Razeena Bham May 3
Maybe
I fell in love

Maybe I looked at
you
And the wind
swept through
my stomach
And you
lit candles in
my eyes

Maybe I fell
In love

Maybe you spoke about
the world
The way the Gods
spoke about
the universe

Maybe I heard
the cosmic waterfalls
in your
Daffodil daydreams

Maybe I fell
in love

Maybe I held
your pain in the
palms of my hands
And felt the
weight of your tears
on my shoulders

Or maybe
You just,
grasped my hand
and smiled

And then

Maybe

I fell in love
Razeena Bham Mar 19
Sometimes, I gaze at you
and I long to stamp
my body onto these trees
And paint my memories into
Fragile leaves that will sink
deep into this crafted terra-cotta globe

Curved
and crossed
and dotted
lines
Scattered between murky constellations
Of black holes and radio captured cosmic rainbows

I’ll confess
the sempiternal fondness
in my unabating smile
Every time
you parted my cells
and held me together
Every time
you ripped through my skin
and let me fall apart

In every moment
I simper
and shut my eyes
when your gaze weighs through me
Every time you taste
The whine
through my parted lips
before it can reach
for the empty room

I’ll stretch my arms
and swing my hips
dropping ichor onto
a saturated canvas

I’ll move with the world
As you moved with me…

Softly
Slowly
Passionately
Tempestuously

I’ll cry
and I’ll laugh
I’ll let them caress me
and I’ll let them push me away

I’ll let them praise
I’ll let them mock

I’ll take it all

I’ll draw close every glimmer of you
And before I perish,
I’ll lay myself bare
But I’ll keep you to me

For you are too gentle
Too violent
To stain this wretched,
giving earth.
Razeena Bham Mar 19
[The scene is reminiscent of a long exposure time lapse. The kind where the universe is painted in streaks across the darkness above. Except, maybe, time is moving exactly as it normally would but the stars still drag through the sky as the wind drags across your skin. You’re both strewn upon the seats, in the back of an open, moving car. Swimming through the city, through the bright lights. The deep rumbles of engines and of lovers – tangled in embrace – wave. Neither of you wave back.

Instead, they’re found enmeshed with your body. With you. Their shoulder is burrowed in the junction of yours. They’ve got your right hand grazing their lips and your fingertips caught between their teeth. They’ve got one hand running lines – vocalising desires – along the curve of your leg that’s wrapped around their hip and captured between their thighs.

You’ve got your left hand nestled in between (and all around) the valleys of their coarse curls. Every so often, your fingertips grasp their earlobe and tug…slightly.

You have a sort of gentle smile on your face as you gaze down with soft adoration, and you feel your heart burst (a little) at the tenderness of this moment. This mellow, dazing, single moment of being wrapped up in each other. With the whole world ebbing and flowing around you. You are here, with them, and all that exists is this.]
  Nov 2017 Razeena Bham
Elijah Nicholas
I do not have the body of David.
Sculpted and chiseled from the hands of an artist.
I do not claim to have eyes
that were kissed by Aphrodite herself.
My skin does not glow
under the scorching sun.
The world does not flock to me,
and not a lot of people
are quite fond of me.
I am not what you wanted
and what you asked for.
But this is life,
and in this life,
we shouldn't ask for more.
  Nov 2017 Razeena Bham
Jamie
I may not be great at writing but

I am of the opinion that,

a poet upon closer inspection

is quite similar to a hat,

both are worn ragged and weary,

both drip water when they're teary,

both have a similar disposition,

and don't need much nutrition,

they're hung right out to dry,

either by a wife or by a guy,

are locked for hours in a room,

never overuse a broom ,

worn to cover balding spots,

or gaping holes in meager plots,

the brim on one doth shield another,

and once it's made it's got a brother,

and though one types and the other sits,

holding over gaping pits,

and though one smiles and the other cries,

and though one falls and the other flies,

and though one speaks and the other is mute,

all in all they're not so brute,  

so though a poet is not a hat,

and though a hat is not a poet,

it would escape their reason (both)

if either of them refused to show it
Razeena Bham Nov 2017
“It’s so sad,
what's happening
over there.”

They say,

As they
double tap the
romanticized,
normalized,
propagated,
famine-riddled,
war-tor­n,
image of what
used to be a
nation.

“I can't do anything,
though.”

They say,

As they lounge,
in their ancient
blackbird-gilded
thrones
Coated in
percolated gold

Resting, in a castle
carved from
native marble

“This sadness makes
me tired.”

They say,

As they cast their
cerulean globes
to the ceiling
that hosts crystal
chandeliers
dripping with
privilege
Shedding light
On material exuberance
In rooms painted
in mirrors
for the pleasure
of viewing their
adorned ignorance

“Oh, that's pretty.”

They say,

As they gaze
through pellucid
barriers
at the
romanticized,
normalized,
propagated,
famine-riddled,
war-tor­n,
image of what
used to be a
nation.

“The sunset.”

They say.
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