Abuse

Could a poem cover it?

Nahee, no way. 26 letters in English and 52 or so in Urdu. Have you seen the black in abuse? IT’S A VAST SEA

IT’S NOT JUST A VAST SEA, oh please help me find a word greater than a sea. This is storm-in-a-sea, fast moving, all ending, utter utter utter blinding. Can you see the centre?

Oh fuxk. This is not a test. You don’t win if you tell the right metaphors.

Red blood, purple bruise, black eyes. We all know it. And your pitiful “bleeding” heart

Grow up. Grow out of this poem. Grow out of your “tearing” heart. No, not with more knife.

Abuse. Here, take this word. Will you lock yourself behind a washroom door or would you hold a blanket over your face so tight your knuckles would go white. Oh haha.

More colors. It smells of doom to me.

Shushhh. No more.

No edits.

It still means a cold hard blow
cold hard blow on the heart
like someone hammers it into pieces
while looking sideways
you’re so hurt yourself, you say
it was never intentional to reach
here. this
now
is our collective mistake. or something from the universe
if only you could stop right now
if only you could go back in time
one last time back in time one last —
you’d do it again.

You would.

ache

 

You know the sea and the desert. The strong and the still, the deep and the numb. You know the spaces between a set jigsaw puzzle, and say you created it with a lot of love. But it was only a part of your drawing, and hell emanates from each of those spaces, and the distance is too much to bear. For everyone. And for me.

all that

a g i t a t i o n

This time of the year you want to give up. You are so done. You could pack a bag and scurry off to the hills or something… even though this wasn’t what you wanted. But if you could find peace in any form you’ll want to go after it.

You are happy. You are laughing. You are making others laugh. There are fun sounds and dramatic gestures and such a sacred feeling of gratefulness it scares you.

You can see the mess. You know what it is even when you’re tapping your fingers on the keyboard pretending you can’t find the word you know you know the word, you know it’s called s t r u g g l e and sometimes it’s a name and sometimes, it’s a silly count of all your poems you never had the guts to share. When you end a day and begin another, you pat yourself on the shoulder because you can cut one on the self-help calendar in your mind, now it’s just 37 more days. After that, you will probably come up with another idea.

I wish I could tell you your burden is not your own but everyone’s collective burden is hell so yours is yours alone. Though there’s still some hope because – oh, I don’t know. But there is a heaven as well so there should be.

loss

She held his little shirt in her hands for hours. Sometimes she would put it to her eyes, as if its warmth could soothe those burning coals. Then she would rub it across her face, inhaling its scent again and again, even though it was now stale red:  of dried blood. Most of the time she would just hug it, in grave silence or passionate tears, so she could maybe feel him there. And only if she could feel him again, hold his body, swear to God she would never leave! —God knows this. But he still called him up.

a man so weak

“Don’t take me there! You can’t take me there. I will see what you can do. You can’t make me go!” (loud. shouting. red eyes. fear)

[sirens, police, hospital, rods, chains, shouting, a crying baby, a crying sister, a life fading, fading, fading]

to

“Please don’t take me there. Please, please don’t take me there. I will listen to whatever you say. I will do what you say, I will be good. I will be good. Tell them not to!” (cries, weak. tears, begging. a man so weak)

[men from the hospital. a family that cares. a wife, away. a life that can no more be claimed]

to

“Don’t take me there. I will do. You can’t mak- Please. Ammi. Abbu.” (drugged, carried away.)

An Apology

Here is an apology
For each tear, every cut on your heart
And everything you feel you deserve one for
But never got.

Here is that apology which couldn’t reach you before
For your lost years, or lost months, or lost weeks
Or just lost days-in-between.
For the sound your bones make when you pull up from a non-sleep
To join another meaningless chase.
For the voice that no more chokes
On hearing, or saying, the word sorry
For your uncontrollable sobs of yesteryear
The memories of which you’ve swept under your chest
To be crushed by the burden of this same meaningless chase we know nothing about.

I cannot mend what is lost
I cannot even change what got wasted but I can hope
And I do. I hope for peace to find you and provide you with just as more strength as you need
Just more strength, as always,
Until you become your hero.
Again. Only this time more truly.

With love.

Ghosts of our love.

I make the world’s best coffee.
I know this because you said it.
You said it because you meant it.
You meant it because you loved me.
You loved me why?

I stand here in my house – once what meant “home” – and shiver like a leaf
Because the enormity of this place seems terrifying without you and I feel I can’t do without my roots.

Walls shake as your laughter echoes, the defenses I had made come crumbling down
I can no more understand where to look for you – or not to – as my feet take me running round and round

My ears are ringing now with a voice that isn’t yours, my vision blurs with something that should be tears
My mind is on fire and my heart in a sea, and my room and its clock and its bed and its floor
And your pen and your shirt and your watch and your sheets
And your smiles and your eyes, and your eyes, and your eyes.

Then you come and hold me – out of where?
Whisper something soothing like a prayer;
Running your fingers through my hair, you hold my gaze and say: “darling, please take care”

I listen to you and sit down.
Cross my legs, bend my head, begin to count.
I notice that my breathing calms and the knots in my body do unknot
As your scent enters into me and your soul takes a spot.

Pages: 1 2

[Re-]Quest

What am I without you?

A bag of bones;
useless.

A restless heart–
stopping just.

A cry unheard,
a sob.

silently packing way
into oblivion.
disappearance.
to unknown: nullity.

What am I without you?,
so see towards me.

Grant~

A Look
That may last an eternity.

¤

Before I wilt
Crush me
On your Palm
And let
My fragrance
Diffuse
Into your Skin
And be carried
Through your Veins
So that I
Dissolve Utterly
Into what
Is Ultimately
Yourself.

¤

 اَلْحَمْدُ لِلهِ الَّذِيْ خَلَقَ النُّوْرَ مِنَ النُّوْرِ وَ اَنْزَلَ النُّوْرَ عَلَى الطُّوْرِ فِيْ‏ كِتَابٍ مَسْطُوْرٍ. فِيْ رَقٍّ مَنْشُوْرٍ بِقَدَرٍ مَقْدُوْرٍ عَلٰى نَبِيٍّ مَحْبُوْرٍ.

¤

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli– an Iranian-born, American abstract surrealist painter.

1. Desire.
2. Al-desire.

Punished

That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. —Michael Ondaatje

With the voice now silenced, I remember only a silence today. A silence that screams like sirens in my ear. It does not stop. To make its presence known–as if I could forget it anyway–it keeps blaring. At first it whispers in my ear.

Like a snake.

Then it wraps me from head to toe; entraps me;

suffocates me!

It feeds on my mind, but doesn’t leave my heart. Makes my limbs go weak, makes me beg for relief, but also doesn’t leave my soul. It seeps in, like stale air, and spreads its stench everywhere. I feel I am brimming with silence now, and it finds no exit! I miss the voice— the one and only voice I have ever loved. But I am not sure if any part of me would remain to hear it again, if ever, it comes.

What To Write?

A collaborative heartspill on words and wordsnot.

You haunt me.

Writing challenge day 9: “Found poetry”, enumeratio, landscape.

White void (2/2)

Destined.

“Abba ki death ke baad ziada sukoon hae, nae?”
(This place looks calmer now that dad is gone, no?)

“You think so?”

“Yes.” she nodded.

They were older now. Older and distanced by a time so long and tough that it had practically torn apart every and any chances of reconciling. Standing by the giant glass window, she looked out at the world outside which had now accepted peace. The world which had decided to move on, as it always does. Where ever she looked there was peace, except in her home: her heart.

“Look here at me. You think life is better now? Show me if your eyes say that too.”

“No,” she silently whispered. She clutched the silver pane with both her hands so he won’t see they were trembling. Stupid fingers! Stupid eyes! How they reveal your weaknesses to wrong people at all the wrong times…

He stepped forward. “Aena! This is not good. You have to talk to me. I have come to take you. I am going to make things right like we want!”

“This is not what I want. Hessam, this isn’t it.” She shook her head.  “I have come out of it and you should too. It’s high time we start respecting each other’s independence and just let things be.”

“What do you mean by that? I am not stealing away your freedom or anything. All I want is you come and stay with me and Rebya now. I want you to be happy!”

“Why? Why live with you when I can live with myself on my own? First I had ma, then dad, and now you want to boss me? Please, NO! I am happy the way I am and I am glad our ways are already parted. We can be free and drive our lives the way we want!” she said.

The color of his eyes changed. Was he hurt? Perhaps. But he shouldn’t have been… After all this time, he deserved nothing to be hurt about. All pains were hers.

“See, I understand your want for freedom.” He said after a while. “And I am not going to be an obstacle between that. You can come with me and do what you want, live it your way. It’s just that I feel you should be with me, and not alone over here. How will you deal with everything? We have both lost something precious Aena. It’s a hard time for both of us.” Looking at her, he said with a voice laced with sincere emotion: “I want you to know I am with you!”

“Precious, Hessam. How precious it was for you!” she laughed in her heart while resisting her urge to laugh out loud too, crazily. She wanted to laugh until her insides hurt. But she would do that once he was gone, her mind decided.

“They are both gone but we need each other, Aena. We need to gather back the moments we have lost. Sometimes I miss you so much, God, Aena, you remember when I taught you how to ride a bicycle?”

Aena looked at him surprised. Why must he bring back the memories now? Now?

“Remember when you had finally learned it you would keep nagging me to let you ride us both to school on that big grey one I owned? We both sat together and I was so proud, and a little embarrassed, but mostly proud (he laughed) and then I bought you a pink one on our birthday so we would both ride on our own bikes.”

“Our birthday,” she breathed.

They had birthdays on the same day. Because God-the-good had decided to hand them out their fates on the exact day and instructed their souls to go down then into their mother’s womb… But Hessam will go half an hour before you, Aena. Okay? Just thirty minutes.
Hessam had gone half an hour before Aena. Aena had waited thirty minutes after Hessam. He had left her earlier because it was so destined. There was joy everywhere.

He was saying something. Probably about the bicycles or the school or their birthday. She wasn’t listening until he called out her name.

“Yes, yes. I remember. You don’t need to use this against me now, it won’t change my plans, alright? Don’t try! You shouldn’t try!” her voice raised despite her trying to stay calm.

“I am not changing your plans, Aena. I am just surprised how much YOU have changed! You are so cold, so different, Aena. Don’t you hold any compassion for relations as close as blood’s anymore?”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I carry no compassion whatsoever. I have a heart of stone, if asking for a right to be free makes you think of me as that. I have cared enough for everyone and now I want to be my own responsibility. Go, and let me live!” her voice was strong and came from somewhere she didn’t belong to. It was indeed different, he thought, how his sister had grown up so much and become so… brave.

“I am my own responsibility now,” she repeated– softly this time– as if trying to coax him… Hoping deep inside her heart he won’t agree. Hoping he would somehow ask her to drop the facade and end this drama so they would both cry and tell how they’ve missed each other and how it was impossible to “let go” now that they had already let go of so much. She thought of the pens and chocolates he bought for her, when they were young, and how ma would make them both parathas before school. How dad would hand them out sikkas (coins) for their daily expenditures from which they’d both buy cones.

“Yes. You are right.” he said slowly. And moving towards her he put his hand on her head. “Time has changed, my lovely twin, and it’s not your fault. You have every right now to change time as per your command.” “I am proud of you, Aena. You are one brave woman. I shouldn’t be selfish to ask you what is against your will. And I am sure you will handle your life pretty well, inshaAllah. Just know that I am always there, always a call or email away. I will come to you whenever you want, and so would Rebya. We all love you and you can come to us, too, whenever you feel like it.”

He smiled. She managed one too.

“I know that bhaiyya. Thanks.”

He kissed on her forehead, erasing for a minute whatever these years had collected between them, and whatever hardships she had bore alone.

 

After that he was gone. Gone forever to his land where he lived with his wife a happy life. Aena had apparently given him permission to be the man he was; the satisfaction seeking which he had come back. Now he was free of the burden he was carrying before, and gone because Aena was free and happy, and very settled in her ancestral home! She had peace, he thought, and now he would too.

Write how your heart bleeds (1)

One day

Sitting on your comfy armchair, one day, you will not find peace. You will have everything you ran after, everything that you thought completed you, everything you left the previous ‘every-things’ for… But what you won’t have will be peace. Comfort. Inner harmony, no.

It’s okay to be realistic and responsible rather than passionate or dreamy when it comes to making important life decisions. But “for what it is worth, let us attempt to cherish our human imperfection.” You failed there.

And one day, it will return to you. The pain one inflicts upon others always finds a way back to the giver. It just does; that’s how life is. And with that faith, I can rest in peace. I actually think I will find solace in this thought, and the courage to move on, because I know one day you will know. One day it will hurt you just like it hurt me today, and though I know what a better virtue forgiveness is, I don’t plan to forgive you. Not now. Peace is the last thing I’d want to give you. Prayers, I still might.

Inspired by Wildermann’s comment on a  random Facebook post.
Quote used from one of James A. Crosby’s writings.

poiz(ə)nəs.

heal me
with that love
of yours

kill me
(not) with your
promises

Demented in Diaries.

Diaries were her favorite possessions. Especially that mauve colored, thick, velvety diary. It was more special to her than anything else in the world, as she once told me.

Beginning to write in a brand new diary appears to be one of the most difficult tasks in the world, and we both agreed to that. Because one must seriously consider what use that lovable creature could bring, they after all were divine things. After a considerable amount of time she had finally decided what her object would collect; she will write her daily musings and personal rants into it. She will call it her ‘personal journal’, her ‘dear diary’.

All these years I had never seen her open herself into anybody else but her dd, she trusted only it. Nobody could ever believe it if they were told, that it were only a simple set of pages that she adorn too much. But I could, for I knew what significance those pages held for her. I was a diary-lover myself.

I was. I am no more. Because I shudder when I reminisce her dreadful demise.

It was one windy winter night, a December night to be exact, when the ‘dementor’ in her destroyed it cruelly. A strong jab from a sharp knife pierced the velvety mauve cover from the middle; and the dark purple ribbon that was tied in a bow with a tiny purple sequin was torn. But that single stab wasn’t enough. Her wild self called her to selfishly avenge each page, for having stored her prettiest of memories. Like a hypnotized victim did she obey, and individually tore every single page, scratched harshly some lines on her favorite poems and cut stupidly each name that she once wrote lovingly. What couldn’t be destroyed with knife or pen was rubbed by hand, for she was destined to erase it all and not leave a single sign.

It was after some long minutes struggle, or perhaps some hours time that she finally recovered and her demented soul crashed – And for the next more hours she sobbed silently in a corner of her room. Her thunderous screams had by now converted themselves into soft, muffled sobs and her spirited energy had collapsed into a helpless, clueless person.

She had called me that day, and yet she never spoke. I kept on asking what the matter was but all my efforts had gone in vain. She had promised not to speak and she kept to it, and she kept to it such that she didn’t even allow herself to ask her anything else. What, when, or how it had happened, she knew not. And her silence only murdered what ever part of her was left, for the next day I witnessed her death.

It won’t be wrong to say that she was obsessed with ‘diaries’ because there was nobody else that she could care for. The pure soul she was deserved not a single gift of heartache. When I entered into her room the other day I could see what had happened there. Others can not even imagine what that night must have been, but I had a chance to actually sense it because that is what she left there for me to feel, herself.

Beneath her crumpled, torn-apart pages lied fragments of her unhappy life; from her ugly days to her poignant nights and all those unbearably torturous moments that came between the phases of day and night, all laid there but now dead. Dead as she was.

Tears blocked my vision as I saw her coffined body in the spacious lawn outside, how peacefully did she imitate herself to be. Her nonliving body rested uncomfortably for sure, but she had postured it such to pretend calmness, calm that she never was. A bright smile decorated her white face, and made them all praise how peacefully she had gone! Oh how peacefully, please ask me.

They lifted her away in no time, some faked hysterical cries and some really did weep. But it wasn’t long after she had gone that they all prepared to leave too, oh how they loved her.

I was left alone there, and so I entered into her room again. But all those pieces had disappeared, those pages were all gone! However it didn’t shock me, for I knew that had to happen. Dementors of self are the dementors of worst kinds.

Her purple bow-ribbon was surprisingly still there, perhaps they had forgotten to hide it. While I quickly turned to pick it up, what astonished me was an untouched, whole page from her diary close by! Mixed emotions of fear and fulfillment ran down my spine but alas! I failed to move an inch towards it for my feet had stuck to the floor.

I wasn’t asked what I wanted to do, and it was made clear that I could only return if I never dared to touch it. So I took my steps backward and left the room with a heavy heart, forever.

© 2013 Maria Imran *Randomly Abstract*.

Be my savior, oh Pain!

I wanted to tell them that I loved them.

But I wanted too,

That they feel the soft hues of love themselves..

I wanted to tell my family, that I was nothing without them.

I wanted to tell my friends, that all the joy in my life was due to them..!

I wanted to tell that person, that my feelings for him were sacred..

They were not unimportant. In fact, they were wrapped up with a blanket of beautiful dreams and warm wishes..!

Wishes that remained unfulfilled. . .

I wanted to write on my country’s sand.. that I live for it and I will die for it..

I wanted to tell God, that I trust Him more than anyone in His world..

BUT..

It wasn’t the time that slipped away.

It was the courage.

And I could never tell them what I wanted them to know.

I couldn’t make them understand.

I couldn’t satisfy their needs.

.

A stone was projected on me. It hit my head. I could feel hot, red blood running down my forehead to my cheeks, towards my neck.. I was hit more stones. Even more stones..

They hit my legs, my thighs were bleeding..

They hit my arms, my elbows, my palms, my fingers, everything was aching..

Pain was screeching in my ears..

Pain was shouting.

Pain was yelling at the top of its intensity.

It seemed as if pain was punishing me for not being able to listen to it..

Then it began to understand me..

It came closer.. and sat beside me. So near, I could feel it on me. Within no time could I entirely forget the stones, the lights within the darkness, the hurt, the body.

It was just me, and pain, in complete darkness. It was swallowing me.

It was ceasing my wounds. It was giving me such an ease that I could easily forget my surroundings, and let it swallow me.. It licked and licked me, and soon my eyelids began to close.. I needed rest.. And sleep was now enveloping me. My eyelids dropped very slowly and my muscles began to relax..

The only one thing I said thanks to, was my dear friend and benefactor, PAIN…

© All rights reserved: Maria <Randomly Abstract>.

Photo credit: Typewriter.

..Darkest..

Darkness’ Pain

All the happiness has left,
the dream is now gone.
There’s no motive or reason,
it was merely withdrawn.

It all trickled out,
through the hole in my heart.
All that’s left is the pain,
and through this pain I now part.

I wanted to put it all aside,
I wanted to throw it all away.
And just ignore it all till’ death,
to just make everything okay.

But it wont be okay,
I want it to leave.
To just let it go,
through the wind it will weave.

But that is not life’s wish,
and so this pain I will keep.
Through this pain I will sink,
down to the darkness so deep.

By: SUN SUN

Related:

• http://zenhabits.net/discomfort/

pain, fear, heartbreak!

Actually Shattered.