If I were not a person who dealt in words
the same way others dealt in currency
(or maths
or measures
or facts
or any number of infinitely more practical things)

If I were not a person who breathed in the flow of letters against pages
and thoughts against spaces

I would never love an artist

because no matter the medium of the life
cra
wl
in
g
beneath their skin

No matter if they hear notes in the flip of her hair
(or paint galaxies of the breath against her cheeks
or create worlds hinged on his fallen eyelash
or build monuments to his unguarded laughter
or sway to whatever melody her eyes serenade beyond flickering boredom)

no matter the medium they substitute for the oxygen they inhale
Their hearts
do not exist
—cannot—
outside of the muse they substitute
to pump their passions through their veins

And if I were not a person who dwelt between the strokes of the letters
and devoured the length of meters

I would never love an artist

because their lives are forever forfeit to their muse
sold, clapped in heavy irons
to a desert oasis you cannot reach
because you cannot be his muse, if he has notched you onto his belt

For an artist would never endanger his muse, no matter if he loved her
(or worshipped her
or tortured her
or reveled in her
or whatever multiple definition love has contracted)

If I were not a person who knew the woes of seeing more
than what the world might first offer

But I am.
And I understand.

And I would never love an artist

For I belong to my muse and so does he
and She demands
that no competition come from the love
She allows me
outside Her chamber doors
and an artist's brilliance is competition indeed

And I can only ever love an artist
who
might
forgive
And who might understand
If I told her she is my muse no longer

today I read a book about a girl who rebuilt herself
who escaped the most dangerous prison in the world
also knows as her mind
today I read a book about a girl who decided to fight back and be okay
and I saw so much of myself in her
so I know I'll be okay
even my scars have scars of their own
and it doesn't hurt that much to bleed anymore
but I've realized that while the sky is bright I owe the sun appreciation
even though it's hurt me quite a bit
today I read a book about a girl who chose herself
and since today is a good day
I feel like I can be that girl

Today we lost poor Carrie Fisher,
Princess Leia was quite a disher,
Never mind, an expert would say,
Dr. Who still lives on today,
Leia lives on in our memories,
From her life, we have a legacy........

Life is an endless stream of strange and wonderful events
At times our sweet dreams take us to palaces being in tents
We face realities of life with harsh and sweet comments
With relentless efforts even we can't repair ugly dents

Soul makes us cry heart takes to other external extremes
From sheer darkness at times we get enlightened beams
Our unfulfilled wishes come become colorful in dreams
Men with clear intentions make teams with proud esteems

Let take a fresh start with heart and soul blank neat and clean
This is how we can **** our intentions mean to be evergreen
Be aware of evil on scene and to abolish it fully from screen
Be cheerful and realist to face reality make virtue your routine


Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Her chastity has been taken away by ***** eyes
Her virginity has been molested by ***** dogs
No one is ready to listen just her innocent cries
Useless discussions are on in the company of frogs
    
Justice is on altar just to see the callous attitude
But no one is there to take the sinners to the task
The ***** ones are all around to play like  shrewd
All types of rascals are roaming wearing the mask

Humanity is nowhere animal instinct is at the rise
Chastity and purity is available but just negligible
In this market there are very less who are the wise
In  chaos and ***** atmosphere how to get an angel

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

Dear,

A lot has changed in the last year and a half
since the day God decided to scoop you up from our ember-warm hometown
and swallow you whole about sixty years earlier than any of us would have ever prayed for.
We would have all given up our one gold-embellished chance to write the center-spread
ecstatically collected our own blood and sweat and knuckles met with writers-cramps
if that meant watching wrinkles sprout permanently across your forehead
roots of trees burying themselves into the grooves of your smile lines.
We would have sacrificed all that hard-earned pain
that stain issues one through four
and that old putrid-beige colored couch
that we hated so much but clandestinely found comfort in leaning our heavy heads on still
in the crook of its homely, familiar shoulder
thinking that we were Shakespeare's apprentices
through fluttering eyelids
creating clusters of words that had to have been New York Times worthy—we were sure
although we knew the furthest we could really go is the furthest your laugh could carry across a room
and that's still pretty far—we could all spit shake and swear—
because I can still hear it sometimes all the way down here
where each tendon in my body is capable of feeling solidity
where I am haunted by uhtceare, wondering if you're too cold
where halos don't exist outside of dreams
not even when the sun is a cracked egg and dripping onto tables, the roofs of cars
not even then is anything brighter than the whites of your lively eyes
and I think you'd like to know that we're still thinking about you
that I can't think about white anymore without thinking about the vulgarity of bathtubs
and your hate for poems that include contractions—I'm sorry I've let you down
but I think you'd like to know that I've finally stopped having nightmares
and even the thinnest-skinned of us all, you know which one,
has been able to convince himself that the embrace of the Earth
just isn't the place for you anymore
that you've already outgrown all of us at fifteen-years-old
and we're sorry for not believing sooner that poetry can save the world.