Posted: February 6, 2018 in Uncategorized

I’m the back stabbed child of a nation that bragged about its swords. All that I’ve inherited was… an expired legacy and sorrow.
Blood shed isn’t a foreigner here, I am.
Freedom is a myth here, justice is a scam.

But wait!
this isn’t about here, this isn’t about this home that is supposed to be a home but I can’t call home.
This is about me… about what I am. And what I’ve become.

Jasmine Mans has a line that says:
“The worst part of surviving, is surviving”

This is about the knots in my throat, the sleepless nights, the gaping holes in my soul. The fading dreams, the shackles on my feet and the rust on my wings. This is about my will to live, being chained to the ground and stepped on by every logical reason why I must survive.

I write to heal. I write to fix myself and be okay. But lately, I no longer write as much as I need to. Language fails me. Or maybe I failed language. Or perhapse, the bones of language can no longer carry the weight of what lies beneath. Maybe what lies beneath has escaped language, and now its unspoken, unspeakable. Only heavy.. so heavy.
I am tired.
Iam tired.
I am tired.

This body is wet with scars as if I’ve just got out of a battle bath. I spray cologne on every cut and move on. The fragrance might make me believe that everything is alright.. help me ignore the aftermath of damage, the PTSD impending.. pretending to be alright. In denial. Make belief I don’t have to exist for a while. But here I am, breathing with a heart beat and everything; still beating myself up over every little thing. The tug of war between my mind and the past.. the facts that I can’t deny because I can’t grasp time, time is tricky.. you never really know your future till it arrives, and you can’t undo the past. Yet, you get de ja vu’s playing all the time as if this whole fucking life thing is on rewind. But I doubt that I’m one of God’s favorite songs.

I am lost, I am weary .
I’m tired.
I’ve been tired.
I’ve been trying to learn strength and courage, to learn patience and endurance. But I’m tired.
And I’ve tried writing the tiredness off. Sleeping it off. I’ve tried being positive. Tried seeking help. I’ve tried. I’ve been trying, trying to scrub the rust off my wings.. tried to spread them and fly away from everything and everyone. but my wings have forgotten the act of flying.
My feet have forgotten the act of standing.
I’m so tired,
I forgot the act of surviving.



Posted: January 19, 2018 in Uncategorized

My ribs are in knots..
I can’t undo my breathing..
My lungs are dark..
There is so much screaming living inside its darkness..
I’m sleepless..
Sweating in a bed of sorrow..
haunted by nooses of endless overthinking..
I’ve been nursing lumps in my throat..
I couldn’t cry for years..
my tears are all salt and no water.

Untangle those tangled strands of my soul..
Burn the city I call my body..
then water the ash..
for I’m thirsty..
Clean the mess of my chaos..
I’m too much screaming..
Help me die quietly.


Art work by Dahlia Abdelilah

IG: @artstudio75




Posted: January 16, 2018 in Uncategorized

There’s a vein in my neck.. it awaits the touch of your lips..
It awaits your kiss
To put the pulse back into it.

The blood in my vein runs on longing..
I’ve been living on longing..
for so long the longing has bent.

Hold me..
I’m drained..
the wanting has devoured me whole then spat me out..
Aching for your nearness..
Hold me..
I am burdened with so much lust..
So much longing..
And longing..
And longing..

Before my breath runs out, hold me.
Before this longing kills me..
Kiss me
with the life of your mouth..
Paint roses..
Plant my pulse back..


Art work by Dahlia Abdelilah

IG: @artstudio75



Posted: August 17, 2017 in Uncategorized
I trust you..
I trust you with my body..
I trust your hands..
I trust your mouth..
I long to be vulnerable before you..
to be of naked body.. and naked soul..
my self, whole, under your breath and between your arms.. but your arms..
Your arms aren’t open for me.. I’ll run to you..
running out of breath knowing that there is no guarantee that you’d hold me..
but I let hope blossom and bloom in my heart anyway..
and either ways,
even if your arms send me away, wet.. thirsty.. hopeful and homeless,
I’d run to you again..
I’d run to you..
in reality or dreams..
in dreams or nightmares..
and I’ll blame it on my self destructive tendencies..
or blame it on your sight, on how you’re just unable to see me..
Or blame it..
I’m running out of breath.. longing..
to you.


Posted: June 15, 2017 in Uncategorized

I write because I live.
Living as myself makes living even harder.
I’m alone in my suffering.
I’m a ghost haunted by a house I’m not allowed in.
It lives in me. Leaving me out. There’s no place for me.
I write to make a room for me.

I write because I live.
And I’m alive despite my opinion in life. I didn’t choose this. I never wanted the happening, neither did I want to witness the happening of days. I don’t want to hate God, but I didn’t want this, God.
I can’t recall the memory of having a soul that one day said “Yes! I want to human, I want to life”.
I write to find that version of my soul. Maybe she was right. And I just can’t find the right image, the right logic or reason she saw, so I write to find the right in midst all this wrong I’ve become.
I write for the sake of unbecoming something that I’m not when becoming something that I’m not is the only coping mechanism, I write to cope with the mechanism of living and surviving things I don’t want to survive but I have to… cuz I have to. A necessity.. an obligation.. an oath I don’t remember taking but it’s tied around my neck like a noose I didn’t tie the knot to but it’s knotting around my throat making me want to cry instead of just saying the right words and so I write on this note wetting the lines and cracking jokes inside my mind.

I wish my soul to be liquid sometimes. So I can spill it out all over papers and feel lighter after this. I write for to speak I need tongue and voice and mine were conditioned to silence since birth. I’m smaller than I’d want to be. Yet heavier than my bones can carry. I write to be lighter than this.

I write because breathing is a routin that is sick of me, and I often want to trade my breath for a poem but a poem is how I literraly breath.
I write because gates of heaven aren’t the ones welcoming me, I walk into the wrong class and I’m told to go across the ending world to find my desk. To sit down quietly and write as I wait for fate to decide which room I’m not allowed to occupy next. As my faith runs thinner than my blood stream. I write to thicken the stream of my prayers.
To appropriate the prayer then properly praying it. But I pray in poetry instead.
I write and write because I long and forget and fall and hurt then write once again, twice again, thrice as much, because all routes of living are now blocked, there are no paths, no doors, there’s no one I’m alone. a raining night sky, an empty womb, a drained vein.

I write… for when the sky is too close that the falling stars settle in my flesh.. without granting any wish.. and I’ve wished for disappearance,
I glow instead.


Posted: April 30, 2017 in Uncategorized

This is a testimony for the words that form this mind and the mind that forms this form and the soul standing within and above it all.
This is the new Genesis.

In the beginning:
A war zoned out
A queen was born
Behold and witness
The fierceness of her bones


The Womanhood.
The Blackness.
The Poeticness.


thriving to perform a form of life out of the best formation of words that only my mind can be a witness for. I want to inform.. of the miracles I performe by just breathing into this form.

black form,
black woman..
Black Woman Poet
Black Woman poet form.

I don’t talk much.. I write poems.. I write the formula of those unshakable thoughts transforming into spoken words.
This is the transformation of the God given strength into the art of breathing into this form.

And I want to inform.. the world of my humannes as I spill greatness when it pretends to forget..
I’ll pretend to remind
and rewind
my days like..

survival is the miracle, the scriptures, the prophet and the brimstones.
spill greatness.
un..becoming.. of.. a lady.. so motherfucking gracious.
I am that woman
whole, world, wonders, wonder woman, super woman,
Wounded still going back to war everyday woman. word smith welding swords woman making weapons.. warrior woman.

Bring on the battles.. I’m about to win the war.

#30DaysWritingChallenge Day 30


Posted: April 29, 2017 in Uncategorized

I remember a garden that looked like it came out of a dream.

(I know I’ve dreamed of you before.
It must be the dream this garden came out of)

I remember in the garden, grew flowers I don’t know what they’re called, but I remember their taste.
Sour at first, then sweet.

(I know I must have kissed you before.
There is no other reason why I’m craving those sweet sour flowers)

I loved that garden so much, that I wanted to bury my heart in it.

(And I want to be smaller, the size of a heart. So I can bury myself behind your ribs)

I remember the scent of jasmines covering the air.
So beautiful, I wanted to grow them in my lungs.
I’d get off my bicycle, escaping the heat of sun. And lie on the wet grass. Zoning out. Inhaling jasmines and sucking on the sweet sour flowers.

(I want to escape this life and run to your arms.
Lie between them.
I want to zone out between them.
I want to inhale your scent and search for flowers on your neck)

My God, I really miss that garden.

And when I’d miss you so;
I console myself by making imaginary conversations between us.

Where I’m more beautiful and funnier than how I really am.
I tell you so many stories.

Then reality hits me;
I can’t visit that garden anymore.
I can’t ride my bicycle freely anymore.
I can’t. I can’t sit beside you anymore.
I’m here. And you’re there.
Right where I left my garden.

Reality hits hard but I don’t cry.
I hide under my blanket.
I hug myself tightly.
As tightly as you once hugged me.
I try to recall the taste of the sweet sour flowers.
I try to remember the scent of jasmines.

#30DaysWritingChallenge Day 29