When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.

It’s a ******
A ****** of crows
There’s a place in the forest where nobody goes
No sun only darkness, no moon casting light
In the grove where he gave her his ring
No more shall sweet nightingales sing
Black shades in the night
Black shadows in flight
It’s a ******
A ****** of crows

It’s a ******
A ****** of crows
The roses are fragrant, the night velvet blue
She gave him her heart, an oath to be true
He gave her his darkness, stole all her dreams
A flapping of wings and no more is she seen
No-one hears her cries
With the night bird she flies
It’s a ******
A ****** of crows

It’s a ******
A ****** of crows
Black birds the demons, death in their wings
Taking his love to an unholy nest
Devouring the maiden he’d held to his breast
Cast aside, foul and bloodied his bride
Now he’s half human half crow, gone his pride
Wings outstretched no love by his side

It’s a ******
A ****** of crows

****

Her spirit they brutally batter,

Her clothes they tear apart  and tatter

Then forget they about all her agony n pain

At times,  they even try to prove her insane

Then issues they raise over her body dead

Poor parents n siblings this horrible deed dread;

But helpless are,  in the eyes of justice n law

That system which is  corrupt most,  full of flaw.

Public speeches are given, TV readers cry hoarse;

Then conveniently all is forgotten; time takes its coarse.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

(and i’m fairly certain one is)



i’m just trying to
bring all the things together,
this entire time.
that’s it.

tagging and
  linking and
      documenting
highlighting and
  tearing out and
rearranging
layering and
erasing.

it’s just a reflection
of my reality.

- no - that’s not right,
not a reflection.

it is more of a
p r o j e c t i o n,
i suppose.

Hurt,
is not a feeling,
but rather a process,
it’s wanting to burst out
in laughter when you fall
for the same trap twice,
and shedding tears
when you least expect it,
it’s being able to experience
emotions that you thought you had lost
touch of, sight of,
it’s looking at yourself
in the mirror
and loving the broken
version as much as the healed one.