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#wrenched
Soyi soyi si hai zindagi Koyi bewaqt awaaz na de Kismat meri ruthi si hai Magar ankh khul jati hai Tere ek ehesaas se... *** Life is almost at a sleep stage No one even gives a call My fate is upset, yet willing As my eyes opens From the unusual feeling *** Saaye se bhi, waja puch le Ki darpar dastak kiyu nahi karti Zalim dil soh nahi pata Raato ki beraham tanhayiyan Har waqt tujhe pukarti... *** Ask the shadow the reasons Why it doesn't show up these days This wrenched heart, cannot sleep In the loneliness of night Calls for you, then starts to weep *** Farista ban gaye ** ya fakir Likhte hi nahi ** mere naseeb Ek tutta tara, aine mei dekha Khoobsurat sa chahera Har baar rutha... *** Have you become an angel or a saint You no longer write my fate A shooting star, on the mirror sighted A beautiful face Saddened yet delighted... *** ©sim
0
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
Seema
Zindagi/Life
Soyi soyi si hai zindagi Koyi bewaqt awaaz na de Kismat meri ruthi si hai Magar ankh khul jati hai Tere ek ehesaas se... *** Life is almost at a sleep stage No one even gives a call My fate is upset, yet willing As my eyes opens From the unusual feeling *** Saaye se bhi, waja puch le Ki darpar dastak kiyu nahi karti Zalim dil soh nahi pata Raato ki beraham tanhayiyan Har waqt tujhe pukarti... *** Ask the shadow the reasons Why it doesn't show up these days This wrenched heart, cannot sleep In the loneliness of night Calls for you, then starts to weep *** Farista ban gaye ** ya fakir Likhte hi nahi ** mere naseeb Ek tutta tara, aine mei dekha Khoobsurat sa chahera Har baar rutha... *** Have you become an angel or a saint You no longer write my fate A shooting star, on the mirror sighted A beautiful face Saddened yet delighted... *** ©sim
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Thursday night is game night but Hasbro has never had this one right. Operation is not a game for ages four and up–maybe four, multiplied by four, add four, and up. Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped, and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table: I like to start with the Adam's apple– carve away any trace of my origins and they will never figure out who I am because, like my mother used to say to me, who is Eve without a blameless man. Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar but they cannot be caught, only drowned. Naturally, the broken heart follows but the problem with pulling that out is the never-ending-silence, white-noise-science, black-hole-giant, You know, the absence that predates writer's block– writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the (best kept) secret IV of an author. Is that the price of filling up your bread basket, going to bed full on recognition and reward and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize? Be careful not to trip up on your own ego or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle and water on the knee. I still have to deal with the wishbone, the split-in-two-gravestone, the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone. And finally, I have the spare ribs but I just might leave those there because we see what happened when God bothered to remove those the last time.
0
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
mollie-grant
Operation
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro has never had this one right. Operation is not a game for ages four and up–maybe four, multiplied by four, add four, and up. Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped, and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table: I like to start with the Adam's apple– carve away any trace of my origins and they will never figure out who I am because, like my mother used to say to me, who is Eve without a blameless man. Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar but they cannot be caught, only drowned. Naturally, the broken heart follows but the problem with pulling that out is the never-ending-silence, white-noise-science, black-hole-giant, You know, the absence that predates writer's block– writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the (best kept) secret IV of an author. Is that the price of filling up your bread basket, going to bed full on recognition and reward and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize? Be careful not to trip up on your own ego or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle and water on the knee. I still have to deal with the wishbone, the split-in-two-gravestone, the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone. And finally, I have the spare ribs but I just might leave those there because we see what happened when God bothered to remove those the last time.
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