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The wind in my hair
Fire in my soul
Love in my heart
Courage in my mind
Dreams in my eyes
The stars as my guide
The trees as my shade
The birds as my friends
The fields as my bed
The seas as my pool
The hills as my night-camp
The skies to watch over me
The moon to sing me a lullaby at night
The sun to fill me with energy
An insatiable appetite for exploration
And you as my companion
What more do i need?
So come with me
Let's go explore
And see what the world has to offer
If you're not prepared to suffer in love
If you fear being destroyed by love
If you fear being burnt by its flames
Then...love isn't for you
For you cannot understand the true meaning of love without a wee bit of suffering
How sweet is the taste of success when you have constantly failed
How wonderful it is be finally accepted after constant rejections
How refreshing it feels to breathe after being in a suffocated enviroment
How awesome it feels to experience happiness after a season of sadness
How amazing it feels to finally get a chance at life after living death on a daily basis
How incredible it feels to just blank your mind and let go of all your worries
 Jan 2016 Shazia ullah
broken
One night when I was younger, before I was cracked and bleeding in every crevice of my soul, my father took my mother like she was a rag doll. They always fought, but this was different. They were arguing about infidelity and the price tag on the new stove, and then the volume was so loud my little ears could barely take it. My mother said go, and we were out the door. For a few seconds, minutes, maybe hours, he screamed at her to stay. And before I knew it, his hand was on her throat like he was trying to force the life out of her. It was his house and she was his too and all I could wonder is if this was what true love was; possession. My mother set of the car alarm and we drove down the streets, the music up and her tears flooding down. I tried to tell her that I forgot my bear and I couldn't sleep without him, but she told me to hush and try to stay peaceful. What was peaceful? Was it the way Dad yelled at Mom when she didn't do the laundry like she was supposed to do? Was it the way Mom liked to find happiness with boys that weren't Dad?
My mother and I fled that night, without my bear, and she told tearful stories about how we would never go back. But in a flash, we were home with Dad apologizing with tears and telling her that he only did it because she made him so mad. I didn't understand but whatever he said made Mom say she would stay. Dad took me into the bathroom with his hand on my shoulder and told me how sorry he was and how he would never do it again. I didn't want to forgive him if he hurt mommy, but he made it sound perfectly logical. And I remember, that I could taste his tears. But they weren't salty with sadness. They were artificial, bitter- forced. I looked into his eyes and I knew that those tears were not from his heart, they were from his mind. He smiled and laughed and said, "So do you forgive me, honey?" My throat burned with the truth only I could see, that Dad was an imposter and Mom was a fake trapped in a web of sadness and illogical thinking, but I said what I was supposed to say. "Yes, Dad" My lip trembled because the storm cloud in my mind was getting ready to leak its own tears,
"I know you love Mom. You hurt her because you love her."
 Jan 2016 Shazia ullah
Loveless
She loves me more than I can ever love myself
And so do I
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?  
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.  
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?  
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes  
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
(C) Wilfred Owen
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