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Simra Sadaf Jun 2019
how silent it is, how still,
like the nights in my town,
what do I say, what do I fear,
is this town grieving, it is,
so is this poem, so is that man.

descending to Hades,
my anxiety is a mourning widow,
why do paper cuts hurt so much,
why are the lilies decaying,
“get some sleep”, says my mother.
Simra Sadaf Jun 2019
is there any poem that does
not begin or end with cuts
on the body, or talks about
a beloved who does not want
to stay even after you pouring
yourself like sunlight on her
beautiful cheekbones, or about
the night screaming at the
moon like a motherless child,

I know a man who writes his
grief after dipping pen in his
nihilistic tears of blasphemy,
infidelity, and honey, he says
if there is a god, it wants to
see him begging, so he spits
out angry prayers, like a rebel,
but what is he fighting against,
his poems taste like lemon
flavoured candies,

so I have been called a leech,
but believe me, I have been
called worse – a sad poet in
despair, a lifeless loser who
reads four books a month,
and to me, a reader, your poetry
is garbage, as are your emotions,
but what do I know, I am just
a writer who has not written
anything worthy of reading in
almost a year, but I have written
at least a hundred sad poems,
for a boy,
Simra Sadaf Feb 2019
in the summer of ‘18,
death became poetry
to me and grief became
a permanent resident,
a burden – a burden
of knowing, and god
forbid if I am granted a
moment of joy, life slaps
another apocalypse at my
beautiful face, one of you
wrote to me saying I am
no one and I will die a
no one, it just shows how
broken that human is, I
hope poetry will be the
death of me because to die
a failed writer is okay, but
to die a broken human is not.
Simra Sadaf Jan 2019
for the wounds we keep poking
hearts that do not stop breaking
for the fools who refuse to learn
the loved ones living in an urn

for all the love and unsaid sacrifices
a mother’s love and her compromises
for bedtime stories and goodnight kisses
a father’s story from rags to riches

for a glimpse that made you fall
the same that made you love alcohol
for all the dreams that are unfulfilled
the innocent victims of war who get killed

for all the seasons that we live through
the sun, the moon and the dove’s coo
for the sands, stones and the oceans
every unsaid word and unfelt emotions

for white, pink and all the colours
music, books, poems and flowers
for everything great and trivial
a poem for everyone sad and jovial

for things living and non-living
for loving, giving and forgiving.
Simra Sadaf Jan 2019
you were a false dawn to my true
dusk, there is a graveyard in my
head, I built it for all the sorrow
you brought in, for the remnants
that you left, for the trauma you
gifted, in one of the books that
you got me, there takes place a
scene where the boy in a fit of
rage decides to **** someone who
hurt him, exactly what I wish to
do every time I imagine your
hand between her legs in cheap
hotel rooms. Along with despair,
I wait for you to die in the most
vicious manner and do what
Bukowski did to his dead lover’s
grave, he poured whiskey all over
it, I am quite sure your thirsty and
abhorrent corpse would miss the
toxicity, I wonder if your mother is
proud of the pathological liar that
came out of her womb, I wonder if
you will feel the torment of insects
eating away at your skin, I wonder
if that will balance out all the cuts
and bruises, I wonder.
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
I was loathed by my family, so I
killed them all, I know it sounds
like a Gillian Flynn novel, but it
is true, I murdered them one by
one, it was on a Thursday night,
my step-mother was fasting in the
name of God she believed in, she
was making dinner, she hated the
fact that I had joined a cult, she
hated my tattoos, she hated my guts,
and I hated her for lacking a heart,
I went into the kitchen, took out the
chef’s knife and stabbed her, I did
the same to my father, he was in his
study table, I stabbed him, and I
severed his ear like Van Gogh, for
every slap, scold and bruise, except I
did not give it to a *******; I kept it
in a jar like a specimen, my six year old
step-brother was sleeping in his room,
I choked him with his pillow, I hated
that runt; he was poisoning me with just
his existence, satan spoke to me the day
my heart turned into a rebellion, now he
seems to ignore me, the body of my
step-mother lying in the kitchen floor
with eyes wide open glares at me; it
burns my skin, I splashed water on it
but the burning does not stop. Satan, I
can hear you laughing, you sadist rogue.
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
this is a story of a 17-something boy
who left his home, his parents,
his friends, his town with a backpack that
contained two shirts, a few dollar bills,
his diary, a pen, and his battered copy of
Love in the Time of Cholera, he fancied
himself a writer, “I write fiction”, he told
his friends who thought of him as
pretentious and pompous, the first piece
he ever wrote was a poem,
an unstructured and ill-rhymed one,
he was one of those with a pretty face,
a cheeky attitude that has given up
on god and was disdainfully aloof,
the first night away from home in
a new city, he slept in the bench of
a parking lot next to a homeless man
who stank of *****, cigarettes and
cheap whiskey, he had spent all the money
he had on train ticket and a water bottle,
the next morning, he woke up with
massive hunger pangs, at the time of
such suffering, there was only
one thing he wanted to do – he took out
his diary and wrote on hunger, despair,
and the prospect of never making it,
it was achingly poetic.
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