John Green made me sad in the best possible way...

So thanks

Augustus,who taught me to love people no matter what.

Hazel,for showing me we are all beautiful.

Alaska,for saying its okay to be a bit mischievous.

Pudge,for proving that you don't have to have millions of friends to feel loved.

The Coronel, for teaching me to believe in myself,no matter where I had come from.

Colin,for my eureka moment.

Both Will Graysons,for showing me is okay to not know exactly who you are.

And every character in Paper Towns,who just made me really happy.

But lastly and most importantly I'd like to thank John Green,because you made my life a better place with your books, and for that I'm forever greatful

sometimes its hard
to remember the truth
since the truth is only
the present.
I can see how we
easily
lose grip of the memories.

regardless,
we are made of
star dust.
rock dust.
gold flecks.
titanium specks.

Dust to Dust
learn to trust in
the magic of things.

I've spent years in the desert
in dust storms
and in the heat.
the plants of the
desert
amaze me.
their leaves, so tiny.
resource management
is the skill of the desert.

when those haboobs
roll in, the world
goes dark.
(at least over the desert)
if we weren't in our little boxes,
our eyes would
burn from our own particles.
burn to see
the phenomenon the brain
coaxes us to believe.

Dust to Dust
learn to trust in
the magic of things.

we are star dust
learn to trust
in the magic of things.

Words and thoughts 
are squabbling within.
More than the poem,
my peace is at stake.

2 A.M in the morning
A pure calming light illuminates the room.
Father is not home, yet.

Brother, go to sleep.
Tell mother, I will wait for him.
Brother, don't be afraid.
I am here facing the darkness and the wind.

Here, in front of the thing he called home, I am waiting.
Waiting for him to come home.
Waiting to **** him.

How badly i want to stab his heart.
One, two and three. He'll be dead.
One, two and three. I am a winner.

For my mother and my brother.
Go to sleep.
Father won't be home.
He has gone away taken by the wind.

You said you're innocent
and that all was just coincidence
I sneered "Oh, such confidence.."
I feigned my courage
but how could I manage
to taste this cold spoilt porridge?

Why does it hurt more when you say this?
Why does your tears feel like acid on my skin?

Do you see these wounds?
They never healed
You scratched my scars
All those times you pleaded
You twisted the knife you once stabbed
You drilled your nails as I watch it jarred to my flesh
And what else? Drenched them with brine of memories

But where were you all those years?
When this girl cried buckets
Drowned with her own tears?

How I wish
You can put her arms back to their sockets
Maybe then
She will forget how you made her feel
And once again
Hold you like everything was just a dream.



-Twist The Knife, Margaret Austin Go

/
When you are growing as a poet
your pain is pining to born a poetry
where there are too many clouds of emotions gathering,
also a pensive mood longing
then the thunder of thoughts growing,
your paper is awaiting for the first word
as I was waiting for you, my love
when you were coming slowly
then words of rain raining,
automatically,
randomly

When the first raindrop pings on the pond
even you don't know when it will be stopped
how far it will be covered
which path it will be taken
even its density,
dignity,
or the diversity

Your first word inks on the paper
you don’t know when it will be finished
which way the words will be taken
even you don't know
its size or style,
its fashion or the scheme

Either it's a long or a short
or even a sonnet or a verse
even its rhyming
or the rhythm

You should not think about its length
of course words grow as long as
the metaphors can travel
through its thoughts of cohesion
and its feelings moving
naturally,
poetically

You should not count the words
or even you can't stop within a limit
it makes your thoughts imperfect
rather you can tell totally
about the life,
or can tell about
the love easily
or beyond the life spontaneously

The words can grow 3,5,7
lines for a haiku
or even it goes for a mile for an epitaph
or more for an epic  

Poetry executes through words
words come from thoughts
thoughts come from the emotions
and ends with the wisdom
/
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

Big space,
With tiny stories,
And little musings,

The entire Life of Universe,
Is made of that,
So cheer up,
You're not alone.