So here it is again;
a perfect being staring at a broken mirror
hoping to catch a glimpse of life
in those bottomless, unlit eyes.
Here I am, once again
lost in a fiction that's shattered asunder.
Maybe it's just my reflection that's damaged.
Or maybe just me.

Once again, I'm betraying the Lord,
begging Him for peace in my broken prayers,
in my broken faith.
No, my heart ain't broken nowhere.
It's me. Everything about me.
I am not hurt, I'm broken.
Damaged in many places;
my mind, a mere splinter
my soul, wilted and withered,
my being, decayed.
Or maybe it's just my vision.

Here I am, once again
staring at a dark roof that faces a starless sky.
I try to ache,
I try breaking apart,
and screaming my death out.
But nothing happens.
Sorrow doesn't come by,
no one throws me off the edge,
my voice sinks deep into my stomach, shivering
There's no hopelessness to bring me hope
no pain, no escape, all poetry in vain.

I let my eyes get lost in the hollow of the sky
that looks at me through the glass window.
I wonder how far I actually see
Wonder if there are sparks but my eyes are clouded
wonder if my soul strives to escape the arid of my body
perhaps that's why my heart keeps beating
trying to break the cage of my ribs and run away
perhaps that's why I feel my blood flowing
running and racing in search of a wound, a way out.
I wonder how long I'll last
without seeing a star
wonder how long I'll last before my cracks give in
and I fall into the depths of my own void.

Then I turn around,
Undraw the curtains
and in the dejecting darkness
I convince myself to sleep
for there'll be no whining tonight
there'll be no hoping tonight.
Again.

Yet again.

The first poem that I ever painted
but never wrote was not about a
pretty princess with a dress,
it was about a princess with a pretty dress.
Because that was exactly how I drew it.
I didn't make the cloth red so it would go with her pink lips,
I made the lips pink so they would adorn the red dress.
First I sprinkled the pearls and planted the laces
with great precision and perfection,
then I added one last stroke of a crocked smile.
Though I knew something was not right,
I let it be for it was all about the dress that night.

The first poem that I ever wrote
but never painted was not about
how pretty moon looked in the velvet sky.
It was about how she encircled the earth
and how all earths bowed before the sun.
How the sun too had a hero she revolved around
and how the hero too had a sun that he respected.
If each universe was whirling around something,
I wrote, each infinity was doing it's own dance.
And wasn't that what we all had become?
Infinities envying infinities trying to be bigger
than the others until our mere existences mattered no more.
Wasn't that what we were, I asked the words.
A million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about a million suns dancing about....
Though I knew it didn't end well,
I let it be incomplete, for that was all it was about.

The first poem that I never wrote
and never painted was about my Grandma.
I drew a short, tired figure holding a cane
to support her wilted body.
I drew her beautiful
because that was exactly how she was.
I made her snowy hair into notes of violin
and molded the wrinkles on her face
into rows of sunflowers across a moor.
Her hands, I adorned them with gems,
her lips, I filled them with flavor of her youth.
Her eyes,
her eyes were perfect.
They were the suns that encircled themselves.
The moons that practiced immortality.
I then gave her the usual battered clothes and worn out shoes.
Though people said they sensed something wrong,
I knew no one could look more perfect.

The poem that I'll never write
and definitely never paint is not about
how you look charming in that dress
but about how the dress looks charming
because it's on you.
How the thousand sumptuous suns
burn in the night sky for you to see
but you're too busy fearing the stormy sea.
I'll draw a million moments compiling up
for a single you to like them and
you breaking yourself up into pieces
for the worthless world to like you.
I'll craft your lips into a beautiful smile
that you used to wear back in the days
before the kids pushed you off the slide
saying you weren't invited and
the crescent of your face broke into two
as I watched from a distance, immobile.
I'll stir the bottom of your eyes where, I believe,
all your light has settled now, and
watch as life comes running into your placid eyes.
Though it will feel a little criminal and wrong,
I will leave it be for this is all I've ever known.

But that is just my wishful thinking.

The first poem that I ever wrote
and ever painted, I did in black.
It was not about the jet-black depth of your eyes
but weak bloodstreams that often
lingered there like spider-webs due to your sleepless nights.
I wrote about blood and how it knew
each part of you better than anyone else
and how, when it flowed, it could move people
to tears or screams, or laugh and cheers
I wrote about the blood because that was all I had
seen the day I had kicked open the door and
seen your being sail away.
I wrote about violence because that was all I had done
as I had silently watched you curse at your reflection
in the dejecting, clear surface of the lake.
I wrote about pain for that was all I had felt
when you had given me a bleak smile
in reply to my inquiry about your heart.
I wrote about death for she was the only one
you had missed and remembered and loved
in the last eternities as she lifted you up
and drifted away with your weightless life.
Though the honesty of my words took my breath away,
I let them be for that was all I had wanted in the moment.

How do I and where do I begin?
Every step is a shallow abyss.

Far right corner of the road flooded with people
There sits a muffled figure
so used to my eyes I barely saw her.
A drowsy woman holding on to a petite child
Her shawl covering her inexistent being
and the earth she rests on,
almost unknowingly
A boy sits next to his kins,
chews on his nails, eating them up
I do not blame him.
I imagine him staring at the crowded ice-cream shop
on the other side of the road
the aroma of cream and sugary flavour,
the smell of happiness calling out to him
circling around his being trying to turn him on
forcing him to cover his ears in his harsh embrace,
close his criminal eyes and force his tongue
into believing the fingertips are sweet.

How is it possible that a thousand people see you
and yet not?
How is it that the same hope awaits your fate
and yet not?

How do I and where do I continue?
Every step is a hungry despair.

On the inviting ice-cream shop,
I see a girl of my age walk around the land
carrying a couple of toys as she shows their feats trying
to draw some worthless attention
I see her walk for hours,
I see riches dare not buy the cursed creatures.
I hear play-boys hitting on her
for her dusty shimmering face.
I watch as she closes her eyes
as if remembering the vulnerability of her being,
and quickens her pace, fear flickering on her profile
She walks. Her hands timid over the things,
her eyes active in the crowd,
searching for children to arouse
I watch as she walks and offers,
walks and offers, walks and offers
only to be turned backs on.
Folks, they wrap their children into their refuges
as if she were a wolf ready to ravage them apart.

How is it possible that a thousand people see you
and yet not?
How is it that the same hope awaits your fate
and yet not?

How do I and where do I go?
Every turn is guarded by angst.

Where did the dog go? Oh, here he is.
His tongue sticks out of his mouth
like a dying man crawling towards a mirage
His eyes twinkle at every movement
like a pirate searching for ship in a stormy ocean
The women shopping for clothes, and
girls choosing their jewels
the guys gambling away their lives,
and winking at the youthful blooms
as they giggle with blush smiling down their necks.
The happiness holds no life for him.
He moves as his legs in front
drag the burdens behind
The scar on his back gleams
like the new-born moon
that people are celebrating tonight.
Every night I see him wander
but today he wanders with hope
in his placid eyes, and it breaks my heart
that soon he will wither away and we,
we will celebrate the break of dawn

How is it possible that a thousand people see you
and yet not?
How is it that the same hope awaits your fate
and yet not?

I could go on and on describing this dark
but it's getting harder to continue the walk,
and it's getting much tougher not to fall.
The pits are getting deeper,
as scars, they grow brutal
I fear the despair will raze my being.
So now I'll come to a hault.

And what good would it do,
if I went on with my words?
No one stops to listen anyway.

The woman will still be there
Poetry wont give her a home.
the child, still chewing his skin
poetry wont buy him some sweets.
The girl will go home with her toys
Poetry wont gift her some cash
The dog will curl up in a corner and die
Poetry wont bring him back to life

I went out to write of hope, believe me.
I do not hunt for death in the darkness of night
I went out to write of hope, I promise,
of the happiness and excitement of ponding hearts
for the Eid that this crescent had brought
But all I could see was death in darkness of night
And don't blame me for inviting despair

Dont you dare blame me for noticing the dark
around the moon and her dancing stars.
The crowd dances on the beat but the drum,
she screams and shouts in angst and pain.

The hopelessness of a lively day to come.