-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.

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 ******

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

if we're strong enough to let it in,
then we're strong enough to let it go*

because letting in is like giving up
and letting go is the decision not to do so.

hmm
do nanowrimo
accept poetry
anthologies?

because at this rate
they have to

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

city of love painted crimson but not
for the passion and hope but
for the blood staining the streets
in unworthy unbelonging abode.
and i'm sorry. there is a place inside
me that aches and screams and yearns
and apologises.
those who committed these acts of
****** are not muslims as they so
proudly call themselves, there is only
one word for this type of man and it is
murderer.

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

They say it's cliché,  writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.

Absolute silence
Deafening me, I try and slice it
But then the fridge buzz comes again

Thine hours shed themselves,
Moment upon minutes upon hour
   curtsy to thy shining name,
leaden with embellishments
of snow and americas of golden
tears.
          Stained time, spilt;
to denounce thine image.

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

yearning for touch to warm your icy skin,
decorated with fractals of cold disuse,
reading meaningful things on hp and
listening to the music that's most indie
trying to find the one lyric to add some heat
to the freezing stone that is your body by
sending some shivers up your spine and
causing the cemetery that is your mind
to feel the flow of hot, soothing blood
that doesn't flow unless you're in luck

you smile.
not because the world is a beautiful place, where happiness blossoms like an indian night jasmine in the hearts of every single being that exists upon it, no, you smile because sadness is relative. you smile because when melancholy visits and your face feels lank and rubbery, the only thing you know how to do is put on that surface smile you leave the house with everyday, the one that doesn't stretch to your eyes.
you smile because the world makes you frown and cry, and frown lines are unacceptable.

Even the leaves sweat, marigold dew
dripping like a tap that won't properly shut-
Slow, with sophistication, but
constant, insistent as the sun itself.

Before me lies a plain field
Stretching out as far as sight can see
I can’t even hear humanity’s plea
All the blemishes of people concealed

Silent, like the growth of non-existent flowers
Not a touch of sound
Do you hear the bee’s humble buzzing? Look around
Serenity and serendipity devours the hours

Unnaturally quiet, one might say
What has kept the swallow so powerfully at bay?
And where are the trees, tall and strong?
When supposed to, for all, Doomsday prolong?

Matter not though it does,
For I am happy
Past was the time for trees to be present
And who wants to hear the bees’ irritable buzz?

But shortened was my joy,
As suddenly the screeching calls arise
It was a perfectly made coy,
Nature in nature’s disguise.

And after all, the peace no more,
For the birds shout, wings flapping,
The trees sprouting from the dirt floor,
All that’s left is the tapping.

The tapping enough to make one mad,
Coming from the air and ground and sea,
As if I’ve been hit by iron-clad,
It’s torturing me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Thank you Shaun,
for the pictures and flowers.
Thank you Lily,
for the ray of sunlight.
Thank you Bry,
for psychopathic measure.
Thank you D,
for the feeling of good pleasure.
Thank you Tay,
for tea and bears.
Thank you Meg,
for Sherlock and apples.
Thank you Zee,
for robots and twins.
Thank you Carrie,
for fangirling and friendship.
Thank you Liam,
for support and superheroes.
Thank you Paul,
for understanding and ingenious.
Thank you Ceryen,
for fake names and shared tears.
Thank you Chiara,
for Italian cheese and fanfics.
Thank you Rod,
for fish and evil.
Thank you Lia,
for kitties and souls.
Thank you Stephen,
for gravestones and vegetables.
Thank you Christine,
for mercurial and poetical love.
Thank you Caitlin,
for product design and Poundland.
Thank you Jordan,
for weddings and Brenda.
Thank you Conaill,
for DT and Courbet.
Thank you Brendan,
for axes and aunts.
Thank you Tom,
for form time and Brittany.
Thank you George,
for philosophies and pigeons.
Thank you Morgan,
for video games and hearing.
Thank you Alice,
for Pokemon and tumblr.
Thank you Aliyah,
for hearing aids and help.
Thank you all,
for reading and listening.
Thank you, me,
for absolutely nothing.

A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.

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.

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

the room is a nursery
following the breakdowns
of all its residents at three
in the morning, it
whispers soft things
and peaceful melodies
and rocks them to sleep
when no one else will

my fear is not of death itself, but
of the pain of it.
because in the end, i will always
be a coward.

triple glaze can't shield the sounds
of laughs screams or motors whirring from
all the way down the street
but
it provides slight relief from eternal goosebumps that grace my sleeves

i feel a pain unbeknownst to most
not pity, yet not understanding
i feel ashamed of the fact that
they take His name before
slaughtering the innocent, the
crying.
i feel grief for those who have lost
i feel sorrow for those not found
i feel anger at these holy men
who take religion into their own
hands.

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

once again, i
abandoned my poetic post.

i ventured out and sought that of which most
would find unruly.

and like so many times before, my misadventures
only have led me

here,
to hellopoetry.

Falling, soaring, dropping
away from you and the warmth of your
eyes.
I can't afford kindness, compassion's too
costly,
So spare me the trouble, the debt, the owing
and retreat.

For in the darkest of nights, the stars shine most brilliantly,
So let my flaws not disguise themselves as stars
To be worshipped in the moonlight

My hairs stand on edge
as I sit at the edge of my seat
I didn't think it would come to this,
but you lie, you're full of deceit
Yet I still wait, wait, impatiently wait
Grasping your back and protecting your heart,
saying "it's all going to be alright,"
But you refuse to acknowledge that
The suddenly, my nails aren't digging anymore
And your flesh is gone but so's your bone
And my tears are falling to the concrete floor
I'm all alone once more

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