Muhammad_Sami_Sadiq - Hello Poetry

We love black. Black jackets in winter evenings, black cars shining under rain, black caps, black shoes, and the night yes, we write poems about the night. We call darkness beautiful as long as it is not living inside a human skin. It is strange. So strange. We cross oceans searching for “culture.” We walk through markets with cameras in our hands, smiling beside old women in Africa, children in dusty Asian streets, men lowering their foreheads to the ground in distant mosques. We call it diversity. We write captions about humanity and place sunsets behind every photograph. But when those same people come to us with tired eyes and empty hands, with hunger instead of gifts, with sorrow instead of holidays, they suddenly become a problem. It is strange. So strange. At universities we study their religions. We earn degrees, write long articles about tolerance and peace. We quote their philosophers as if their words were beautiful objects in museums. But outside the lecture halls we want walls. Closed borders. Silent mouths. It is strange. So strange. We say they are violent while our planes are already flying above their skies. Our bombs arrive faster than our handshakes. When powerful nations **** it is called defense. When weak people answer back, it is called terrorism. It is strange. So strange. We speak loudly about freedom of speech as long as the voices are ours. We call mockery democracy and their wounds extremism. Our freedom becomes sacred. Their pain becomes dangerous. It is strange. So strange. And maybe all of this began long before us. In ships crossing oceans to conquer the world. In flags planted into foreign soil. In maps drawn by hands that never asked the people already living there. Now the children of those lands stand at Europe’s borders asking only to survive. And the world becomes afraid of its own footprints. It is strange. So strange. We want to be seen, yet we look away from others. We want respect, yet struggle to give the same respect back. We say all human beings are equal, but some people’s names, languages, and skin must always explain themselves a little more. No. It is not the world that is strange. It is us. We are strange. We are so strange.

0

May 19

May 19, 2026 at 4:00 PM UTC

The World Is Not Strange, We Are!

We love black. Black jackets in winter evenings, black cars shining under rain, black caps, black shoes, and the night yes, we write poems about the night. We call darkness beautiful as long as it is not living inside a human skin. It is strange. So strange. We cross oceans searching for “culture.” We walk through markets with cameras in our hands, smiling beside old women in Africa, children in dusty Asian streets, men lowering their foreheads to the ground in distant mosques. We call it diversity. We write captions about humanity and place sunsets behind every photograph. But when those same people come to us with tired eyes and empty hands, with hunger instead of gifts, with sorrow instead of holidays, they suddenly become a problem. It is strange. So strange. At universities we study their religions. We earn degrees, write long articles about tolerance and peace. We quote their philosophers as if their words were beautiful objects in museums. But outside the lecture halls we want walls. Closed borders. Silent mouths. It is strange. So strange. We say they are violent while our planes are already flying above their skies. Our bombs arrive faster than our handshakes. When powerful nations **** it is called defense. When weak people answer back, it is called terrorism. It is strange. So strange. We speak loudly about freedom of speech as long as the voices are ours. We call mockery democracy and their wounds extremism. Our freedom becomes sacred. Their pain becomes dangerous. It is strange. So strange. And maybe all of this began long before us. In ships crossing oceans to conquer the world. In flags planted into foreign soil. In maps drawn by hands that never asked the people already living there. Now the children of those lands stand at Europe’s borders asking only to survive. And the world becomes afraid of its own footprints. It is strange. So strange. We want to be seen, yet we look away from others. We want respect, yet struggle to give the same respect back. We say all human beings are equal, but some people’s names, languages, and skin must always explain themselves a little more. No. It is not the world that is strange. It is us. We are strange. We are so strange.

76

One love, authors two the former me who began, latter you who closed.

0

Dec 6, 2025

Dec 6, 2025 at 5:31 AM UTC

Haiku #12

One love, authors two the former me who began, latter you who closed.

3

She was like her cat once The one whose color I never knew, Whose eyes, perhaps, were mirrors Of the same sad blue she carried too. She told me once, in a trembling voice, Of how she loved that little soul How her heart found refuge in fur and purr, How love became her daily role. She gave it all her warmth, her time, Her laughter, tears, her quiet rhyme. The cat became her silent friend, Her secret, her beginning, end. And then It vanished. Like a sigh dissolving into the sky, Leaving a hollow she could not fill, A wound that never learned to cry. And now, she too is gone Vanished, without a word, Like the ghost of her own sorrow, Like the echo of a bird. I’ve searched the streets, The nights, the dreams, Through whispered prayers And silent screams. By day I see her everywhere, By night she turns to mist. Her name burns softly on my lips A pain the stars insist. If only she could tell me once, “I’m fine, I’m good, I’m okay,” Then I could close my eyes and sleep, And rest this heart for a single day. But the world stays quiet Only memories stir. And I realize, with trembling breath, Her story with the cat Was mine with her.

0

Nov 2, 2025

Nov 2, 2025 at 8:21 AM UTC

She Was Like Her Cat

She was like her cat once The one whose color I never knew, Whose eyes, perhaps, were mirrors Of the same sad blue she carried too. She told me once, in a trembling voice, Of how she loved that little soul How her heart found refuge in fur and purr, How love became her daily role. She gave it all her warmth, her time, Her laughter, tears, her quiet rhyme. The cat became her silent friend, Her secret, her beginning, end. And then It vanished. Like a sigh dissolving into the sky, Leaving a hollow she could not fill, A wound that never learned to cry. And now, she too is gone Vanished, without a word, Like the ghost of her own sorrow, Like the echo of a bird. I’ve searched the streets, The nights, the dreams, Through whispered prayers And silent screams. By day I see her everywhere, By night she turns to mist. Her name burns softly on my lips A pain the stars insist. If only she could tell me once, “I’m fine, I’m good, I’m okay,” Then I could close my eyes and sleep, And rest this heart for a single day. But the world stays quiet Only memories stir. And I realize, with trembling breath, Her story with the cat Was mine with her.

38

You remind me of me, Of my mother, And our dark basement. She was always angry at me, For all that I did, For all that I did not, For all that she did, And all that she did not. She would catch me And take out all her anger. I was afraid of her, A little child, Frightened to death. If I saw her furious At anything, at anyone, I would hide in that basement: The place that haunted me, Dark, where no one would go, Where all the devils lived. They still live there, In my nightmares. So yes, when you get angry, Like my mother, you don’t strike me, But you lash me with your words. I don’t have that basement anymore. But I escape. I go silent. I leave. I run into my unconscious, A perfect replica of that basement, Full of all the devils, And their many new offspring That the world cannot see Except me. I stay there Until your storm has passed. I am scared there. I am afraid. I wish my mother had known it... She never did. And I wish you could help me Break that basement. But instead, You are only narrowing it, Pushing me deeper Into its shadows.

0

Oct 8, 2025

Oct 8, 2025 at 6:22 PM UTC

The Basement

You remind me of me, Of my mother, And our dark basement. She was always angry at me, For all that I did, For all that I did not, For all that she did, And all that she did not. She would catch me And take out all her anger. I was afraid of her, A little child, Frightened to death. If I saw her furious At anything, at anyone, I would hide in that basement: The place that haunted me, Dark, where no one would go, Where all the devils lived. They still live there, In my nightmares. So yes, when you get angry, Like my mother, you don’t strike me, But you lash me with your words. I don’t have that basement anymore. But I escape. I go silent. I leave. I run into my unconscious, A perfect replica of that basement, Full of all the devils, And their many new offspring That the world cannot see Except me. I stay there Until your storm has passed. I am scared there. I am afraid. I wish my mother had known it... She never did. And I wish you could help me Break that basement. But instead, You are only narrowing it, Pushing me deeper Into its shadows.

44

Change is inevitable, love begins with bright rapture, ends in dark farewell.

0

Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 5:53 AM UTC

Haiku #11

Change is inevitable, love begins with bright rapture, ends in dark farewell.

3

We sat across the table. Two cups of tea. Steam rising. Her hands trembling. My lips moving but no words came. I wanted to say, "Stay!" She wanted to say, "I can’t." So we let silence continue and finish the conversation. The tea grew cold.

0

Sep 25, 2025

Sep 25, 2025 at 6:00 AM UTC

Speech is silver, silence is gold...

We sat across the table. Two cups of tea. Steam rising. Her hands trembling. My lips moving but no words came. I wanted to say, "Stay!" She wanted to say, "I can’t." So we let silence continue and finish the conversation. The tea grew cold.

12

You are broken somewhere scattered pieces drifting breath catching for a moment just to borrow one more second of life. And still you go on still you walk beside life as if it were an old companion. You nod where others nod matching their yes with your yes half whole, half empty carrying the weight of hollowness. In night upon night, in day upon day you balance the scales paying with silence with the left fragments of yourself. I salute you, for who else keeps moving like this? If not good, then who is good? If not you, then who?

0

Sep 24, 2025

Sep 24, 2025 at 3:48 AM UTC

I Salute "You"

You are broken somewhere scattered pieces drifting breath catching for a moment just to borrow one more second of life. And still you go on still you walk beside life as if it were an old companion. You nod where others nod matching their yes with your yes half whole, half empty carrying the weight of hollowness. In night upon night, in day upon day you balance the scales paying with silence with the left fragments of yourself. I salute you, for who else keeps moving like this? If not good, then who is good? If not you, then who?

19

our peak in love was like a white jumbo jet huge and bright floating high in the blue sky clouds beneath like soft pillows, endless, we saw nothing of the earth, only the vast above, and we were both pilots, both steering one fragile pretty thing toward some imagined destination, and then, fire, sudden, merciless fire falling, tearing, breaking, burning, down in flames it came, ashes on the ground, ashes in our mouths, and nothing left, as if we had never flown, as if we had never been.

0

Sep 23, 2025

Sep 23, 2025 at 10:43 AM UTC

Ashes of love

our peak in love was like a white jumbo jet huge and bright floating high in the blue sky clouds beneath like soft pillows, endless, we saw nothing of the earth, only the vast above, and we were both pilots, both steering one fragile pretty thing toward some imagined destination, and then, fire, sudden, merciless fire falling, tearing, breaking, burning, down in flames it came, ashes on the ground, ashes in our mouths, and nothing left, as if we had never flown, as if we had never been.

13

Waiting in love is a game, maybe hide and seek ah, perhaps it’s both.

0

Sep 22, 2025

Sep 22, 2025 at 7:28 AM UTC

Haiku #10