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681 · Feb 5
a perfect red
hsn Feb 5
seeping through brown-riddled veins
flowing a gently fervent stream from
my wrist, a perfect red
dreams of an escape from all of this
turmoil and stress can be attained
through a single temptation from
the acquired gaze of a small blade
haven't done it
but i feel like it
hsn Feb 9
lest you fall asleep on the dreambound ferry
keep your eyes open for the ride forward

for the most beautiful things are along
the way and not where it ends
377 · Dec 2024
lahore jubilee of 2014
hsn Dec 2024
kitchen counter riddled in grey marble
a fragrance of burning wood and candy
solar blessings filtered into linear lines
fruits spread in an ikebana rainbow
a jar of sickly saccharine sugar atop
a syrupy taste lingers in that air

i long to breathe it in once more
that sweet air of my grandma's
house from all these 11,285
kilometres away from home
and ten years from those
first moments of life
268 · Apr 2
quiet, isn't it?
hsn Apr 2
(quiet, isn't it?)  

       the air holds its breath.  
               the walls do not move.  
                       the body is still—  
                                  at last, at last, at last.  

but time does not stop.  
        the clock hiccups,  
                        then keeps ticking.  
        the door stays locked,  
                        but the knocking doesn’t stop.  
        the phone keeps ringing,  
                        but no one picks up.  

       (were you expecting silence?)  

somewhere, the sun keeps rising.  
        somewhere, the city hums on.  
                but here—  
                           here, the world tilts,  
                                         the sky folds,  
                                                   the ground sinks beneath them.  

       a mother grips the doorknob,  
                      hand trembling like a faulty lightbulb.  
       a friend stares at the unread message,  
                      timestamped yesterday, 3:14 AM.  
       a lover traces the indent in the mattress,  
                      as if it were a wound that might still close.  

                     they always meant to check in.  
                     they always meant to call.  
                     they always meant to say—  

but meaning is a ghost,  
         and ghosts do not answer.  

       (are you listening?)  

   your name becomes an echo.  
                 a prayer, a question, a plea.  
   your room becomes an altar.  
                 untouched shirts, dust settling like snowfall.  
   your absence becomes a stain.  
                 not red. not blood. something paler, endless, unseen.  

       (is this what you wanted?)  

       the weight is gone,  
               but only for you.  
                     it latches onto their shoulders instead,  
                            vines curling, thick and unrelenting.  

   a sister walks slower.  
   a father speaks softer.  
   a friend laughs less.  

       (you left, but you did not leave alone.)  

       the world keeps turning,  
       the sun keeps rising,  
       the birds keep singing,  

       but for them, the light feels wrong,  
       the sky feels heavier,  
       and the music plays out of tune.  

       (quiet, isn't it?)  

              (but listen—someone is still crying.)
please know that you are not alone. there are people who love you, who will listen, who want you to stay. reach out. you are seen. you are needed. you are loved <3
254 · Mar 31
the world
hsn Mar 31
a circle,
              (closed).

arms reach,
stretch,
but never
quite
touch.

    infinity spins  
                round —  
      no end, no start,  
                  but always moving.  

everything and nothing,
twirl,
dance —
a waltz of wisp and weight.

light glows,  
              soft, gentle,  
                         (but distant).  

the edges blur —
you almost see it,
almost touch it—
                                  but then it's gone,
                                              slipping —

           through cracks.  

completion?
or is it
just a loop —

                   a never-ending spiral?

    your place is here,  
                                        (but not yet).  
                   not yet.  

  the world,  
                  the world —  
         is beyond,  
                       above,  
                   inside.  

in every step,
                       every breath —
is the world.

                   you can see it.  
                   (you almost touch it.)  
     but it’s already gone.  

(it was never there.)  

    but you are.  

      spinning.  
             forever
                   waiting.
252 · Jan 6
heavy
hsn Jan 6
i'm heavy with the burden
of believing in you for face,

when

i want to live without any
regrets or inner struggle
244 · Jan 10
gemini
hsn Jan 10
two faces, two egos
to my face you tell me everything is fine
for every flaw i perform, for every mistake
and yet, you spit venom behind my back on my name

how funny, am i right?
244 · Feb 4
i am for it all
hsn Feb 4
a single touch of welcoming
is all i desire, no matter the
strain it will have.
i am for it all
239 · Jan 16
wax figure
hsn Jan 16
frozen still in silver secretion
forever perceived in a million
concepts; a story engrained, and
it goes...
art is interpretive and doesnt have a concrete purpose
it is up to the viewer to interpret the story behind all
things regardless of the artists intent
227 · Jan 7
ad meliora
hsn Jan 7
there will the path
towards better things .

yes, there will be moment
where you feel at the
lowest point of your nadir

or feel humiliated about
your own flaws,

but remember
just remember ,

there is light even in the dark
you just have look carefully  .
"towards better things"
hsn Apr 2
this is how you rise.
           shed the old, reshape the rest.  
                 stand straighter, speak softer —  
                      beauty is just another word for belonging.  

step into the light.  
           let the fabric drape just right.  
                      let the colors speak for you.  

      (if it glitters,  
                 does it matter  
                       if it suffocates?)  

  cut the hair.  
          swallow the accent.  
   paint the lips  
                the color of currency—  
                      polished,  
                              bloodless.  

       now you are seen.
   now you are wanted.
now you exist.

smile wider.
let the teeth gleam.
walk taller.
let the rhythm match.
speak carefully.
let the voice lose its edges.

(soften.
soften.
disappear.)

lovely, isn’t it?
      to be chosen?
           to be one of us?

isn’t it?
195 · Jan 14
"sparks"
hsn Jan 14
i long for the pinnacle of comfort
to be remembered and cherished
even in sleep and away from all
inspired by sparks from coldplay
193 · Feb 12
maid of iron
hsn Feb 12
i.
basilisk of steel
blades of fury
brisk justice
broken pact

this life is a maid of iron,
and i am the trapped husk
192 · Feb 7
rose gold
hsn Feb 7
aureate muscle of the
masculine dream, the
collective mind of many

it glows in the light
like a perfect bloom -
a grand yellow around
every young boy

i stand and watch it glow
with the dream laced
within me, but with
a shamed rose gold;

the stigma of men
is difference
169 · Jan 14
juggle
hsn Jan 14
mind is pacing
hands are full
calendar ticking
away towards
bound due dates
sweat in sleep that
no tablefan can fix
thoughts of
exams and fears
reoccuring torment
of embarrasing moments
that i want to keep away

why must this be the life
god has carved for me?
wrote this in msip
154 · Jan 19
dear god,
hsn Jan 19
why must i hold on to a light
that doesnt approve of me?
146 · Mar 24
on the mezzanine
hsn Mar 24
time unspools like thread from a spindle,
winding itself into shapes i cannot wear.
i drift between the curtains, weightless,
a shadow sewn to the edge of the stage,
waiting for someone to simply notice.
144 · Apr 2
you will be made whole
hsn Apr 2
i smiled when spoken to.  
         nodded at the right times.  
   dressed myself in fabric  
              heavy with approval,  
       let them rewrite my name  
                    in letters i could not read.  

   was this what they meant by righteousness?

           i stepped in line,  
             shoulder to shoulder,  
                  head to the ground,  
      voice swallowed whole.  

(do not stray.  
                 do not ask.  
                          do not falter.)  

   but when i prayed,  
             i found no voice.  
    when i knelt,  
                  i found no floor.  
    when i searched,  
                i found only mirrors,  
                           only echoes,  
                                      only dust.  

   was this what they meant by devotion?

         they said,  
  we will make you whole.
           we will scrape away the excess.
                   we will leave nothing but light.

   so i let them take,  
               let them pare me down,  
                         let them erase,  
                                   let them shape.  
(smaller,  
           softer,  
                      easier.)  

   but when i looked for myself,  
             i found nothing.  
   when i called my name,  
                         there was no answer.  
   when i reached out,  
                    my hands met air.  

was this what they meant by salvation?
140 · Apr 3
kintsugi
hsn Apr 3
the glass stood tall once.  
       smooth, untouched,    
               shaped to expectation.  

then came the fall.  
the slip,  
         the drop,  
                 the ruin.  

hands hovered over the wreckage,  
  whispers of what was,  
    what could have been,  
       what will never be again.  

    no one wanted the pieces.  
           no one knew what to do with them.  
                they stared, they sighed, they left.  

      but someone stayed.  
             or maybe no one did, maybe just the dust.  
                    just the dust, and the silence, and the weight of absence.  

gold is a lie they tell to make it bearable.  

   it does not erase the cracks.  
      it does not restore what was lost.  
         it only makes the breaking visible.

   not untouched,  
           not perfect,  
                   but standing.  

   they call it beauty,  
             but it is only survival.  
                      they call it art,  
                                 but it is only memory.  

       if light filters through the seams,  
             does it mean it is still breaking?
138 · Jan 7
an opinion
hsn Jan 7
as far as i can tell,
it's a waste of time
to give your heart
to people who will
crush it and leave it
to wane and wither
highschool romance is so confusing
134 · Jan 10
to quell a swan
hsn Jan 10
purity stained blood red
the children mask the brutal
scene through thin hope
the ruin that follows with
every rippling
explosion

it's funny to imagine, with just a lone missile of hate
from the hands of the mighty and cruel
your life can end without reason
and in vain they will deem
your life
124 · Jan 14
sharing a space
hsn Jan 14
an awkward feeling
that is buoyant belittlement
watching them converse
directly in front of me

im sharing a space
in contemplation
weither or not i
should leave or not
when u sit with your friend and their friend at the same time
123 · Feb 7
provoked
hsn Feb 7
seething rage through metal bars
teeth bared like razor sharp knifes
an inferno builds up inside me,
a heat red under my own skin -
as you still and watch
mouths open in folly;
a circus lion to an audience
120 · Jan 7
THE SCREAM
hsn Jan 7
my mind's an egregore
of countless screaming waves
crying amidst the calm sea

disrupting, disarmoring, disappointing

i forever waltz in flux with doubt.
120 · Jan 10
censor
hsn Jan 10
for some reason, the world
loves to block the truth behind
asterisks and black squares
117 · Jan 14
heat sea
hsn Jan 14
interwoven bodies everywhere
frightening weights of "love"
they almost make me gag, this
fake admiration for another
and yet, i find myself wishing
for that same close company
all despite my irks
113 · Feb 7
solitary coffin
hsn Feb 7
up in a chokehold by lifes cold hands
color draining slowly from my eyes
everything now in black and white
i've been alone for so long now,
in this solitary coffin of mine
110 · Jan 8
01
hsn Jan 8
01
soft foam glides gently
along the pearly shoreline;
gentle, bobbing calm
110 · Mar 24
what love makes of me
hsn Mar 24
if love is a sin, let it burden me.
if love is a gift, let me cherish it.
hsn Jan 10
automatic administering
of dense stereotypes -
the world is balanced
off of the practice of
       false sayings
        ostracizing
        disrespect
and yet, you deem
yourself a good person
how hypocritical
102 · Jan 14
05
hsn Jan 14
05
frenzied thoughts rushing;
doubtful affirmations, all -
from doubtful people
101 · Jan 15
silver in the night
hsn Jan 15
you glow in the night like silver satin
and i watch in utmost admiration while
stroking my skin of rusted steel; how
i wish i could live in your skin
101 · Feb 5
hive of a recluse
hsn Feb 5
i live in my own mirage of countless bees
and their honey-touched compliments,
the delicate petals they bear—the
only solace i'll find in this sad
dulled hive of a recluse
98 · Feb 7
caged
hsn Feb 7
my heart is a lie;
a false adoration for
all, but riddled in
silent sharp truths
96 · Jan 16
06
hsn Jan 16
06
that still lunar light;
it shines ever so brightly
in the quiet night
hsn Jan 15
HIS dream of gold
is mistaken for dirt
that taints the hearts
of the most clement
96 · Jan 14
the way things go
hsn Jan 14
life is
frame by frame;

pose by pose
skin by skin
smile by smile
frown by frown
love by love
hate by hate
friendship by
friendship,
doubt by
doubt
95 · Jan 15
libra
hsn Jan 15
i am forever a balance of weakness and soft skin
with scales forever still as a statue, carrying the
burdens of heavy insecurities that i can
never comprehend and understand
94 · Jan 8
salvation
hsn Jan 8
poisoned youth rest along the grey
heralding you their saviour
their freedom, their salvation
and yet you stride by as the
missiles fall and bombard the land,
their black, green, red, and white haven,
now with tainted blood and sickness
free gaza
92 · Apr 1
"art"
hsn Apr 1
they say it is
a canvas,
                          a frame,
                                       a brushstroke.
                                                                              but it is a cage.

    beauty,  
                they say,  
      is symmetry,  
                           precision,  
        lines drawn tight —  
                               perfect,  
                               as if that means anything.  

a curve here,
a shadow there,
exactly right,
exactly wrong —
                                       the rules of a game
                                       no one remembers starting.

      who made the rules?
                 who decided  
                      what belongs in the frame,  
                           what is worthy  
                       of the gaze?  

does the brush bleed?
             is the color pure?
is it still art if it spills —
                          all over,
shattering the borders?

they say
"if you can't see it,
it's not there,"
                                       but can you see the space?
                                                                 the chaos
                                                    between the lines?

art —  

you say it is  
     "a statement,"  
           "an expression,"  
           "a revolution."  
                   but only the kind that fits.

art.

we call it beautiful
             only when it
                          fits
                          in the frame,
                                       the one we've built —
                                                                 to trap it.

   so what happens
         when the frame shatters?  
                    what happens then?
92 · Jan 15
.
hsn Jan 15
.
coursing my veins
still blades pursue
thin threads of peace
that keep me together
with weak tendrils
of coping habits
that have barely
managed to wrap
themselves around
my flesh and mind
90 · Jan 15
supposed
hsn Jan 15
they say i am a presumed light of my family,
the potential that seeps through the endless night
and the luminescence that persists through the dark
and yet, harboring all these emotions and deep feelings
i am but a shadow playing fool with myself and others
89 · Jan 8
birdbox
hsn Jan 8
life is the steel prison that is a birdbox
solemnly, i am the bird that lives within it

and alfresco the cage, the covey glide

i watch everyone take flight and
be able to soar the azure skies
as i stay behind forever and feel
disturbed by stripped wings of calm
once a pariah
forever a pariah

-
87 · Jan 14
osmosis
hsn Jan 14
accumulation of outer thoughts
build the mind of a fragile husk
quietly, they have been shaped
to what they are now; the effects
of a mindless egregore called influence
82 · Jan 7
canvas
hsn Jan 7
i've realized that
me weeping out
in the form of ink
and words won't
make a difference
for my betterment

and yet, it feels
all too beautiful
to spread my tears
in the form of art
everywhere i go
82 · Apr 7
to be nothing
hsn Apr 7
how easy  
           it must be  
                       to be  
             nothing.  

        to drift  
               like smoke—  
         unheld,  
                      unnamed,  
        unmade,  
    ­           uncalled.  

        no voice  
                     to strain,  
       no weight  
            to carry,  
                     no name  
         to answer to,  
                     no history  
    to betray,  
                  no body  
         to mourn  
                            in the morning.  

               the wind  
        does not cry  
                         when it leaves  
         the room.  

            the shadow  
    does not grieve  
                        its blur.  

                 even dust  
       learns  
                       to settle.  

       even echoes  
                  give up  
         without needing  
                               farewell.  

       i envy  
                    the pebble—  

                  tossed  
                           ­ into the dark,  
          resting  
                  without memory,  
                              without meaning,  
                     without fear  
                                     of being seen.  

             forgotten,  
                            yet  
              whol­e.  


     there is  
                        a kind of mercy  
             in the void—  

                         a hush  
                  where burden  
                                cannot bloom,  

            a place  
                    where shame  
                                 has no shape,  

         no mirrors  
                          to reflect,  
      no mouths  
                   to mock,  
              no eyes  
                          to measure  
         the quiet  
                     out of me,  

     no hands  
                  to hold,  
           then release,  
                        then forget.  


just  
              the still.  
         just  
                the silence  
                          that never  
                                 has  
                                    to end.  


        i would fold  
               into that hush,  
                           slip  
              into the unseen,  
                       unspool  
             this thread  
                              of self,  

             let it vanish  
                              between  
               the floorboards—  

                              like spilled  
                       water,  
           like breath,  
                            like light  
                    when the door  
                                is closed.  


            would i  
                      finally  
           feel  
                         peace?  


      or would i  
                 only  
                        miss  
               the ache—  


              the ache  
                        that meant  
                               i was  
                       here,  

                    that someone  
                  might’ve known  
                                 i was  
                          real  
                          ­  enough  
                        to hurt.  


                       but still—  


          how light  
                        it must feel  
            to be  
                    nothing  
                            at­ all.
100th poem!
81 · Jan 14
i beat around the bush
hsn Jan 14
topsy turvy truth
silent lips and shut teeth
sweat swells solemnly  

i beat around the bush

to find the peace of mind
that has fleed in a fearful frenzy
being too afraid to say the truth
79 · Jan 10
05
hsn Jan 10
05
odette and odile
the ephemeral swan lake;
chiaroscuro
78 · Feb 10
throwing stones
hsn Feb 10
you are the stone cast
and i am the water —
as you plunge deeply
into the weak nadirs
of my bottomless soul
78 · Jan 14
(bad) religion
hsn Jan 14
light-bound revered idol in the sky
preaches velvet soft respect for all
and  yet, it seems all too wrong
considering all believe opposite
but then call themselves  
              'saved'
the irony of the religiously psychotic
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