As I awake,
my lids bloom open
like flowers, like
irises, and pupils
like mini planets.
I have universal vision!
arms extended to either side of my body,
and I softly exhale love.
A oneness of breath,
oneness of heartbeat,
all synchronised and the same.
I run to the sphere, we know so well:
its greens and blues,
and embrace it.
This is December,
Seeing one’s breath in the mist
In the midst of conversation.
Snow may blanket paths
covering crispy leaves, feet
Crunching on them with each step.
A fire may seek
The roast of marshmallows
And the oven, an abundance of roast veg.
Hugged tight by coats and
Scarves, and loved ones
Whilst ink darkness blotches the sky by early evening.
This is December,
A frosty cold permeates the outside,
But a loving closeness permeates inside.
Sometimes love forces us to create.
Other moments in love, we're obliged to live.
How much can you rely on fate?
Who does that leave you with?
I used to find my mind was a star
shooting poetic verse
at speeds that led it afar,
across the entire universe.
Today, I am uninspired to write a poem
What even is poetry
without love, I'm questioning why I'm
not as inspired as I used to be.
Now it's one, it used to be some.
Love is blind and now, I cannot see.
Superposition amongst two worlds
Collision of chemistry, biology and physics
An addition of yin and yang
A oneness only a minority craves
An amalgamation of black and brown
Is that not what makes up our world?
Not trees with leaves of green dollars
Our pain contributes to our art
Two of my favourite songs at the moment are called 'Superposition', and they give me a sense of synaesthesia, but not in the conventional sense of the word. More like an experiential or nostalgic synaesthesia, which is common for most people when they listen to music.
Both the artists come from a background different to the country they were born in. I recognise how I always try to make my accent pronounced when I am in unfamiliar territory, or if I feel like I want to be accepted. It is an interesting concept to consider.
I am reflecting a lot on what it means to be a minority by appearance, being Black or Asian in today's world even if you are born in a dominant first-world country. I am Iranian by ethnicity, but do I still fit in? I believe deeply in the oneness of humanity, and it's often minorities who desire that more than those who already have a sense of belonging.
A blue bicycle along some leaves
bright and sunny coloured
crunching along the grey path, a duller
tone. It is autumn fall as life leaves.
It returns to us, however,
as nature's boomerang:
as the sky cries, as the wind sang.
What is love, if not a sudden onset fever?
Our vision becomes clouded
like the morning fog,
tears fall and rosy cheeks become crowded.
An incontrollable sobbing, at rock bottom
until we reach that point shrouded
beneath the soil, becoming one with autumn.
The longing to receive feelings, the canvas craved
a mishmash of personality and purple anxiety.
Prime colours meeting new tones
smudged over palm and fingernails.
Back and forth from the murky water,
brushing intimate with the whiteness,
forging a new two-dimensional genesis.
The face became asymmetrical of
a female ethereal figure
surrounded by deep green, full-of-life leaves.
The purple surrounded her,
consuming her growth and trying to contain it.
It became the backdrop for her life.
This spiralling out-of-control thoughtlessness
this, in fact, deep rumination and self-destruction.
Sat painting for hours...
Paint all over hands, clothes, and sofa...
The backdrop of her life...
The backdrop of my life...
Look how the trees
Are bullied by the wind
But they still stand tall and firm