There is no such thing as silence,
For there is always the clock, ticking in your ear.

they squeeze
they press and pressure and push
until i decide to
pop
and do their bidding
and be a 'ganger
one of them
and then the others,
the true and tested,
the tried and done,
they cry and wonder
what the hell i have done
submitting to the evil
turning to stone
not knowing that the action
it's influence, invincible
unchangeable
not my fault

The crinkles at your eyes,
Not allowing tears to escape

i did not expect love and care from you,  but i didn't expect such a bitter fate. i didn't decide i was done with it, but i didn't decide i'd continue.  i didn't want to be involved but i didn't say it was a choice. i didn't want to feel reliance but i had to submit.

You are a bruise,
    ever-changing in hue
You are too hard to predict,
      your mind a limitless labyrinth

You are medallion yellow,
       painted illness by the goddess' rays
You are aegan blue,
        boiled a facade of too much of new
You are parakeet green,
           hidden underneath an opal like scene
You are mauve purple,
             controlled by the end and its inevitable stage

You are my colour,
              highlighting my pain.
You are my end,
               unravelling the game.

i always forget about all the mistakes you make,
i tolerate your swings and your constant changes
your inconsistencies and your 'slipped-outs',
and whenever you fight or hurt i'm always there,
waiting,
but this one time when i made a mistake, you
lashed out and said you couldn't trust anymore,
and that i should no longer waste your time
so now i'm left, not even a single friend, 'cause the
only one
decided i wasn't trustworthy enough
for letting out a single feeling towards you
to someone else, and now, you've gone,
just like all the rest.

i'm so sorry,
for doing all these things,
and making all these
mistakes,
and i'm so sorry
for not being there
and for not being right
and just and fair
and i'm so sorry
for being two sided
for being a hypocrite
and for being blinded
and i'm so sorry
for being me, with my
clumsy mouth and mind
and my displaced heart
and i'm so sorry

but you do not have to
forgive me.

my mind has fallen down, nearer to where my heart is, and it is shrinking, but pulsing huger, whilst my heart is no longer pumping blood and throat is now stuck with this dry lump and my tear ducts are too empty to occupy and it's all suddenly just decided to go, to leave, to place this heaviness upon the cage that no longer protects my unworking heart

it has been put into words
it has been confirmed
it has been made sure of
and i cannot defy it.

i sway to its gentle rhythm,
shutting out my eyes from the hurt of the outside,
allow my fingers to come out from safety,
to caress the nonexistent black and white keys that I
envision on the inside sitting before me
and just feel
*feel the music

oxygen seems to not work
anymore

and if you're still breathing,
you're the lucky ones, 'cause
most of us are heaving through
corrupted lungs*

and convulsing, so empty, completely rid
of tears and whatever else might have lived
within the crumbling walls of my dying sanctuary

it was more than just a smile
for his eyes, they filled with light
and the troubles evaporated
for that fraction of a second, bright

feverish, fervent
frantically observant
forever more

it's strange. Stranger than stranger,
a feeling of the coldest of ice shrouding your
body and the most intense warmth enveloping
it and you don't really know how
to react
because

*this is it

he loves her and she loves him
and it's a crash, a crack, an unmissable
climatic anticlimax
and there's all this emotion spilling like
god filling
up his canister with darkness and light
from a strange source
like a spring of ill feelings but an
oasis of happy
a clash of the mind and an inability
to express because
he loves her but doesn't love me

not a fruit, no;
not a colour, no;
but the crackling at the grate,
the slivers of secret hate

slick, sturdy, undeniably burgundy
whippy, supple, but no need for more than
a couple

a needle, sharper than the sharpness of the ice cream snow, shrouding my metallic skin like but an extension of my ice fingers, so perfect, so wonderfully clear and clean

*the bow is my mind and the strings my queen

Eyes narrow, beady
Heart green, seedy
Unextinguishable fire

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

there is a lump not so modestly residing in the back of my throat
forcing me to stay silent because if i speak i'll probably squeak and the tears will start dripping
please, can someone tell me what it is that i'm feeling?

they ask me the colour of my soul and i say
mustard
and then they ask why and i have to think

is it because its bright but coated in a layer
of dust
not grey but not entirely yellow bright?

it's that time of year again and
once again i'm sitting alone under like
seven hundred duvets and
she's in a mood again because
brother's in the ******* hospital bed
the snow just will not appear, and neither will
friends

Today, everyone giggled when Sir shed a tear at eleven o'clock
Calling him an emotional chicken.
But no one knew or cared to know that Mister's grandfather died
Not in action
Not by artillery
But many years later, when recalling past events hurt his mind too much to keep
Living.

Today, everyone giggled when I said I missed the soldiers
Saying I was being dim
Not paying attention to know that those noble men were our literal
Guardians
Saviours
The ones who experienced such terror for our lives

crumpled paper
blue ink stains
wrinkled fingers
textbook pains

i try to explain to you the whole system
the way life works, the words and how they hurt
but you just refuse to listen
you don't understand
the way it works, it has to be routine
but you don't know that
and the only way you will is by stopping,
by listening to me
i am the epitome of the cruelty of humanity
as i sit here thinking up deaths of those whom i hate
i may well be the killer,
or will be to cowardly to sin, but allow another soul
to enter into the dark abysses of
hell
and whilst i do that
another is dying
with a load on their back
but i'm much too preoccupied, much too
busy with my pure humanness
doing nothing but trying to sympathise with myself
because my life is so sad
is it not?
i mean, my boyfriend broke up with me the other day
and my pocket money for the week's run out
and as the mascara flows down my cheeks, another
problem arises in the house
with mum having her tooth removed, i'm going to have to look after
everyone
and oh
so
sad

hmm
do nanowrimo
accept poetry
anthologies?

because at this rate
they have to

I'm afraid of you
And afraid of your ideals
And afraid of your thoughts,
your words,
your shields.
And I'm afraid of what
you think of me
I'm afraid of how much
I think of you
And I'm afraid for when
you tell me the
truth

It's weird now
because there's a hidden meaning behind everything I say
"How are you?" means "I don't care but I'll ask," whilst
"How are you?" means "Please tell me, I wan't you to be okay,"

And whilst I see all those footsteps in the snow and then point them out,
I'm not saying "Look, so many footsteps on top of each other," I'm saying
"Look, there are so many people on this world, and look how they trod on
each other,"

But then again, I am a poet

I adjust my scarf, pull my fringe out
lift my skirt above my knees
and hide my old HTC

I pretend I don't know, don't give the answer
Cower behind the mainstream facade
Try to hide that I'm a ******

An electric current; the slightest surge
quaking, pulsing through your veins.
Your pores rising, stubble standing;
goosebumps have caught you again.

It's the sixth of Muharram
and we just cried about
Qasim
The little hall is getting fuller,
but my inhaler's there to rescue
when it wasn't there to save
Sakina
from the flames at Sham-e-Ghariba
Or help to heal As-Sajjad
and make him a bit stronger.

The tension's rising, because I
have never been, and Iraq is
in so much undeserved trouble
And the mosque's gotta close
by twelve or the authorities'll
get to ya.
And we don't want that to happen.

The saf is rushed, and words pronounced wrong
seven year old's are joining the adult one
even though they know they're too short
because no one's taught 'em how to do it

It's gham time and the Maulana's
rushing it, quickening the masaib
so as not to go overtime

Sitting and observing
and trying to see it as an
outsider
It's all so beautiful
the tears for goodness and the
community spirit
We're not terrorists trying to
take over the world
We're Hussainis, try'na
help it

Um
I'm not too sure what to say,
actually.
It's been a while, and I've sort of
been hovering around
here and there
In the corners of the vast vestiges
of life and internet
just sitting, watching
observing
actually thinking

11:57.
I realised time is a fetish of mine; the likelihood is that you'll have more to give.
11:58.
It's a jewel more precious and rare than anything that ever touched our lives; but we seem to forget how deadly it is.
11:59.
And we're inhabiting each moment with wordful waste; a person loses their time st every tick of the clockwork time instrument.
00:00
And I've lost mine.

why do you automatically assume things
it's like you're on a specific mode
that all the ideas swimming in you
must be said out loud and read

the rumours you spread typically aren't true
and as much as i try to explain to to you,
you don't get that people change
what you say too

And the judgments you make are ridiculously and annoying
saying i'm a **** for not wearing a skirt? look who's talking
and don't you dare say i'm trying to steal your friends
those minions follow your assumptions, I wouldn't
want to be friends with them if you paid me