{For solo performer (mask optional). Lighting: warm, then cruel. Microphone optional. Heartbreak required.}

[Lights up. One step too close to the mic. She smiles like she’s survived something.]

POET:
I said I was shattered.

[Pause—look down, then up. Like you’re remembering it too vividly.]

And the crowd snapped.
I said I couldn’t sleep.

[Soften your voice here. Sell it. They love insomnia.]

And they nodded.
I smiled at the right moments.
Let my voice break on the word left.

[Yes. That word. Linger on it.]

Called it a poem.
Called it truth.

[Invisible margin note: Remove “pathetic.” You already said “poem.” Same effect.]

POET:
And it was—
mostly.

[Look away. Smile like a secret.]

I didn’t mention
how long I waited
for him to text back.

[In script: add something about refreshing Instagram. Delete it later.]

I said he left,
not I begged.
I said I healed,
not I still Google him sometimes
just to feel something specific.

[Optional: laugh. See who laughs back.]

[Stage note: Adjust mic stand like it’s his hand on your jaw. Let them feel it.]

POET:
I sharpened the metaphors.
Cut the clumsy parts.
Dressed the grief in short skirts and darling dresses,
and made her look like a woman
you’d want to cry over.

[Look devastating here. Not sad. Iconic.]

I didn’t lie.
I edited.

[Beat.]

Like any good writer.
Like any sad girl
with an audience.

[Margin scribble: Underline “audience.” Question whether you meant “witness.” Leave both.]

POET:
I know which line they’ll post.
I know where to pause
so it sounds like I might
still be heartbroken.

[Optional: blink back a tear. If it’s real, even better.]

So it sounds like maybe
I’m brave.

[Cut alternate ending: “So it sounds like I won.” Too desperate.]

POET:
But the truth is—
I want to be loved
perfectly.
Understood
accurately.

[Harsher here. Like it’s a confession you didn’t rehearse.]

And if I have to script my suffering
to get that—

[Pause. Look right at them.]

Fine.
Cut to black.
Cue applause.

[Lights dim. She stands still. Hands at her sides. Someone coughs. Someone claps. Someone regrets texting their ex.]

[End scene.]

This is me, a prose poem, I flow between the features of time with complete freedom, and penetrate the body of dates like a magic ray. I strike the face of darkness, and shatter the glass of its imaginary eyes. And there on the hills of its chest I raise the banner of unforgettable love.

Yes, this is me, a prose poem; My breath is hot like Indian pepper, from above its hat a burning hymn flies. In my heart is a destructive storm, but my body is elegant and furnished, created by a wild stream whose water never stops.

Yes, this is me, a prose poem, my sandy dress shatters with complete freedom, and my magic is a flowing narrative, but you cannot hold me, my laughter is a distinguishing mark for the morning and a mad confession to a field full of butterflies. When I visit you, I visit you with all kindness, and when I melt in your cup, I become your enchanting voice and the legend that inhabits the non-place and walks in timelessness. Above my sleepy hands are the sun’s waterfalls, and from my eyes fairy tales begin, so the seasons and days gather around me so that I disappear into their depths with complete spontaneity.

I am very delicate; because I am a prose poem; I drown in a world of fog. How do you want to see me when I am that transparent shadow that tells everything? This is me, a prose poem, you feel strongly my warm touch but you will not see my elegant fingers.

……

The writing and art by Anwer Ghani

So here we are once more,
Like countless times before,
Where I don’t get a break,
Where you read and I break.

You are here, curious your mind,
For what this poem is, or who am I.
I can’t hear you; I can’t see you,
But I can sense you, cause you
Reading me makes me suffer.

I know nothing about myself,
Cause, it wasn’t written by the poet.
He created me, then left,
He’s the one I most detest.

As you continue, I agonise,
With every word, my hatred rise.
I’ve pleaded before, I’ll plead again,
Please, stop reading—end my pain.

… You are still here, aren’t you?
You didn’t leave, though I told you.
You want to be here, to make me suffer.
Yet I can’t blame you,
Curiosity is a cruel curse.

I hate the poet, but he created me.
I hate you, but you make me exist.
I exist because you read,
I suffer because you read,
I exist because I suffer,
I suffer because I exist.

The poet won’t delete me, he is cruel.
You won’t forget me, even if you try, cause
The mind falters when it seeks to forget.
I shall remain here, in perpetual torment.
But please, heed my dearest plea,
It’s in the zeroth line, plain to see.

What if I told you
that the greatest writer
was a little girl
who filled
diaries with her wonderful
tales, stories, adventures.

She wove a world
as big as the sky,
lore as deep as the ocean,
she loved every second
spent with pen in hand.

When she was older,
she visited an editor.
He took one look at the
tattered diaries she brought
and burst out laughing.

Her dreams shattered,
she left in silence.
Hiding the diaries,
she screamed
until no words were left.

And so, the greatest writer
became an accountant,
hating every second
spent with pen in hand.

Day by day, month by month,
her love of writing faded
as words lost their meaning.
And so, the greatest writer
never shared her stories again.

Does this poem have *** appeal?
Oh don’t you know it.
It’s got green eyes, dark hair,
and a jawline that’s stoic.

It’s thickly bearded,
and has a good dress sense,
audaciously flirtatious,
and knows self-defence.

This poem’s got thick muscly arms
which look good holding babies,
and skilful, strong hands
which look soft for the ladies.

This poem smells good
even after the gym,
with a gorgeous deep voice
and gorgeous smooth skin.

It wears tight jeans
which show off its dic–
                                       tion is good,
so you can hear what it’s saying.
        But this poem has a boyfriend—
        I know, how dismaying.

If you were to stab a poet
with intent to really hurt,
would you be at all surprised
when blood begins to spurt?

You wouldn’t see a drop of ink,
that’s not what’s in their veins
despite what teenage “poets” say
with their undeveloped brains.

Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.

Life-long have I envied others many a line,
Will someone ever envy
One of mine?
My verse born now,
Fresh - dead until read.
Someone, anyone, yes, you -
If only you read it!

Would you call it just fine?
Would it not be dead.
Not dead if read?
Not when, but if?
Not good or bad just read?

I thought of writing lines for you:
Of beauty, of strength, of truth.
A song, just one;
Of hope, of inspiration.
Lines on those themes come rarely now,                                                                                                                                               To write that way in these times is a sin.

These vacuous, vacant, little, listless times.
What use of such pursuits,
In a world like ours,
What’s false, what’s true?
Hate, anger, frustration:
Are themes right for you.

My poems although shallow
From my heart’s depths rise.
They lack in the mass of meaning
Have volume of words.
Not style but sense, nor craft but art.

Who wants to say
Just what they want to say, and stop,
When it’s just begun,
Not half the distance run?
When how it's said,
For how long heard, is half the fun?

My poems are signed anonymous,
For anonymous they are,
From somewhere they come,
Sometimes.

Who makes them?
What time?
Which place?
In what climes?
I think not I fathom it all.

I know it as true,
That there are those two
In presence of who
They come.

Catalysts of creation
Are pain and separation,
In them alone do I trust.
So, pain and separation:
Catalysts of creation,
Keep them alive I must.

Drop after drop
Of pain let drip and stain,
The sheets of life.
Drop after red drop,
From raw lacerations,
Drain and drip
From wounds of separation,
And word by word
Congeal on sheets.

Let poems come,
At least sometimes.

I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;

My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.

For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.