I don’t really intend to go anywhere with this blog post but I want to start a personalized series. Maybe. Lol. Yeah this is gonna be difficult for me because to document my feelings & thoughts online, yeah idk. I mean its not the same thing as poetry you know, you don’t have metaphors or other poetic devices to save your ass. I mean my poetry can get way too explicit and raw most times (because I don’t usually edit it lmao) (lazy lazy) but this rawness and honesty would be a totally different deal. I might stop with this one post and I may never stop. You know, this reminds me of Dark and that one point when the worlds are ending and there’s a portal opened between the two for a nanosecond, if Jonas stays or if he goes with this dark-haired mysterious Martha with bangs, that one point would break or make the rest of the timeline.
Artist : Wendell Araújo
How very cool. So yeah I mean I guess my actions wouldn’t really affect the timeline as such but when we get down to think about it, how could it NOT affect the people around me on a larger scale? For example I chose to not write after this and continue to only share my usual poetry and prose, would I really be leaving things as they are or would my actions hamper a certain ripple that will be born when I continue to chose? The people I love, total strangers who end up here through my clever tags that seemed to have stopped working i tell you lmao anyway so they end up here and maybe i am to play some part in their life and if I don’t continue to write, I’ll never find out. You see, this is what keeps the majority of us going, “I’ll never find out”. There is this tendency of a negative push that we give to ourselves. Why? Idk man. Like there are times when i think about these extremely positive people and I don’t get the vibes man it’s like a huge facade that they’ve created for themselves and not necessarily for others. It has such a subtle presence that you would easily miss but sometimes you can feel that positivity overwhelming you. That’s pressure. That’s the pressure of all the superficial things that this world is feeding you and you’re eating promptly. The pressure of seeing everyone around you studying their asses off (THEY’RE ALL NETFLIX-ING AND CHILL-ING) and you get scared, you get small in a way, you know. You shrink away, inside. Except that you can’t stay there forever so you get out, get some ice-cream and watch a heart-breaking, soul-touching, mind-opening and thought-provoking anime movie/series and you go to sleep finding joy in small things. Everything makes sense now, no more pressure. I promise you, not all small things are bad, I mean isn’t it beautiful when you realize how you have this cute little friend circle and the person you love is singing you a lullaby and you’ve watched that pretty anime movie and the soundtrack is still running on your mind. Man. Fuck everything else. This is life.
Good night (:
The wind never talked to me but she used to always tickle my stomach while I’d laugh like a maniac when I was a little kid. Sure, I had never heard her but she was my best friend. I think we both understood each other way better than most people would. They never heard me and similarly she had been rushing past deaf people all her life. Sometimes, we’d just sit quietly and look at all the people raving endlessly about things that never made much sense to either of us. I still remember the way she raged against my bare back that day. She carried my screams all the way down to the basement but no one came. She raged endlessly while my confused senses called hormones started to run and hide in blazing terror. He said he could hear the wind too but he lied. I know this because he never saw her drop the wooden tool box on his head as he ripped my dress apart, he never saw her until his head was smashed open and he lay on the cold bedroom floor, looking up at her big fluorescent eyes and illuminating body; he murmured something before death carried him far, far away from me (us). I think he said my mother’s name, our mother.
-Nameera Anjum Khan.
Your skin tastes like mumbling blue berries trapped inside sea shells, skies falling upon your collarbones
Did you really believe that the weight of this world could shatter you?
You carry butterflies inside your stomach
You love like tomorrow is but a fable
Tell me, do you not shudder when you think of the end?
Maybe heaven really is a beginning,
A strawberry stream flowing through the crevices of the wild forest that you are
Your skin tastes like a scream splattered across the wall
It’s red and soaked in wet sheets
There’s a sickness drowning you until you can’t breathe
Mother, I see how the heaven under your feet often makes the earth beneath it slip away
The clouds shake while God’s laughter echoes in your eyes
My first poem is your name, your name
Your skin tastes like an oration pleading for hope
A lullaby that sleeps over my chest
The winds carry my whispers and I feel your smile against my lips
My breath is a wild goose flapping its wings against a chest that has only known heaviness
How do you get used to feeling this light?
Your skin is my home, the window that is always open, the curtains that will never be drawn, the door that will never be locked and the poem that only begins
Your skin tastes like heaven falling in love with herself for the first time.
Grey furniture in a room full of colorful walls
Black being the most significant constant
I look at the skies like a naked painting organizing itself by evening,
With the last stroke of the sunlight
I watch my sins flutter upon valleys with foreign names
My body parts morph into my mind
I am my mind more than I am anything else
A grey piece of furniture that completes me
I speak in butterflies and cherries
I see in sunlight and wind chimes
I’m far away, deep within, unfurling at the hem of my openness.
Isn’t it strange how we don’t even notice the moon go down on her knees and the sun coming up with its golden stories that the birds chirp across trees and windows and balconies?
Isn’t it strange how some flowers bloom today and some wither away simply because it’s not their season?
Maybe this strangeness is what we call life but never really know how to define it.
The distance is a mist eddying upon my thighs
She plays the lyre that resembles eternity
Grapes have been growing around my wrists
My feet taste like oranges swallowed by the steps they take
The portrait of a holy tomb stares at me
I feel my shoulders turn into minarets
My stomach morphs into a call to the right side
This voice is God’s omen raining down on my face
I look up to the skies and I see blue skies free from the politics I’ve left behind
The earth behind me wails in the echoes of hopeless civilizations
I don’t rage anymore
I’m free from your shackles, I was always my own call for freedom, love and acceptance
The skies are wilting leaves
Today it rains like petals falling from above
Flowers of heaven shed their eternity
The earth laughs in cyclones and hailstorms
When she claps her hands forests are laid ablaze
The fire slowly subsides when the windows are shut
And doors forget what it was like to be laid bare, naked, open
There are flowers growing inside our minds
Our bones are nature’s kiss
And this flesh is a long lost wish,
Drowning in the reality that comes with it.
Teal skies peeling off their skin
Their mouth is dripping with diamonds
They smell like paradise under the yellow sun
The chair is paper, it crumbles beneath my weight
My hair tastes of wood
Orange juice splattered across the counter
A broken hand caressing the flower vase
The floor is water and I slip
I slip until my legs turn into a pair of boats
Land comes to me and I can’t walk anymore
The moon cuts the lightening with her laughter
She is the color of your pale lover tonight
A tangerine suitcase of your vulnerabilities,
I unpack it and your image is complete.
A perennial shower of peace spreads across my chest
Joy crawls over my body like sticky ants
Their sweet blood infuses with mine
I hear a song these curtains muse~
They’ve been watching me curl up and inside,
They’ve been learning my silent wish;
A lily settles upon my lashes
My fingers extract the elixir that completes me
I tear apart the walls and the couch and the stains
The stains of the waves getting out of control, spinning all over the place
Blue runs deep and high above
The curtains sing your name,
Image Credit : Unsplash
All this time, he spoke to me in varied hues of oranges and reds. He whispered in flames that burned my head, he moved about in a curfew that swept my need for fresh air. I am a tree, with a broken heart carved on my stomach. The knots of insomnia tighten around my thighs until I bleed Eve’s sin. Unholy birds perch upon my nape, they think my darkness is a home they’ll never find again.
The flowers here grow even more cheery while I paint them. They look like promises of something I haven’t seen yet. They whisper poetries that make no sense. The sun shines brighter than before and I can look at it, gaze into its soul. The moonlight becomes a passage to ballroom where love dances with fate. I watch it, I admire it from afar. I’m good here but so far away. Where is it that my bones ache to be?
Home. Love. Life. Trauma. Death. So many colors that come without our choosing. If we chose black, white unfurls at the edge of our existence. If we chose red, green finds a way to our heart. We bind prayers upon our foreheads and paint heaven and hell. Our deeds paint us in either of the two. I sleep under a blanket of warmth, I’m in love. My bones don’t ache anymore. My bones say I’m home ~ on earth.