She was more than art.
She felt more than art.
There was beauty in her soul.
And yet, she never realised that.

~~
I am not writing any poetry
Not a huff,
Not even a romantic mood,
I talked to a distress

Unto thee of say my friend:

The suffering of pain is more than a pain
Words of distress
No longer I can't say either

The story of that night
That is longer than a long night
That night, my love had died before the dawn

How do I tell thee

The suffering of love is unforgettable
Than the love you never achieved  
Middle of the night to about chest pain

When I could not bear it no longer
Then at late night I call a friend to awake
No longer I can't say either

My friend
O' my friend!
My dearest friend!

How do I tell thee
My soul grew dry that is more than a wither petals
No longer I can't say either

When the sudden stopped of time
I stood, Saw the closed distant door
No longer I can't say either

To be alone in everybody
Within a moment a known seems to be unknown
No longer I can't say either

The last thing to understand who she is constant
The story of the lost bright Star
No longer I can't say either

The door is closed
Maybe someone has locked
Alone, The sleepless nights of choking

One's that hard
Many pale faces in the crowd of strangers
Love is lost within too many hopes

How do I tell thee
No longer I can't say either
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Once that was
Will not be forever
Faded memories
And sepia moments
Lot of nostalgia
Tired souls
Reminiscing throughout
In retrospect
Fading work of art
Cracked colors
And crumbling walls
Long stint in the past
A standing ovation
From the present ones
Frail limbs support
The past grandeurs
Let’s bow to them
In our memories and
History testimonials

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

Baby, let me die a classic,
pull those curtains down;
give me one last dream,
don't hurt me now,
I won't hurt you ever.*


Fifteen years on board and sail,
then Life hit the breaks too fast;
I saw you grow so old, so weak,
and in your hospital ward blues.
I was trying too hard
not to cry, not to shame.

Down a peaceful, quiet lane
The two-story farmhouse awaits
Bathed in evening hues
Of rich lavenders, pinks,
And dusty apricot
The lilac scented breezes blow
Whispering stories of summer
Let me dance in pastures
Of buttercups and wild daisies
Where horses graze contentedly
And Virginia bluebells sway
Where time becomes stuck
And lets me live this golden moment
Just once more

**~Marian~