Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ayesha Mar 15
innocent blue
it’s not the truth
it’s just the story I tell to you

say, gone now
all the old times forgotten
we flicker away in bliss

roll the dice
select this, forget then
never let it go then

I was just bored
watching the night
I had it all, I had it all

I need it now
covered in fade, taken from me
rolled up and stored

artefact of old
I want so much to hold
I become small again

I begin to hear too much again
see too large
speak too thin again

now it sits by
in pieces renewed
pretty and gold

hope that you find it
hope that I too
could find it for you
For Crocks

After 'Ode To The Mets' by The Strokes
Ayesha Mar 10
I begin to hate all art
why do you love me,
why do you not

I rub my fingers mad again
I make all faces ugly, ugly
why do you flee me,
why do you not

then I make strange things
I share too much,
in my strange things
then I boast, then I gloat
then I hide, hide, hide

then I want to clothe in paint
I want to burn all art
why do you wait,
why do you wait
For Eman
Ayesha Feb 14
It is you for me
Through the summer winds
The winter winds
And colours else
That may curl and go

I linger there
I touch your hair
Two sweethearts
In the good blue room
Like my brush
And twisting
Like yours

Two painters
In simple linen
Turpentine, like
Your hair
It is you for me

For Khadija
Ayesha Jan 21
Wordless? Could I write a  poem with silence?
the skid-slide of the road
the burden of a sudden night on me

Sometimes, I fall asleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand
little book open... it may seem so lovely
look at her!
huddled up with her little thoughts
a true writer, that child!

but- but I preferred sleep!
sleep was pleasurable and it did not run
I preferred pleasure to poetry, madam!
please take the label back

sometimes the pen runs out of ink
and the ballpen stutters
and I get teary-eyed in the dark night
I engrave the paper with the ballpen nib
trace the words out in the morning
sometimes I tear the paper with the ballpen nib
and then weep

Sometimes, like this time, the lamp dies
I press the buttons of the AC remote
every four seconds (I counted)
write in the light of its lit-up screen
Sometimes I write on my hand
and when the hand runs out, I go to the arm
I write on pants, on tissue-paper pieces
Sometimes, there is light and pen and ink and...
and you know exactly what.

I could never call myself a poet
the word stuck, a jumble-mess
of all my literary inadequacies
rolled up to hardness, taped to throat
I... I roll up like a cat or a rug
words come by on a conveyer belt
and I stamp each with 'unoriginal'
unoriginal, unoriginal
a moving queue of unoriginal
so many words! the page is empty
I become unoriginal
other times...
so little words (like this time)! the page is full
I become unoriginal
Then I get so upset, I toss poetry away
like crumpled paper, roll over on the bed
an upset lover; I keep an arm back though
for some little touch

Oh my
I think I'm going to sleep
with the pen uncapped in my hand

Or maybe...

No, put it away
we are done for the night
Ayesha Jan 21
Some admiration, please
something akin to a pill or
a sudden welcome warmth
I want to be put to sleep

a sleep of no tremors or waking
but not death, not quite
like satisfaction or tea, some instilling
of the sea in me
I thought I had quite grasped
a thread or two
but I am paper now
I have no word to write
no light to write in
I have no thought, and I cannot think

some affection would do
some small touch
some bowl to melt into
some flame as well

I want the night to stay
I want to sleep it away
Poetry is for nothing now
I write to satiate
to not weep, or to not fiddle
to remember, or to clear up
to love poetry
or to gather myself up

But the bed is warm and still a pond
and I wish to weep
I wish words were there to stay
I wish they could pat or touch
stoke my hair with an inhuman presence
some song would do
some voice/whisper/word
some sigh or solidity, some affirmation
I am so lonely
I will eat myself up
Ayesha Jan 21
Sweet hands, half-concealed
in bright red sleeves
you are so cute when you weep
orange-cheeked and blue
with anger that comes from small lungs
and shakes the chest
Stubborn moth, I like to stub
you, just to see you move
you move like water
when it boils, when it breaks
You are gentle beauty
in thin blue arms, sniffing with the clock
and trying to stop, oh
always trying to stop. You weep like Icarus--
a gleaming smudge in the sky
I want to break you over and over
Ayesha Jan 4
minaret, matte in haze
an illusion of detail
you, Impressionism
your bricks clasp each other
intricately, intimately
without hesitation or sense

lips of red and suave craft
pyre suddenly

I step back

I can fathom you
from here only
Next page