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Jun 2019 · 266
Greek myths and paper cuts
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.
Jun 2019 · 132
un – loved/wanted/ashamed
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,
Feb 2019 · 166
Burden of knowing
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.
Jan 2019 · 196
For life
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.
Jan 2019 · 476
Leonard Peacock
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.
Dec 2018 · 151
Confessions of a murderer
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.
Dec 2018 · 180
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
I woke up in the
middle of the night
and felt a certain
kind of nothingness,
my wife soundlessly
asleep next to me,
I tiptoed my way out
of the house,
before I knew it I
was in my car turning
on the ignition,
in a desperate attempt
to escape from this life (read lie)
I reached the hotel room,
it was cold and quiet,
my lover sat across from
me smiling, a gentle gesture
that enclosed me,
as I drove back home,
my skin reeked of infidelity
and the smell of his cologne,
it lingered.
Dec 2018 · 168
A homeless wayfarer
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
If only I could go with you
to the edge of the world
and follow you through all
the chaos and sufferings,
I dream of words that
describe you the best
but I fail to elucidate
your kindness in
words and metaphors,
as I watch you sleep
in profound silence,
I listen to the
rhythm of your heart,
warm and tender that
you fell in love with
a man I am to a man that was,
a drunken poet
a homeless wayfarer,
and before the sun rises,
I write to you my last poem.
Nov 2018 · 185
till death do us part
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
every night, he comes home with a drunken rage
a new bruise entry on her 278th page
why does she suffer? she does not have to bear
but she is scared he will beat her with a chair

there is a picture on the nightstand
of them smiling and their bodies tanned
‘tis a happy memory that is now distant
unreal and alien, she questions its existence

against the wall last night, he smashed her face
her fate, her being, she wished to erase
there is a thin line between love and abuse
he crossed it, she endured it, both confused

entry number 340: it was a beautiful day
I brought him some tea and closed the door
hit him in the head with his crystal ashtray
holding his head he fell on the floor

I took the centrepiece, smashed it against his head
also smashed a bottle of brandy and stabbed his chest
his body trembled and I knew he was dead
a sigh of relief! now I can finally get some rest

the ashtray was a gift from me on our anniversary
your death is a gift to me despite all the adversity.
Nov 2018 · 188
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
read the funniest satire, the funniest irony
the thing I most craved for is killing me

not so long ago, found myself in a different version
I was neck-deep into a writer, a ****** good one
a cliché – a cig, a drink, a *** of ink, a quill, a paper
also ******* acted for him as momentary pain eraser

‘twas the writers ball where I first saw him
the year was 1940, he looked beautiful but grim
stared at him unapologetically
but all he did was self-pity

the essence, the manners, the abyss in his eyes
every word, every action revealed a man so wise
spent all my nights deciphering every metaphor
curious about what was written on the papers he tore

I wished to reach out and say even poets ***** up
he was busy taking sips from the death cup
wrote to him asking to let me in his world
crossed my heart to keep him secure and furled

I hoped to unburden the sorrows he hid
but death reached out before my letters did
the adversity of not having said, not having heard
drove me mad like him, like him now I live in words.
Nov 2018 · 158
Flesh and blood
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
pardon me, my memory is blurred
do not scrutinise my every word
it was late in the night
a memory in black and white

the house was quiet
neighbourhood silent
only my mumbling could be heard
and my speech was slurred

I saw shadows drifting
my telephone began ringing
when rushed to attend the call
I do not have a telephone I recalled

peeked at the reflection in the shelf
to my horror, I saw me chasing myself
looked at myself in the mirror
saw a ghostly ghoul getting closer

ran to my bedroom and bolted the door
from all the crying, my eyes were sore
wondered if this was a dream or was I dead
I turned around to find myself lying in the bed

a one-eyed monster devoured my flesh and blood
I screamed until on the door there was a thud
petrified I hid under the bed feeling trapped
sensed a hand on my neck, my neck was snapped

I opened my eyes and I was a part of the crew
it is now time, we are coming to get you.
Oct 2018 · 224
I feel dead
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
in one of our pointless pillow talks,
you asked me once,
“do sunflowers feel dead at night?”
now that you took away my light,
I feel as dead as these
yellow tinted flowers in the
absence of its soul food.
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
ghosts, monsters in my head
a body has been found dead
the news caught like fire in the town
they think it is Pennywise the clown

a man so ruthlessly butchered
a question still hangs
why was he murdered?

so many suspects, so many faces
this is one of those rare cases
his intestines inside out, bones shattered
blood all over the house scattered

“REDЯUM” written on a wall
a thought hits one and all
Oh my God! it is Jack Torrance
but he froze to death, what non-sense!

another day, another ******
now they suspect Jack the Ripper
the woman drowned in her bath tub
the ashtray was full of cigarette stubs

he dances around and sings a song
enjoying all the things he has done wrong
still out at large is the killer
nobody suspected the friendly Casper.
Oct 2018 · 356
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
drenched in the colours
of sunlight ombré
your soul burns
so incandescently
that it could have
saved Prometheus
from the wrath of Zeus.
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
It is a voice I am trying to abandon,

Grey coloured glasses concealed my eyes
Of a condition as clear as the summer sky
That caused permanent damage to my sight,

This thrum has caged me in a mirthless setting,
Hating an existence, harming an existence,
I wonder which is for me, which is for the other,
Saving an existence, subduing an existence,

Hand in hand they go, trust and deceit,
Usurped a land only to leave it barren,
Murdered a being and nobody found it,

It is a buzz preventing me from moving ahead,
Numbing my fingers and aching my head,
Suffocating darkness is everywhere,
It is getting difficult to breathe, it is in the air,
Debunking your half-truths and all the lies,
Evoked so much grief that even the sky cries,

My mind is begging for a moment’s sanity,
Yearns for a fresh breeze, for tranquility,

Heart that is decayed now hopes to dream,
Eager eyes are waiting to gleam,
And wishes to drift into a far off galaxy,
Desires to bloom, to reach the sky valiantly.
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
my legs took me to a sandy shoreline
in a cold beach where I sat and wept
the spaces between my ribs ache
due to blistering darkness
and aching apartness
that left an abyss
and gave birth to
of vain
stained lines
that brought hopes
of starting fresh
but time and again
a small crevice brings back
dead dreams and decayed deceit
screaming to be avenged the way
Heathcliff takes his vengeance until
he drops his will and resolves to let go.
Oct 2018 · 246
Still searching
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
long gone are the days I had a muse
oh, whatever shall I do?
sans an inspiration to write
my love for words – how do I pursue?

eyes that can see every colour and light,
every season, all the blues in the sky,  
but in this constant conflict of life,
they are still searching the real I

it scares the doves and hummingbirds
as the Wolves howl in the wilderness,
getting better, getting stabbed
poison or medicine – the same bitterness

I sense something hopeful in the air today
a buzzing in my ear, is it a bee?
send me something sunset coloured
and awaken beautiful verses in me

the stars are shining, the moon is full,
time flies by as I sit and wonder,
a thought that numbs my fingers,
could I ever write like Austen or Shakespeare?
Oct 2018 · 151
Music, a haiku
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
I now fathom the
mus(e)ic I used to worship –
just words and no rhythm
Oct 2018 · 200
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
awakened by an insatiable longing,
for a home more beautiful than summer sky
and a field of freshly fallen snow at dawn,
this home – a metaphor, a feeling,
a marrow, a being,
a rumination in passing
crushed until the longing became excruciating,
a two-story building made out of need,
became a place of profanity and constant greed,
adversity infected is this home,
suffocating is the air inside this home.
Sep 2018 · 526
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
her hair like ripples of wave
endlessly crashing against the shoreline
like our sins crashing agin our existence

her eyes shine
like there is a sun hidden behind her iris and
the galaxy refuses to know night when she is happy

her skin like fauve
the violence of colours marking each freckle
and tracing an uncharted galaxy on her velvety skin

her existence blossomed
like a flower
fresh from the water, gentle and chaste

her muscles, sinews, tendons
and axons ruptured anew
as the stars in the sky held and mothered her.
Sep 2018 · 265
Tidal wave
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
the way you hid
your corrupt soul
behind words (now
irrelevant of meaning
and emotions) to
cause chaos and
it unsettled even
the universe
that it sat back and
got drunk on the night
of your revelation.
Sep 2018 · 201
time, the traitor
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
time, the traitor
shall break even those
that do not mend,
banyan trees
soundless bones
dusty mirrors
drowning hearts
and our swiftly moving shadows.
Sep 2018 · 68
Mend when undone
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
the descending sun’s rays,
fuming but gentle
that nothing was on fire
but fire was on everything,
the bright fireflies
tiny moths
a dying old man
ignored messages
the throat that cursed,
the descending sun’s rays,
fuming but gentle
ending a forever
but beginning an eternity.
Sep 2018 · 479
Read me a story
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
sit with me and read me the story of
the dervish, his forty rules about god and love,
his sacred relationship with a student
who whirled in his absence,
wrote poetry in his name and
scattered it across the midnight
sky we now see as stars.

sit with me and read me the story of
tragedy, wings made of feathers and wax,
how he celebrated his freedom
by flying too close to the sun
before plummeting back to earth
and meeting his end in the sea, with Poseidon.

sit with me and read me the story of
the brave boy who lived,
a scar on his forehead, magic up his sleeves,
stood in the realm of his own and
defeated the Dark Lord with the help of one and all.

sit with me and read me the story of
second chances, two Afghan boys
and an extraordinary friendship,

sit with me and read me the story of
Rostam and Sohrab,

sit with me and read me a story
the way Amir read for Hassan.
Sep 2018 · 490
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
my rib cage has housed a turmoil,
distorting my tendons
crumbling my home
made of cards,
it echoes of thunderstorms in its
flaky foundation and weak walls,
igniting a wildfire in the
curve of your spine, my home,
the only residues are these ashes,
now I am homesick.
Sep 2018 · 105
Sugar cube
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
bear with me as I go on
rambling about the desolation
and void anchored to the
cartilages of my elbows and knees,
misery reducing me
to the size of a sugar cube,
the denseness of my being
in the bygones
confounds me to a point
where it aches every nerve,
every cell and every tissue
that I could physically feel it,
it is way worse than
seeing someone dog-ear their book.
Sep 2018 · 236
birthstone, a haiku
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
sapphire-like pure eyes
an ocean full of sky blue -
deep, glossy and true
Sep 2018 · 88
Poor little oreo
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
a child was born
of an evil mind
the mother was unknown
for her love is always blind

the calming face
had no trace
of the monster hidden
doing deeds that are forbidden

the child is all grown up
adopts a cute little pup
names him Oreo
to match his double-standard ego

outgrew playing with it
decided to one up his ****
this time played with fire
and burned his own lair

now the man is sad
roams around like a nomad
he has lost his wit, prays for death,
but even death is ashamed to touch it.
Sep 2018 · 78
The way of life
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
how tragic is the ending,
the farewell, the parting,
like suddenly the sun refuses
to share space with the moon.

how dismal is losing yourself,
to deceit, to high, to oneself,
like knowing the wooden plank is
broken but still standing on it.

how uncertain is falling,
in dreams, in a pit, in love,
like the death of your
favourite character in a series.

how inconsolable are memories,
of you, of us, of once upon a time,
like explaining colours to a
colourblind person.

how inevitable is death,
of relationships, of loyalty, of people,
like asking for a withered
rose to bloom again.
Sep 2018 · 69
Telling stories
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
empty corners
profound silence
telling stories
of rainy days,
of a home,
a valley of dreams
and hope that once
thrived on fairy lights
and optimism,
now poisoned by
gnawing termites
and catastrophic sins.
Sep 2018 · 69
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
betrayal is an odd emotion,
masked by altruism,
kissed by Judas,
it makes a home inside
your neurones,
resides there like
it owns the body,
forces you to abandon
every bit of rationality,
slithers into your ears
and hisses in a nerve-racking
voice like Voldemort’s,
“you are not enough
  you are not enough.”
Sep 2018 · 222
Star-like existence
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
I realised
I can not hold light
or words
as they slipped out
from the crevices
of my fingers
and the palm that had
our names written,
ink smudged and
seeped under my skin,
same syllables
the association of letters
your postfix
my prefix,
now I fail to get
the letters of
your name right,
the light,
or you.
Sep 2018 · 106
All things wild
Simra Sadaf Sep 2018
my eyes get heavier,
fingers numb,
and breath faster at the
rare sight of pretty death,
I hope you remember my
sensation left on the traces
of your velvet like skin,
our stargazing nights,
lazy mornings in bed,
remember me as the scent
I gave to your collarbone
of primrose and fresh air on
the night we became whole,
and remember me as all things wild.
Aug 2018 · 224
Simra Sadaf Aug 2018
gone with the night,
my guiding light,
I know I will see you again,
but this time, in another's eyes.
Simra Sadaf Aug 2018
a bandaid drenched in loneliness got ripped off your soul the day she entered your life, just when you were beginning to think you were nothing but a speck in the entire universe, a new growth began, a storm brought two chaos together.

that first look - a seedling bloomed at the nape of your neck, the first touch - your perspective began to change, you started seeing things differently, white became unholy, black spoke to you like heavenly beauty, and the blues finally decided to leave your body.

Bukowski said something about letting it **** you, when you were expecting to be consumed, she was the first to leave her fingerprints on you when others were leaving scars. In a muted testimony, you vowed to her your whole existence, in return, she vowed you the survival of this blissful chaos.

and now you finally have someone to tell, "i carry your heart with me"
Aug 2018 · 175
And so I write
Simra Sadaf Aug 2018
as long as my fingers know how to hold a pen,
I will write, I will write endlessly,
about the sunny days,
the sleepless nights,
my deepest thoughts,
about love in people's hearts,
crookedness in their souls,
the black and white mindset,
colours that fill a child's heart,
tongue that bleeds all kinds of lies,
lips that never twitch while making shallow promises,
hands that never tremble while sinning the gravest of sins,
soul that never shivers while slicing another's skin.
Aug 2018 · 477
Cor cordium
Simra Sadaf Aug 2018
when you would finally find yourself standing on my doorstep,
my neighbours will let you know,
that the poet has long left,
the splendid grandeur of my being
confounds me not anymore,
alone I wander across the roads,
my only companion are these words,
writing about our union in the afterlife,
I roam around these streets with
my heart in hand,
my soul dwells, somewhere in the void,
in the end, it will find its way you,
to breathe my last,
to finally know what it feels like to breathe,
to die in your arms,
to embrace new beginnings,
for I am a poet,
we live for dramatic endings.
Aug 2018 · 410
I search for you there
Simra Sadaf Aug 2018
i. the morning dews,
droplets of moisture on the flowers,
a sharp breeze of air,
sounds of birds chirping,
I see the sun rising from the horizon,
I search for you there.

ii. Twenty Love Poems and a
Song of Despair in my hand,
the flow of poetry,
his numerous poems,
Pablo Neruda's verses,
I search for you there.

iii. the noon time heat,
the bees buzzing,
tearing petals of a beautiful flower,
******* honey from nectar to nectar,
taking away its mirth,
to build his beehive,
I search for you there.

iv. a tree by the river,
the exuberance of its growth,
it was once fresh with green leaves,
seasons changed,
spreading its branches,
now it stands leafless,
I search for you there.

v. the arrival of dusk,
ecstatic shine of the moon,
I once saw you shine in
ways brighter than the moon,
these confusing hues and
illuminating shades of twilight,
I search for you there.

vi. the merciless pounding of waves
against the sandy shore,
on an uneventful day,
it turned into a tsunami wave,
the velocity of it,
took lives in abundance,
I search for you there.
Jul 2018 · 291
The butterfly effect
Simra Sadaf Jul 2018
Monday morning,
melancholic mass,
somewhere far away,
a butterfly flapped its wings
sitting on the grass,
one massive wave took down
and entire land,
marooned it all and
left behind a million scars
Jul 2018 · 282
a pool of existentialism
Simra Sadaf Jul 2018
in a vigil of longing and yearning,
we are left between time and destiny,
by what might may we subdue time,
for it is leaving, it is a traitor,
by what might may we quell destiny,
for it is wicked, it is deceiving,
in lieu of longing and yearning,
a blade is plunged into our backs,
by what might may we annihilate
the torment of bad faith?
Jul 2018 · 263
Unsaid, Unheard.
Simra Sadaf Jul 2018
I hope you hear the things
I can never bring myself to say,
every second of everyday,
the pain of unanswered answers
and unquestioned questions bury
me into myself,
strangling me, suffocating me,
fading me into your silence,
you had me fooled with your manipulation and calculated diligence,
it frightens the soul out of me
to know the truth,
to know why you had to play me,
I guess this is how it will always be,
not knowing, not asking,
things left unsaid,
things left unheard.
Jul 2018 · 522
Blue Valentine
Simra Sadaf Jul 2018
remember I mentioned
Khaled Hosseini is my favourite?
how I love every single word
he has ever written,
he believed in second chances,
he said, "there is a way to be good again"
yes, there is, it is only you that
chose not to be,
now you are as useless as unsweetened tea.

the truth is,
you were unfit,
unfit of anyone's pity,
sympathy and empathy.
the truth is,
i failed to see through you,
i failed to see the real you.

it was your birthday,
and I like to pretend you are dead,
your body is rotting, it is in decay,
can not reach out empty voids to wish
a happy birthday.

It is sad you never got a
chance to be truthful,
how you turned out
to be so unworthy,
it is sad you always had
to conceal your real identity.
Jul 2018 · 277
Solitary beach
Simra Sadaf Jul 2018
toes buried in the sand,
warming to the glory of sunset,
cool breeze of the ocean,
echoes of the evening softness,
reminding you of her touch
that mystified your heart,
her beautiful eyes as such
made you want to seek her soul out,
the miracle of resurrection had dawned on you when
her gaze met with yours,
a burning desire to keep staring
to find out why you
could not stop staring,
you returned to a place
where she had left her footprints,
your home, your heart,
your soul, this beach,
and you placed your feet
where she had left its mark,
igniting the old spark,
rekindling and bringing back
memories from its millenary sleep.
Jun 2018 · 259
Caged bird
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
little bird locked
           in a cage,
     with broken promises
            flowing from
                          her wrist,
                waiting for her nerves
                           to untwist,
                                 to fly,
                             f  l  y
Jun 2018 · 342
Sleepless sobriety
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
she weaved lies into her words
that seemed like light,
what a candle does to the dark,
the way your eyes turned bright,
turned brighter,
as you soaked in all the lies,

you wrapped your heart and
left it beside her bed,
she opened it desiring something
it's true, the laws of love and morals
are long dead,
and you sit there writing about better days like a mystic,

your faith and emotions in darkness now languish,
falling into pieces with this never ending anguish,
haunting memories, feeling diminished by sobriety,
you get drunk in the wine of morose poetry.
Jun 2018 · 321
Ballad of life
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
the dimensions of a beautiful
heart you once trusted,
has left your house haunted,
carrying the weight of a vice
and its foul play,
your shadow is weeping, hiding
under the candlelight in dismay,

your wings butchered and
cloths bear non-washable bloodstain,
you plead, "fix my lacerated wings,
for i wish to fly again"

even angels fear the kind of sadness
that leaves a soul breathless,
for it makes them commit the sin
of becoming faithless,
bury the ruffled thoughts
of grey torment in thy mind,
of this overbearing anxiety,
let your words unwind.
Jun 2018 · 353
your soul, a funeral
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
remnants of her preserved in your heart,
like the ashes of a dead person kept in an urn,
remembering the time when she was an important part,
also the time when she ignited a fire and let you burn,
initially the pain was just a whisper, like an ant bit your ear,
then it grew and grew like a mountain grinding your soul,
realising how you wasted your emotions, your every tear,
your time, your yearning, only to be left with a gaping hole,
you are driving yourself to madness and fright,
you hope there to be no respite in her tomb,
cause the sins of her were callous downright,
great will be the reach of her doom,
and flapping their wings will
come a lifetime of unmerciful gloom.
Jun 2018 · 357
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
in her beauty, the moon grows dim,
an ocean of thoughts raging inside your head,
perplexed whether to sink or swim,
you drown in the things left unsaid.

her touch could kindle flames,
the shrine of thine eyes,
has left you speechless,
she was your destruction and demise.

your heart skips a beat
when you hear her voice,
unknowing this was all a deceit,
this chaos was your own choice.

you are exhausted from being tamed,
she told you she is yours to have and hold,
her sweet lips broke the promise they proclaimed,
and soon her cruelty began to enfold.

your heart is desolate,
trapped into love's snare,
searching for a word stronger than hate,
God alone can save you from this despair.
Simra Sadaf Jun 2018
Denying acceptance, support and love,
force is the only weapon he chose,
his inner demon got unleashed,
a punch destroyed her credence,
his abuse scarred her skin,
she's locked in a cage,
purple lesions,
broken ribs,
leave that filth,
this is not love,
you are not alone,
you do not deserve this,
pick up the remains of you,
open the door to happiness,
you are strong enough to breathe again,
and learn to see beyond the grief and pain.
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