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Greetings, Sky.
I have been away.
It's been years,I reckon.
But I have not forgotten how tenderly you cradled me like the grandmother I never had.
I loved you like a love dream and you loved me back.
And yes,I remember,
How like a ball was every night,when the stars danced to sweet cosmic tunes!
How like an encounter with God Himself, Reading to me the story of creation!
But how like a dream,
It ended!

I came to you the other night,
For the sake of a humble discourse.
I talked at the top of my lungs,
And you didn't answer.
Everything has changed.
I must add,
That friend who often visited you with me,
The one who was very fond of you,
Wants to rid himself of his own existence now.
But so would I wish on myself, should you remain indifferent,any longer.
Why! God!
Why the inevitability of certain circumstances handicaps us, to even practise our own will?

I,thus in shame cry and bid you adieu,
And I pray we mend our friendship anew!
Apr 5 · 71
Sketch of a Lunatic
Come, Friend.
I'll show you around the house and tell you all the trivial things that remind me of her.
(Here in the hallway)
These stacked, empty shoeboxes,
That I now keep my poems in,
These bare walls that I suppose,
She could make a better use of,
(In the living room)
This monochrome vintage tv,
That she'd have thrown out,
My books lying haphazardly on the table,
That she'd have cleared up,
My guitar that hasn't been restrung for 7 months,
The pictures of Dutch tulip fields,
The multilingual posters on the wall behind the TV,
Like a pretentious polyglot,
(Now,the kitchen)
And this bitter fragrance of tea leaves,
This divine scent of cardamom,
Rising from a hot cup of tea,
The rattle of kettles,
These dying rose petals,
Parmesan and cheddar,
The cheesier the better,
All of that pickled food,
According to my mood,
The battle of spices,
Those gingerbread slices,
Everything-
Everything reminds me of her.
"She's but a figment of your imagination,friend."
She's but a figment of my imagination, friend?
Apr 2 · 167
A Dread
Distorted midday dreams
Deepest unwelcome fears
Uttering thunderous screams
With inglorious tears

A warm but scentless gaze
Limited by these walls
Lies fixed on you these days
While a dread in me crawls
In the remembrance of bows and curtsies,
Amidst the shed leaves,of pale memories,
I stood marred by, and married to your heart,
Thus, in question,your each and every part.

But like the sun at night stood forgotten,
Looking for a love never-begotten;
And seeking all the answers I was due,
Much like a priest sworn,did I worship you.

But unanswered prayers had love, undone,
Thus then against me, your self-conceit won.
Unrequited Love.
Mar 26 · 98
Tanka
Let the breeze whisper
Maiden songs the river knows
You loved like the kiss
Under that fair mistletoe
While the hourglass stood calm
I dreamt a dream but when the night was young,
And the moonlight sang lullabies,that doves-
Fair-feathered slept to,while boughs at guard hung,
Like a lover stands eyeing her, he loves.

I dreamt a dream that I had discovered,
In the most unexpected of places,
In epiphanic manner uncovered,
The true possessor of divine graces.

There was a chant that I heard in the dream,
That made me, unknowingly, pledge my soul;
Thus, 'To thee,to thee' did I sing and scream,
And woke up,as if released on parole.

(Later.)

Queen Mab,yet again blessed me at hour wee,
And O, did I dream? And what did I see?
Liebestraum means 'Love Dream'.
Inspired by Liebestraum No. 3 in A Flat Major by Liszt.
Mar 21 · 99
Anesthesia
I remember vividly,
The days of my tender immaturity,
That complemented an air of naivety I had.
But now I have learnt,
How to maintain a reticent manner,
An agreeable countenance,
And an unceasing anesthesia.

I have tamed my heart not to beat fast at the sight of you,
But it still needs practice.
It needs practice because it has never known how to face its fears calmly.
So, it remains hidden right here in my chest,
Eavesdropping on you.

I have taught the sinews of my wrinkled lips to smile freely.
I have taught them to smile freely because sorrow chokes me.
Sorrow chokes me because I cannot resist the thoughts of your indifference,
Running wildly down the nerves into each sombre inch of my skin,
And every inch of my skin mutilating itself,
Tattooing your name,
Slowly.
Silently.
'Painfully'.
A little inspiration from Sabrina Benaim.
I wish I could look into your eyes,
But Aphrodite won't let me;
For a mere mortal must not heavenly pleasures cherish.

I wish your majestic gait could attain the liquidity of a waltz,
And yet, lose not a scintilla of that grandeur,
That made modest a proud admirer.

I wish I could touch the hands I saw in a dream,
Bestowing spring upon the autumn-struck lilacs,
Lying keen, by the empty street.

I wish I could make you hear 'L'amour est un oiseaux rebelle',
That my earnest love for you, on 'festive' eves sings,
To commemorate grief, that days make me oblivious to.

Now! I call upon you!
Come here,
And be the harbinger to my bliss.

Come here, I pray,
And help catch every moment that dies,
Before we even know it existed.

O come here,and let's sing,
'Libiamo, libiamo'
Before death even knows we exist.
References:
1-'L'amour est un oiseaux rebelle' (literally: Love is a rebellious bird) is an aria from an opera by Bizet.

2-'Libiamo,Libiamo' is from 'La Traviata' by Verdi,popularly known as 'The Drinking Song'.
Mar 14 · 40
Untitled
O you ,that I devoutly loved, have changed,
And the glorious sunshine of your summer has faded.
Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.

I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?

Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with ****** CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, **** pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?

I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.

A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.

Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.

What weirdos really!

Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.

Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.

I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.

I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?

Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?

Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.

Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.

Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.

Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.

Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.

Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.

If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.

Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.
Mar 8 · 67
A Complaint
O Death,be not unkind,
For this manner of delay,
One might find unpleasant.
Being thrown into an unceasing progression to turmoil;
Why would you be not wished for,
And why would you be not thought a relief?
Hush.
Your pride deafens you,
Thus,you hear not.
Your might hoodwinks you,
Thus,you heed not.
And perhaps,your schedule binds you,
Thus,you meet not.
Mar 6 · 112
Echoes
I wish we weren't so - temporary.
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
And I wish no such assortment of consonants and vowels was ever invented.
But then there's no way around it,or is there?

There was a piano that I played.
An old one,but now its keys are broken.
And I keep on counting as more break.
A life,much like this piano -O the comedian that God is!
I keep on counting - as my friends go away.
I won't hear both-the broken keys,the friends gone.

Friend 1
(My first friend in college - a birthday gift from God,who went away the next birthday)
Remember how I'd always say to you,
'Don't respond to my ****. I'm again falling for a girl.'
And you'd reply briefly,
'Good idea. Falling fast.'

Friend 2
Remember how we'd always talk, starting with,
'Promise you won't tell anybody?'
And we'd talk for hours exchanging embarrassing anecdotes,
Yet,not get tired of it at all.

Friend 3
Remember how you'd say,
'I saw you sitting alone in college.I wanted to come.'
And I would answer,
'Yeah,I do that these days.'

I wish you weren't so - temporary - all of you!
I wish the words 'left' and 'gone' never existed,
I wish you all stayed.
I wish your echoes didn't torment me,the way they do.
Inspired by 'Echoes',composed for piano by Luke Faulkner
(7 pm - sad news)
A soul departed.
And I could not be but incredulous that how so natural a quietus was to be met, when I would most deny it.

(8 pm)
An inch closer to reality.
Or else this- Death, would've been as devoid of taste and essence as a heart that but stalks the fleeting pleasures of an unworthy world.

(9 pm)
I pitied him. And myself (rather selfishly).
He lost a mother.
Oh he lost - a mother, and I have one to lose!

I wonder ,with what subtlety have my heart and mind deceived my even sense of sympathy because,
I vaguely remember if my tears were in realization of the misery of an ever-rejoicing friend,
Or for mere anticipation of what was writ in heavens,for my mother.

I never really admired the man he (my friend) was.
And I never really appreciated his general lack of concern and the apparent absence of mindful demeanor.
But then I came to know the person he really was.
And I cried that night.
And I cried that night talking of him with other friends.
He had found his breezy spring here, seven hours away from the silent autumn that was meant to strike his home.

And now I knew him,
Whose patient smile,kissing the perpetuity of bright harmonies,
Denied bowing down to the contours of a winter twilight.

Oh,now I knew him,
Whose eyes shone like a thousand summer sun- even,
When night's crawling terrors lay unhidden,
Despite the profundity of darkness that showed no mercy.

He lost a mother,oh he lost a mother.
And I have one to lose.

(12:30 am - 7:30 am - the travel)
A visit.
To the autumn,seven hours away.
In the middle of nowhere.
Where he lost a mother.
While the white desert mourned
And the clouds hung low in melancholy.

There,ah,there in the ivory clouds I saw a cleft.
It must have been the door to heaven!
It must have been opened for his mother.
It must have been opened for her.

(8 am)
I saw my friend.
He looked alive,not brilliantly though,
In submission to God's unquestionable will.
Had I looked deeper,I would have found vivacity stone-dead,
I would have found unfathomable grief,
And I would have found life,
Trying to hide from the terrors of its own self.

(2 pm - the funeral)

(Condolences)

(3:30 pm - Return)
The tough terrain that we traversed on our way here was smoother now,
And the mimosas had reappeared and the desert seemed less dull.
I wonder why we forget too easily,the matters of 'the bourn from where no traveller returns'.
I wonder why we fall too easily for the winter even though we know what freezings it would bring.
But then it's only so human to forget.
So human to forget.
On death of a friend's mother.
I hear the Violins,
Vouching for each trivial,
But fair feature of yours that lies chaste.

I hear the Violas,
Bearing the melancholy,
Your heart conceals deep within.

I hear the Cellos,
Pouring the velvety essence of love,
In my sullen ears.

I hear the Woodwinds,
Singing for beauty, calling for love-
All in unison.

But then the Clarinet disagrees,
For the sheer taste of dissonance.
There,the Oboe tries to moderate,
As the Flute flares up,
Emphatically proposing the passion be mutual.
Then the Strings intervene,
And all play in unison-
The purest articulation of the desire,
For love - yet unmet.

I hear the Brass finally,
With Percussion on its side,
Sounding as though Zeus were to erase Mount Olympus,
Arising turmoil,
Provoking the Strings and the Winds,
Ousting the gentle harmonies,
And ousting the gentle melodies,
And alas! ousting the very notion of love.

Yet,I love the symphony.
And You - are the symphony.
The most beautiful I've heard.
Feb 15 · 199
A Vain Fantasy
Gentle winter sun,
Peeking through the hazy window,
Fiddling with your hair as your head rested on my shoulder,
While, to Florence we journeyed,
Away from the Sicilian soil,
Whose Olives kept us captives for so long.

Oh! And remember how-
The Florentine pavements answered our footsteps,
And picturesque italian figures smiled at our liberty,
And how-
The sound of mandolin, and of accordion;
The carefree ramblings,the mindless tangos in the Italian streets,
And the sheer aura of it all,
Moved me-
And how it moved you!

But it was later in Vatican,
Ah! it was then,
When God became Michelangelo for me,
And you,the ceiling of Sistine Chapel.
What length dies sorrow,and dies joy what breadth;
What fool claims this 'the ecstasy of death'?
What show these withered springs,these summers dimmed;
Show what autumn leaves,but man's last cold breath?

Last vial of mirth spilt, and last vial of grief;
Lies what fun in this mockery of relief?
Awaits calm? And think lingers good ahead?
Stands but far from the prospect of belief.

All the hearts of lead,all the hearts of gold,
All the timid,meek men,and all those bold,
All the kings and subjects,masters and slaves,
Must all hear death,hear all its truth told.

Death is dull and cold,death is all but joy,
Death is nature's decree,death is God's toy.
No sexism intended by the use of the word 'man' and 'men'.
Jan 11 · 212
To Illness
'What do you do these days?'
I count seconds,and minutes,and hours.
I count grey leaves and petals of flowers.
I count the blinks of my tedious eyes,
I reckon the distance of distant cries,
Faint and futile.
Muffled and still.

What can I do,
When happy,young days are past,
Or so apparently seems?
Dec 2018 · 94
The Day Before I died
Muhammad Usama Dec 2018
I sat by the window,peering into the street.
That street I had seen too many brawls in,
And had enjoyed the people celebrate,
And had seen people leave and come,
And had known those kids,who played there,
Fading into the nothingness of adulthood.
I was one of them too,perhaps.

In that tattered dress of life,
I sat by the window,
Looking into the past.
And tears came out paving my cheeks,
For a stream of unchartered emotions.
And those emitions welcoming a whole stampede,
Of memories,killing me inside out.

While by that window,
Whose glass had been blurred by the ruthlessness of time,
I hesitated to face myself.
I had regrets,too many to name any,
I had done myself wrongs,
But quite fortunately,forfeit was to be paid,
And was to be paid the next day,by myself to me!
Dec 2018 · 249
The Girl in Pink
Muhammad Usama Dec 2018
The ensemble was quiet.
And strange voices talked.
While I stood by the pillar against the big wooden door,
Looking around to see if I could dance that night.

Lights hung low from the elegant ceiling
Of that hall,built with a distinct victorian taste.
A girl in pink, sitting by the staircase, rested her cheeks on her hands,
Looking around to see if she could dance that night.

Then the ensemble played.
Lights grew bright.
The hall turned into a boundless ballroom.
And music moved the numb hands and feet,
To chase each melodious note,
Down a surreal abbey,
To the realm of a passionate,ecstatic relief,
I had not witnessed before.

This cast a spell.
My eyes sparkled.
Her eyes sparkled.
We moved toward each other,
With an irresistible air of this divine passion guiding us through.
So we danced that night,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced thereafter,
To the 'mellow' waltz.
And we danced infinitely.
Dec 2018 · 102
December
Muhammad Usama Dec 2018
Woeful,white wisp of the vile winter falls,
Upon the lifeless gray trees,by the road
(That leads to the city of 'quiet' brawls),
Dying in silent miserable abode.

As the eve further pours its mystic mist,
A somber thought of unsavory past,
Does,in my wilting heart,ruthlessly list,
The wild, pitiless curses that you cast.

Yet,of things I recall from December,
You lie unsurpassed,you lie far above,
The only shade of pink,I remember,
And yes,the only shade of pink I love.

Why should I then with this sorry face talk,
When toward you,I unwarily walk?
Muhammad Usama Jun 2018
My treacherous hands,
Having fragility hold their dexterity a hostage,
On an old time-bitten Grand,
Sitting in dust,out of tune,
Play the nocturne of my hopeless night.

And one grief,
Your grief
(Summoning all its cousins,commanding
The weak sinews of my tender hands,
To play the requiem to my long un-granted wish)
Still speaks and prays and cries inside me,
As if it were blind to the wilderness deep within.

I am not but forced to question myself.
Should I still warm the strings of this mellow pianoforte,
With the constant rush of unsettling emotions for you,
Or should I just fade into an uneasy silence,
Deeming my emotions mundane,
And die a pitiable death?
May 2018 · 170
A Lament
Muhammad Usama May 2018
'It feels so resuscitating,'
Said he,
'To be back home.'
But I stood blank-faced.
What expression, my stone-carved visage, incapable of addressing the liberty of his enthusiasm,should have expressed?
I felt nothing.
And when I could not comprehend the notion of his having this unusually intense sense of pleasure,
I, almost blushing in embarrassment,asked,
'What makes you talk of your home with this melodramatic emotion?'
'I do not see why one won't act like this on a subject like that?'
Said he,expressing an unkind surprise.
I thought it undesirable to speak of the gravity of my suffering and the generosity of the unceasing torment.
I remained silent.
But in a constant struggle to think the matter out, I talked to myself,
'I do not remember when was the last time,I saw relief-gentle and quiet-
Let alone a yet undiscovered fervour, sprouting in me on returning home.
But I,most honestly,wonder if I have ever had a 'home' or have simply kept myself deluded into believing that this fortified chamber is my home,
In which I seem to have been kept a prisoner,
Away from my parents, far away from the family I have always craved for.
My naivete tells me that I do have a 'Father'-and a 'Mother'.
But I do not have 'Parents'-as it concerns the reality of my situation.
I suppose this random assortment of thoughts might just make me seem crazy.
For all I want this very moment is,
Either a home,a true home,
Or an eternal sleep in which 'indifference' becomes the essence of my existence.
Both,I guess,are not possible-
Such is my misery.
Based on the life of a friend whose parents have separated.
May 2018 · 342
Days and Nights and Me
Muhammad Usama May 2018
In the darkness of nights,
Utter silence being the only thing 'heard',
A whip of memories-beloved memories
(dragging the well-hid wills out of the walls
Into the open)
Creating,out of gloom,
An undesirable flash of light-torturing the very substance of eye-
Which but the day did well,
And now the night,in question,better!

In the brightness of days,
Damning all to the delusion of wellness,
The Sun,
(With all 'his' vehemence and maleficence,in a villainous deliberateness)
***** the last vial of that mirth,
One might,at night find.
Alas, all that remains,
Is an empty vessel,
Worthless.
Muhammad Usama Jun 2017
By that enchanted lake,
With the trees playing a serenade,
A madness grew inside,
When I waltzed with you that night.

How timid were we then,
And how our feet trembled,with each beat-
Yet,we danced with no respite,
By that unusual tide!

And when that moonlit lake,
Conducted your eyes-to play to mine,
A certain melodious rite!
God could not but cherish the sight.

Later,that benign darkness,
Grew all over the place,and masked us
As we danced in delight,
That silent,lovely night.

We bowed,in curtsy,then,
And we vowed to waltz forever.But
Why did you,out of despite,
Forget that vow,we vowed that night?

That night was naught,but
A chaotic fantasy,I wish was real.
Having all other pleasures denied,
I,still,wish I was by your side.

All because of what I fantasized,
A sorrow still lives that should've died.
Jun 2017 · 464
O Wind! (Sonnet)
Muhammad Usama Jun 2017
O wind,thou that art scented with the scents,
Of a thousand fallen leaves and grass,art
The hoper's hope,and carry,in torrents,
The wishes of all,of all that have heart.

Bear my wish! I wish that my soul be gone!
Be gone with thee,there,where no burdens lie,
On the poor flesh,and that I be alone,
So I may,my own meek self falsify!

But if you can't carry my sullied soul,
Take my lips to my love,so I may speak,
And in my gentlest manner,kiss her all.
Or bring me the scent of her rosy cheek!

Be steady,O wind,for on thee I rest,
My hope,that does all my love manifest.
Jun 2017 · 384
I heard your voice!
Muhammad Usama Jun 2017
I heard something today.
And it was not like anything I had ever heard.
It wasn't,
The song of a grosbeak,
Or the rustle of spring leaves,
Or the whisper of morning breeze,
Or the deafening silence of the sky above,
Or the patter of rain on a gloomy winter eve,
Or the crackle of that fire,too visible in my eyes,
Or the throbbing of my heart,seeking someone,
Or the static from somewhere unknown,
Or the hush,descending over a crowd;of faces all too alien to me,
Or the echo of familiar voices under that autumn-struck tree,
Or the footsteps of a mother rushing towards her crying child,
Or the Quiet singing to someone in the wild,
Or the beauteous music of the Orient,
Or of the Occident.
All these sounds sound humble
Before what I heard today.
.
I heard your voice!
May 2017 · 366
To mum from her dead child
Muhammad Usama May 2017
Mom,
I still have a pen in my hand
But I am unable to wield it,
Because
My perpetual tears spoil the page,
I try to write on.
I've not been able to write you,
A poem,
That you might love;
Random lines,
That you might know I'm out there,
Somewhere;
Or even a word.
I haven't even got a paper,
Spoiled with ink,
That I be admonished for.
I know,I left you sad,
But,Mom, know that
I slayed the cowards,who
In God's curse clad,
Took away your lovely lad,
With that lunch box in hand
You prepared with that fatigued body of yours,
I couldn't devour.
(I'm sorry for that too)
I'm there,
Mom,
You told me tales of.
A terrorist attack on APS,Peshawar took the lives of more than a hundred school kids.It was something that left us all traumatized.
May 2017 · 204
I can't hold a harp
Muhammad Usama May 2017
I can't hold a harp
And mourn;
For the strings are too weak to bear,
The strain.
On the death of Abdul Sattar Edhi.
May 2017 · 161
Under the kingly throne
Muhammad Usama May 2017
When Sol's fury reigned upon olden folk,
And the day helped,but their easy arrest,
Day's ***** on heavenly order broke,
So,the earthlings fatal crawled on soil blest.

Workmen,weavers,craftsmen,not one of name,
Flexed their sinews to please the monarch's eye,
The poor dwelled under an eternal flame,
When heavens did in kingly castles lie.

The sharpest edge and the heaviest stone,
'Bove men's head hung,under the kingly throne.
May 2017 · 291
By that marbled pillar
Muhammad Usama May 2017
It was intricate,
Rather spooky.
With
A wobbly stage,
Dimmed lights,
An ever-pressing roof,
A truly maleficent air.
And I,
A 'poor player' in desperation clad,
Acted but poorly,
With you in front,
By that marbled pillar.
Muhammad Usama May 2017
A wide street,
Singing prelude to a smaller one,
Rests beneath the shade of pestilence-stricken houses,
Built one above the other,
Or so they seem to be.
And that wide street,
Tells no stories,other than what is evident,
A 'Misshapen Chaos',
Constancy of stampede,
Dust,unwilling to leave,
Trash,adamant enough to keep its place.
Yet,when you rush through all this,
A keen eye,
Might lend you some lunacy,
To see the beauty,
Beauty of ambiguity,
In this place,Shah Jamal!
Aye! Vague,that seems,
For how weak the people,
Unable to leave the state of constant suffering.
Yet strong enough to be here,
And to be here for life?
Still as we march down the street,
There are things.
'Things' of all sorts,
And things too intimidating for one to fix their eyes on them.
Perhaps,
Rather certainly,
More than eyes,
One's nostrils might suffer!
For an entire spectrum of odors,
Of all kinds,
Individually,however,pleasing,
But together-****!
And as the wider street leads to the narrower one,
The intensity,
The ardency,
The fervency,
Of the loathsome odors,
Might make one lose their faith in God.
But holding God's hand,
Do we sail through the unwelcoming sea,
Of smells,foul and rank,
To reach the end,where
This curse breaks,
And this damnation is no more,
And our mirth,
And our glee,
And our joy
Is out of bounds.
And absolutely surreal does it feel,
To reach the hostel,
Alive!
Or rather Undead!
May 2017 · 101
I should've been less me
Muhammad Usama May 2017
I should've been less 'me',
When a glimpse,
In the most natural of ways,
Made me lose my not-so-hollow days.
But,
For 'what'?

I should've been less 'me',
When these days,
Every second,I guess,
I tried to be myself less.
Just,
For 'nothing'?

I should've been less 'me',
When I willed,
To just go and speak,
But couldn't for my 'Self' was weak.
Only,
For 'you'!

But when I,not being 'me',
'Besieged' you,finding you alone,
And spoke to you in the gentlest tone,
Only to hear your lips utter a word,
Yet unsaid,yet unheard.
But you failed me!

And-
I dare say,now,
You should've been less 'you',
Just this time!
For 'me'.
Just this time?
Muhammad Usama May 2017
I imagined your eyes fixed at me.
And they were.
But you won't accept.
You know,
I love the way you lie,
Not saying a word,
And ignoring the truth,
That your eyes,
Wandering around me,
And your heart,
Wondering about me,
Most fearlessly say.
They say all what you fear to,
And they yell what you dare not tell,
And they, Huh! Your eyes and heart, speak,
As if my ears would hear them,
And perhaps they do,
When even with no lip of yours to articulate,
Your eyes speak,
And your heart too,
'I love you'.
Apr 2017 · 180
Sonnet
Muhammad Usama Apr 2017
If no word be fair enough for thee,how,
Sweet nymph,and what,O dear,shall I call thee?
Would 'my one' be just,for I own thee now,
In my thoughts,or the 'Fair one' thy name be?

With thee being my love,wherefore and why,
Shall I name thee,when thou dost not need one?
In this claim,if I err,or if I lie,
Death and I may meet,my life be undone.

Thou wilt,that for thy fair self be composed,
A joyous waltz,a beauteous ballet,
Flowery ballads,or lines finely prosed,
For content,that thou my beloved stay!

Let me ,to thee, speak the truth,O dear dove,
I love thee not, but for thou art my love.
Apr 2017 · 114
How does it feel
Muhammad Usama Apr 2017
When seemingly sane mind perceives not one pale leaf move,
When bluest waters look green with envy,
When every living figure appears frozen
In incoherent matrix of time,
When,in undesirable silence,weaklings talk of our muddled mind,
And with us,being mocked,
With every bit of our soul being taken away,
And with every soul around being oblivious,
How can,in any way,be the truth told,
With a soundless voice,
Echoing,
In place remotest to their listening ears,
And being silenced.
How does it feel?
Apr 2017 · 134
My Existence
Muhammad Usama Apr 2017
I fear,
Not my death,
But another life,
That is what induces a mental strife.
O! Would that I were naught,
Why my soul,my body sought?
And caught me this pestilence,
My Existence.

— The End —