A Way

Posted: April 17, 2018 in Uncategorized

The way I pray, is in how I daily fill my lungs with smoke and still be able to breathe.
The way I pray is, in how I bleed every month and still have blood running in my veins.
The way I pray, is on how I finally sleep at night, after so much tossing and turning, after unsolved thoughts and death wishes, and then wake up the next morning, undead, yet.
The way I pray is in how because of my job, I get to witness souls leaving bodies from under my hands despite my attempts to keep them here, alive. How I break the never wanted news, how I hear the first wail, see the first tear that was not meant to be seen, and still be able to laugh.
The way I pray is in how I’m still haunted by memories of events I wish, I wish they weren’t real. Trying to convince myself that maybe those were just bad dreams, knowing, being dead sure they’re real. And still, I still eat my meals and drink water, I shower and go to work, I buy myself nice things and laugh with friends. Still I’m able to laugh.

Staying alive is the prayer I’ve exhausted my being with.
It is in every scar, every goosebump, every tear, in every yearning, every ache, in every poem I’ve bled. In every song, every night I spent awake and longing in my bed.
So don’t you dare tell me that I’m going to hell for not praying.

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11

Posted: March 23, 2018 in Uncategorized

1/
In the beginning, there was my heart. And then came the flood.
God said: Let there be water. And my soul drowned the sky with rain.

2/
My body is sick of me and desires to escape so badly. So it carries herself heavy shoulders whenever I try to walk with a straight back.
Ever since my soul broke up with her, their life inside me has become hell.
They try to convince my thoughts to kill me. My thoughts logically translate their attempts to Suicidal Attempts. My mind ignores the translation.

3/
My pen is tired of writing down all this pain. He rebels against me, stopped shaping words and announced The Writer’s Block until I decide to write of happiness or love.
I’ve never written anything since.

4/
I’m a blasphemous Goddess. I blaspheme my own self. The patriarchal God won the hearts of worshipers everywhere. They let him write all their scriptures. No one reads the ones I wrote. They call it poetry. I pull and push the waves of the ocean in frustration. People blame it on the moon that was once my friend.

5/
I’ve already lost the war. But the fight goes on regardless.

6/
I smoke to paint my lungs with darkness. I want my insides to match my surroundings.

7/
In another life, I was smoke who believed the lungs that have just inhaled her is home. Eviction came as an exhale and ever since, I’ve been homeless.

8/
Love lost her way to me. She gave up the journey and built a house on the road side and is now working as a spiritual healer to every passer by.

9/
The blacker the breath the more toxic the kisses. No one is kissing me. I’m everyone’s least favorite wine.

10/
My dreams are shrinking into my reality. My wishes are blown away with the smoke of my last birthday candle.

11/
I’m Smoke.

Tiresome

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.

Plead

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

https://www.behance.net/Dahliaabde8ab9

IG: @artstudio75

IMG-20180108-WA0001

 

Vein

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..
Chewed..
Crumbled..
Needing..
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

https://www.behance.net/Dahliaabde8ab9

IG: @artstudio75

IMG-20180108-WA0000

..

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.

Glow

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.