With warmth of your beauty you can rekindle fire of love
My love you have totally changed my life to be glorious
I love you from the core of my heart little my innocent dove
You have touched chords of my love to make me boundless

When your beauty smiles with its all style charms and graces
I feel overtaken with my heart and soul to world of solace
As cloud come to the moon to touch and caress ,embraces
My sweetheart I bow in front of your God gifted eternal grace

Let me love you with all my strength and all available power
You have to be mine to ascertain that I am right and frank
Let me be in the streaks of your delighted light to take a shower
Let me write all my love on your beauty taking it a sheet blank

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

I'm exhausted.
I'm physically and emotionally drained.
I find myself looking to nowhere, thinking of nothing, empty
and I still don't know where all these tears are coming from.
I'm not mad, I don't feel rage, I don't feel anything,
nothing but this sharp pain in my chest that comes and goes,
and the sudden knot in my throat as the smallest thing reminds me of you.
But no, I'm not mad at you. Stop asking me that.

“I ought not to speak,
I ought not to eat what my wealthy heart deserves,
I ought not to be seen anywhere
But with my wealthy heart,
I am rich.
I ought not be always right,
But  with my wealthy heart,
I am not wrong”

it will always fascinate and horrify me
how the people responsible for bringing you into this world
are the ones who make you rapidly sift through the file cabinet in your mind labeled "suicide attempts you haven't tried yet" in order to exit it

young girl,
you will scream at the top of your lungs
and they will call your cries crazy and your eyes will swell

young lady,
you will run down the streets of a city that will consume you
and you will pray it gets to you before they do

and you will age and you will return
maybe for a visit, maybe for a funeral, maybe for an answer
and you will be quieter, softer, and a little less angry

you might not understand why they pinned you in a corner
or locked you in the garage
or tried to quite literally **** you

you might not understand why they bought you plane tickets
and cars and shiny new things
you might be haunted by long car rides, equally terrible in silence or otherwise

"you know we love you"
"i know"

say it back
say it back, you ungrateful *****
you want to complain about how oppressed you are but they gave you everything, didn't they
everything money could buy, right

what else mattered?

**** your spiritual sanity and intangible desires
what kind of hippie nonsense are you whining about this time
ungrateful
******* ungrateful

then leave
run away (again)
you won't have us when you come back

come back
how dare you abandon us
******* ungrateful *****

don't you know we love you

at least say thank you
at least say thank you
at least say thank you

take bad news out on a date. give it your time and attention on a subway ride after work. buy it $2 margaritas at a gay bar on a tuesday. ignore questions about it. plan tattoos about it. sing terribly and loudly about it. do anything but talk about it. do anything but talk about it.

i am from the west coast of california and the east coast of maharastra,
from the suburban houses of tracy and the village bungalows of jandu singha, from golden gate drive and marine drive.

i am from the united states public education system and the indian caste system. i am from the land of opportunities and the byproduct of two different american dreams.

i am from places i didn't choose and places i will never completely be able to leave. i am from the coordinates tattooed on my right arm, the hills with the prettiest sunsets in the whole world, from the love of a man with rigid principles and a woman who broke all the rules. i am from a culture that says i shouldn't but a mindset that says i will.

But an apology flies
beyond yourself
to land on those places
you never knew you had hurt;
the thread that holds a scar together;
it speaks the language
only wounds and time know
and offers a sweet prose;
- Sorry.

An apology has wings: a white moth
of truth: it flies from the quicksand grave
of self-importance - beyond you - to land
on those barren places you never knew
you had drained of colour; it spins the thread
that winds a scar tight so that it does not grow
into the volcano
holding its shadow hostage
with the threat of eruption,
rather it must be the outline
of a mountain range of memory,
a reminder that beauty builds
its shape from the ugly things it conquered;
sorry - it offers a sweet prose,
speaks the gentle language
only wounds and time know.