Talia 2h
I have unrealistic dreams
     you expect the love to last for eternity but it's never like that.
                                                 it goes from
         "I want to marry you."
                                                   to just..
                                                          ­      "Can we just be friends.."
You say it's not my fault;
was it truely all in your head?
Or was it because of that woman,
that woman who was just your "friend?"
The woman who has you on strings like a marionette?
Why is it that you went from
"you're my future wife,"
                                                to              ­  
                                                             "I don't love you anymore.."  
after spending time with her?
You say it's because you're finally being honest with yourself..
But you were never honest with me.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 1
The material body was yet in the making
The first and foremost luminary feminine
ebb and flow heartily pans out
flawless flow to the finest angle.
Across the nadir to the zenith
Fathima eyes on upon it like it
shapes and forms are waxing lyrical:
The pure masterpiece without a mirror!

Arts on the go Fathima moves on.
Praise be to the Lord she being made
to measure inborn mathematical the pi is her!
(For the perfect circle the circumference is masculine
The pi tends to circle the blank space within is feminine)
She can budge equally in the shadow
in patternless pi decimals and in the open,
in integer into a whole full number!

Hops up her first step she looks for ‘the all’
the complete whole the absolute one Allah.
Time and again she steps up but finds no floor
Her measured step by default lays on 360-degree circle
Scans all things at the first go still finds no bottom!

The first luminary masculine peace be upon him
first looks in the open she takes the veiled angle.
Through the evermore pi decimal micro-hole
She looks on and witnesses the first water drop
surfaces up without a base without a roof on top!
It follows through truly the copy of the original
softly springing around the serene water paints  
of all the maters to be created from this first drop.
Fathima looks at it and veils withdraws her reflection.

It’s still remembered in the sky that follows suit.  
First, a star was born stepping in Fathima’s shoe.
It tried so did the full set of galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Cause amidst this water circle floats the first soil.
Allah called it His house that He first created from it.
Every planetary orb pilgrimage around it in the core
known as Ka’abah up to the heart of the earth it rose.

In the pre-designed world after the first masculine
the first feminine Fathima thus did the first pilgrimage.
She walked the walk did so in the patternless pi veil.

Nature is never uneven on the hidden hand of the pi.
Every little fraction, the small decimal does it count
connects to the dot without showing up a pattern!
Long live, long live the digital charisma is on the rise.

Retracing time and again the sun rises in the median lane,
yet the black box scores it's only a dark chart end of the day!
The Moon is yet to moon over an unturned sublunary-dip
It pulls all, the mighty sea that the earth can't
and sync in the feminine water cycle but save only one
with Fathima floating out of the box it can’t link up!

Like millions, ever wonder where Fathima’s grave is?
The earth strived too to the death bite to print her footprint!
Most of the mass visiting Medina look too see the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been a tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown. Reportedly she wanted her grave to remain unidentified.
Can't help it cry
Thinking why you had to die
Before you could fly
So young and bright...
Your life gave me hope now
Your death gives me power
To do more than I can
Knowing one can die
In the blink of an eye
But death is painful
Only to the living
The leaving are being set free
From the burdensome world
Filled with strife
And very few moments of glee
Pain is hard to ignore but it's good to know because it makes you a better version of you!

Follow me and I will follow you back. Let's interact and socialise!
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.
You preferred the Mahler
rather than the Delius;
the record played on
your Hi-Fi as we sat
on your blue sofa.

You'd brought us two
glasses of whiskey
and we sat and listened.

There was a print on the wall:
some country scene,
lovers at the corner, kissing.

The curtains were drawn closed
to shut out the street lights
and moon.

Not sure
I could be roused
by Delius, you said,
Mahler it is
who rouses me.

We sipped and sat
next to each other.

Last time I was there,
after Mahler's 5th
we went into your bedroom
and undressed
and made love.

After we lay there hot
and drenched with sweat,
and you said your husband
could never bring you
to such heights.

I remember
our first time,
a year or so before,
and I had come
to your apartment,
and after talk
and drinks,
you seduced me.

You were much
older than I,
but it unwound me
and brought life back
into your bed.

Sometimes I brought
wine or sherry;
often we drank
a whole bottle
between us.

Years later,
a friend of ours
stopped me and said
you had died:
your heart had stopped
and you were found
alone on your bed.

I hadn't seen you
in years;
we had drifted apart.

I remember
your warm smile
and over-beating heart.
Emily 3d
somebody once told me
there's a fire in your eyes
he told me he liked the way
I turned without goodbyes

somebody once told me
you're more beautiful than the moon
& he kissed the craters of my thighs

somebody once told me
I'll love you until this world comes undone
he was a man familiar with the taste of lies on his tongue

somebody once told me
you walk on broken hearts
he turned on his heel, headlights piercing the dark

somebody once told me
I don't miss you anymore
he reappeared only to slam the door.

I never said goodbye
to the one who told me
he loved the fire in my eyes
It was the forbidden fruit
sticky sweet and dripping
down your greedy fingers
as you watched her
from the corner of your eye

Skin like glass
eyes like fire
a laugh that rings
a smile that touches the sky

She was magnanimous
an unwitting host to your innermost desires

You stole the fruit
and you knew the consequence
but in the end
what did it matter?

An eternity of suffering for your disobedience
or a lifetime of regret from pushing it away?

They said the fruit was poison
that it would steal your breath
and take your soul

But how was that any different from
what she did to you?
How was it any different than
meeting her eye?
You held the small dog
in your arms like a baby,
kissed its head and nose.

I watched you
outside the shop;
people passed
and some stopped
and talked about it
or wanted to admire
or pat its head.

You put the dog down
and it sniffed the pavement.

You spoke to it
as to a child
as it sniffed
about your feet.

A small dog,
some special breed,
known to be vicious,
but this one was tame,
and childlike,
as you patted its head
and back.

You lifted it up again,
kissed its head and nose,
and when your husband
came out of the shop
with your daughter,
you walked away,
carrying the dog
in your arms,
and out of sight
in the crowd.

I wondered if the dog
ever walked like a dog should,
ever chased rabbits
in a field or wood.
She was born of a forest
And rests her heart  
Shallow in pooled dreams
Dripping further than her tears
Falling to soft earth.

She eats rosed lilies
and pickled cattails
All while
Her footsteps leave no absence known
As her lithe nymph body melts into the foliage.

And her arms permanently reach
Into the void of
All unknowable things.
Grasping at gossamer threads,
Like thoughts that can't be spun together.
I am starting to recognize myself again
You know, the me that you tried to suffocate
The real me
The woman that laughs out loud at dirty jokes
The woman that didn't want to bite her tongue in front of your judgemental family

I am starting to look in the mirror and like myself again
You know, the me that you always insinuated needed to lose weight
The woman who likes to cook things because they taste good, not simply because "Angela, the body needs only nutrients"
The woman that didn't  want to disintegrate into broken pieces for you

I am starting to remember what my voice sounds like standing up for myself
I am beginning to recall what the tv shows and movies I love sound like
I am finally starting to love myself again
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