for us, for me specifically, to never let go of my ambitious for marriage, his dreams for us to find our path, to claim academic achievements, his constant reminder to be grateful and to always remember the less fortunate, to help in every little way we can, and to be modest in everything we do, he never once liked the showmanship, a trait we all took from him.

I desire to make him proud, for I know that, for every breath, I am keeping him alive, in memory, I know what he would want for me, what he wouldn't, and I am determined, insh'Allah, to carry on with his words of encouragement, nested and rested inside the circle of memories I have of him, of all of us together, for I hope to meet once again, insh'Allah we will meet once again, to carry with our lessons, and it'd be like the conversation never stopped.

اللهم اغفر لأبى وارحمه 

وعافه واعف عنه 

وانزل على قبره 

الضياء والفسحة والسرور

حتى تبعثه الى جنتك 

يا ارحم الراحمين

#5

Empty thoughts, and I can't find the right words. I wish to be one of the dead stones bathing in a stream of unconsciousness.