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When I repost
an old poem
I feel like a con.
It easily trends
like when it begun.
Same poets read
Similar comments repeat
causing my creative force
to feel incomplete.
Lazily I write
uneasy I flow
I lost my only muse
and now my mojo!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
Strike— bare, boastful light.
Snakelike, your silver serenity
Strike with firm, flaunting fatality
Surrender then, to specks flush-light.
Split asunder, your thriving fragility
Shuddering then, a humble complexity
Shimmering so lovingly bright.
Spin I the crystals; your dancing simplicity
Simplicity— oh, so generous in its creativity
Scarce old stars rather I,
                       than sun’s lifeless white.
20/10/2021

I keep thinking: it must be painful for the mighty rays of sun to be broken to bits by the sun-catcher that shines by my window. Yet, the patterns that form through the process are so overwhelmingly beautiful.
There must be some beauty in the pain that comes through bravery.

There's a saying in Urdu - my mother tongue - which goes like this:
کچھ سوچ کے شمع پہ پروانا جلا ہو گا
شاید اسی جلنے میں جینے کا مزا ہو گا

Which roughly translates to:
"The moth must've thought something before it leapt into the flames
Perhaps it was that burning where the true flavour of living lay

Honestly, I so wish the translation could do justice to how beautiful that verse is in our language. The first time I heard it, it just took my breath away.
XVI
waltzing on to suns
set cold, we pluck the lone winds
to sweet, silver chords.
lovely ache
She took me by the hand,
guided my fingers,
& my wanton-mouth
along the smooth contours
of her beautiful landscape.

I touched butterfly wings,
nipped high rosy cheeks,
tasted her full parted lips,
felt the cool rush of
her fragrant breath
& gently-bit
the slenderness
of her delicate neck.

She beckoned me
to move slowly onward,
toward her
twin heaving peaks,
where I learned
of more sensual-things.

She taught me about
the gentle twisting of granite,
slow-swirling-kissing,
& of the nibbling
of puffed sensitive-flesh.
It was exquisite.

Then she begged me
to quickly move southward,
over her rolling meadow,
upward & onto
her delicious-mound,
to use my yearning mouth
in fiery sensuous-ways.

There,
I fervently frolicked,
relished in
the tender petals
her pretty lady-flower,
gently spreading
her cascading beads
over magnificent
swollenness.

And when I caressed
her unfolding petals,
the most sensitive part,
she reached nirvana,
shuddered & spasmed,
released her rawness,
the tastiest of flow.
It was genuine intimacy.

Once,
only the Lord knew
how much I loved
my personal body guide
& know you too,
know the reasons why,
she is so lovely
& divine.
Between the lines
of now and then,
you’re drawing me
with ink and pen.
Every ridge
and every curve
you’re carving out
what I deserve.
Tangled veins
and knotted hair,
a thunderstorm
of senseless care.
Between the breaths
of God and man-
You’re writing me
just as I am.
With fractured bones
and black-hole eyes,
painted purple,
ringed with lies.
All I am
is what you see
and what you make
is all I’ll be.
Ten years ago tonight
we were watching
our mother die.


The bedroom -  with her
beloved blue shutters -
littered with used
medical equipment

her low moans.

Someone inside me
remembers the stench
of cancer

Now  her three daughters
stand in a triangle with
our backs turned -


and no one says a word.
This is a poem my sisters will never see.
the hype about poems is big
yet it ends in a jiffy
the next text will rise
the next text will fail

4.600 people read a love poem of mine
serious topics are being ignored
i try not to be bored
but it's quite difficult

you feel me?
Today is a boring day.
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