Thursday, 1 January 2015


Here is where the metaphors meet at crossroads
Only the well tread may comprehend
Because the rains fall still
Till I stand on a side of the street I do not know
I do not know what it is like to be the green plastic
The simplicity in ends  hammered into this pacing
Let me say that glass walls taunt
And that perhaps the  mere exclusion could be counted as relief
But we are here counting the shards of glass
And bleeding veins telling one story again and again
But not quite is this light that shines hard
Onto these faulty premises
Wood carved with gaps
Sentences that don't really match up
To a point but to a bigger picture all the same
If somebody could give me peace of mind
That I could be a leaf plummeting
Little time , the presence of the absent
Fills this place with prayers
And the echo of a fear that came true
There is a silence
A held breath
A misplaced intention
Hurt bound in a book
I did not write

This should not be the place for such sentiments
But this is where the string takes root
The knotted tree
Where this brute honesty
Made the empty auditorium
All that more empty

It echoes
What an old friend once said
Whose fruits would've come at the end
But I am not thusly blessed
And ends are not ends
Just full circle , hard lives
And mornings where we begin again

Not a poem

I want to write on muslim youth musings
A little direction and discipline is in order
I wander too much
And all my wonderings cover the same ground again and again
Maybe sow a few seeds of goodness
Maybe this uncomfortableness needs roots
Maybe home is soil , is earth , is us
We are home racing towards home
I want to write like the meanings aren't dripping
Off the page with each sentence lacking punctuation

I want to write