loving you
turned me into a poet
both the artist and the muse
all at once
knowing i'd sing for you
just as quickly as i'd bleed
to make your world
more beautiful

even now
i'd describe the sea
a thousand ways
just to capture
your shade of blue.

Still a teenage girl
With a frozen watch
preparing for life's exams
By the balcony in that old house

I see him coming
Smiling at me
Two eyes admire me
Two hands carrying the key of my dreams

"Yes sir" Could be heard 
From your own children
You could have been their lucky charm,
But you chose to be the curse of their seven lives
Scaping from you and fall In a deep pit,
Became their lovely habit

You could be the light on their path
But became fire that burns their days
And they look at you as a wise man,
Without knowing his children's real favors
They married and believed
No man will be an angry man status
A symbol of hellhole like their father
But they were young
No one can be the dad
Even in being the worst !

All things past and now I am here
In front of you with all I was told
You were like an old tree for me
I could lay down beneath it
Swinging from its branches
Eating its fruits , finding the truths

You were different with me
I was on the life's stage
Doing right and wrong
Trying my best
And one person stood up
Clapping , shouting "go girl"

Others are my family,
But you were my everything
The crown on my head,
The Breeze of spring,
Sun of winter,
Rain of fall,
Cold water in summer
The moment of knowing one person between all strangers

We ate lunch at that table
Not knowing that was the last meal
The water turned to wine
But you never came

I watched you on bed
your hands held
By the very people you once reject
Saying sorry to them
You thought that was too late

I was not there that night
To Hear your last breath
To Feel your last sentence
And all at once
You were flying through the skies

I have a father
But I lost my pa
Nothing will be the same,
Your sprit leads my way
And my love for you grows more and more everyday

By Yasmin.Sh🌻

She were there
The closest—
But somehow the farthest.

Seeing Kafka in my mirror,
Sympathy clewed in the same desire.
He was lost to his father,
I am lost in not being my mother.

I try not to die between
Two walls closing in—
Those brows lined in anger
Chock me like a hanger
Crushing me,
But again, I ended up
Falling from her eyes.

Arrows from her mouth
Go straight to my heart.
Where are the shields?
I know She’s not my enemy.

Reading emotions in her eyes—
An easy job, a lovely hob_
Sitting on the hand
That tries to be kind,
Waiting for her
To be, proud.

Ashamed of who I am,
Proud of what I have
She hates who I am—
But I love all she is, and all she has.

I bite my nails
Searching for an end.
This waiting is long—
My watch is broken.

She hates my nails.
Should I cut my fingers
If it makes her happy?
But my nails—
They're the only things
That let me feel my pain.

Mom, I wait for you
To feel my mind,
To see my thoughts,
To sit by my side.

By Yasmin.Sh🌻

That long street
With traffic of trees
Whisper my name
Greens my brain

Red Geraniums
Behind my windows
Bring blood to my veins_
Makes me out of jail

water flows in the streams
Running through my soul
Lucid my dreams
Lifts the weight I hold

People still living
Remind me of leaving
Where can I go ?
When the birds Singing
A family is like a circle
Staying with them is The Miracle

By Yasmin.sh🌻

What happened?
When did I become my enemy?
When did I plan this betrayal?
That's aching inside me.

I didn't know it was this easy
to destroy yourself
I didn't think it was possible
I could turn the love to hate
within yourself

I never thought
I would betray myself one day
I would look down on myself one day
And I specifically didn't know
I would not be able to carry the weight of this hurt one day

Now?? What now?
Am I supposed to hate myself
The way I hate
The others who betrayed me?

Am I supposed to forgive??
But then, wouldn't it be unfair??
to those who were never
Forgiven by me
When their betrayals were
not even close to what I did to myself??

She only smokes when she’s spiraling or performing.
Usually both.
Says she loves a dramatic flourish—
exhales like a closing line,
laughs like a scratched record.

You’ll meet her at a party that’s already ending.
She'll kiss you like she’s trying to delete her own mouth,
like you’re just the eraser.
She'll leave before sunrise
because she hates how the light arrives slowly,
and can’t stand watching the world wake up
and not call her back.

If you ask what she’s looking for,
she’ll point at the exit sign and say,
“Something with the same glow.”
You’ll think she’s flirting,
but she’s actually just listening hard
for the next excuse to leave.

If you ask for her number,
she’ll give you a poem,
one with no punctuation
and a key taped to the back.
Not to her place.
To your undoing.

She tells stories like she’s double-daring
the past to contradict her.
Someone once told her
she seems like the kind of girl
who disappears mid-sentence.
She said,
“Only when the sentence forgets I started it.”

She collects promises like matchbooks:
already scorched,
still reeking of places
that almost got her to stay.

At dinner parties,
she compliments your cutlery
then slices the conversation open.
Asks what you hate most about your mother
before the bread hits the table.

You’ll want to know her real name.
She’ll say something like,
“It’s carved into a tree somewhere,”
before you realize
you’ve already said it in your sleep.

And when you find the poem she gave you
weeks later,
crumpled in your coat pocket,
you’ll swear you hear her laugh
when you read the last line out loud:
“Don’t follow. I haunt better when I’m alone.”

She’s the reason
someone, somewhere,
is learning the difference
between being worshipped
and being watched.

And when she finally leaves—
because she always does—
you’ll swear you still smell
ozone, orange blossom,
and the beginning of a very pretty ruin.

She leaves you rearranged—
not broken,
just fluent in a dead dialect
that only speaks in warning signs.

You’ll start writing things
you don’t remember feeling
and calling it healing.
But it’s just possession.
The poem wasn’t for you.
It was the door.

She doesn’t burn bridges.
She just convinces them to jump.

She never really leaves.
She just sets the room on fire
and watches who runs toward the smoke.

(And if she ever comes back—
and she will—
don’t blink.
She’s made of edits,
and she notices cuts.)