Thoughts deflate then wither in silence,
Contained in this skull shaped dome
Breath taxis the sound like an organic drone
But delivers to no one,
A voiceless zone
They said they'd be here,
But no one's shown
It isn't new,
Still don't know what to do to atone
I wouldn't say I'm not lonely,
Just not alone
Many fractured personalities have left the nest,
Off to make a life of their own
I try to keep the piece on my own
Not a radical idea
Though
Not something I'd condone
It increases the gravity of a situation,
One I could have never known
But what's another boulder to a shoulder of stone?
The devil on the other shoulder is now older and grown
Adopting a fatherly tone
I got a bone to pick with him,
But that'll have to wait till we find home

©2024

In silence, in solitude
A line of people surround me
Perpetually faces protruding
Screams of turmoil falling on me
Like a pour of concrete
Permanently motions denied
Salvation lost in stillness
My existence feeding from it
Energy exuding from the hatred
Silence is lost on me
Too many talking
Cheap cynical laughter
No respite, no comfort
Lost my own voice within

My tongue is tethered to the words which have failed me.

मान्छेहरु जब ढुङ्गा बन्छन्
उनीहरु ढुङ्गाकै संगत गर्छन्
मौन

मौन
पहाडहरुतिर हेर्छन
मानौ तिनै तिनका ऐना हुन्
जसले उनीहरुका
प्रश्न, प्रश्नकै रुपमा फर्काउँछ
उत्तर, उत्तरैको रुपमा फर्काउँछ
न तिनका पयर
न चक्षु
न तिनका आवाज
न पंख
न तिनका मुस्कान
न आँसु्

मौन
न कल्पनामा डुब्छन्
न ऋतुहरुभै रंग बदल्छन्
सायद ढुङ्गा बन्न सजिलो छ
मौन

हामी अगरबत्ती बालेरैपनि
कृतीम सुगन्ध उत्पति गछौ
जब हामी मान्छेलाइ खुसी पार्न सक्दैनौे
जब हामी मान्छेहरुलाइ सेवा गर्दा गर्दा थाक्छौ
अन्तिममा  हामी ढुङ्गा बन्छौ
मौन

मौन
ढुङ्गैको संगत गर्छौ
ढुङ्गैकै पुजा गर्छौ

When I begin writing a poem,
the tears, blood and sweat of  the innocent become my ink
and the bones become my pen.

When I begin writing a poem,
the voiceless become my thoughts and I become the words of the voiceless.

When I begin writing a poem,
I only stop when I find no more pen,
for the bones are gone to the soil ben
And when there's no more ink,
for the tears, blood and sweat are dried up when there's no more heat

When I begin writing a poem,
beyond myself do I think,
till every line makes a sense
and the message is clear and felt.

By Jibril Abdulmalik ©2019

.
What he didn’t say
with voice,
he spoke clearly
with tears
that never left

his eyes.

.