The bus rumbles on,
it is an over crowded one -
not an unusual sight -
she stands in the space
reserved for women,
there's hardly any room
to breathe.
The broadcaster on radio
shows off her gift of the gab,
a popular film song follows;
a gush of wind
through the window
brings along smoke, dust
and other such components
of 'city-air'.
She looks out to see
impressive malls,
entrances to which, witness
beggars pursuing well dressed gentry,
in the hope of a penny or two;
billboards advertise
latest discount offers
appealing to her consumerist instincts;
constant honking of vehicles,
music blaring from an auto nearby -
these are common sounds
she is accustomed to.
The bus halts with a jolt,
she steps down,
tries to make her way,
through the crowd
avoiding hawkers lunging at her
from every side,
eager to make sales;
the smell of
pakodas fills the air,
autos carrying seven or eight passengers
limp away, surreptitiously,
at the sight of khaki clad men.
Out of the blue,
an elbow knocks into her chest,
she turns to look at the lout -
lecherous eyes mock at her impotent fury -
she mouths standard abuses,
walks away as if unruffled.
For this was not the first instance,
"Won't be the last either.",
she thinks at the back of her mind,
her heart chooses not to agree though.
She moves on,
pushing, shoving, cursing
her way through
'Battleground India'.

The week has to have a weekend
Days have to have a tomorrow
And goodbye to yesterday’s/
In turns will bring the months to an end/

What do we have to face
moving forward setbacks and  more
worried looks in the bystanders eyes..
When all is set and done, we have to say grace
We have to look up every morning and whisper to the skies.

The news broadcaster’s never speak of genuine love,
They only wishes to be littered,
While, begging folks to do their part
The cooing of the dark lonely dove
a symbol that there’s is no more  love in ones heart
during the these stressful day/

Ten o’clock curfew at night,\/
Essentials workers must only be seen at dawn/
No more than ten to twelve people on sight/
And large outstanding gathering must be gone/

Black Friday’s deals, window shopping strolls
Everything seem on hold, the biggest black hole of 2020/
And nothing spoke to me: not even a 60 inch flatscreen TV/

Let’s take a page from the Jewish customs
Bury the dead in the next seventy two hours/
All November traditions is limit/
Thanksgiving Day a Tic, tok

All Saints Day, All Souls Day, Mischief Night, Bonfire Night
Once you take down the statues, of useless figures
Would History of the injustices will be erase/

why does it touch you deeper
when i say what i write
is based on a true story?

here and now i use no capitalized word
here and now it's him i remember
for it's him who said:
"small letters are more humble"
you know, this is based on a true story;
i met him but not really
my longhands reached him
far, far away from here
surpassed lands and seas
o, how large is my country --
his equals plus one to my gmt
here foods are sweet and there are spicy
he hated and still hates the food here;
it reminds him of the tyrant
who'd only cared about
the west but not that west
and made the east poor and slaved --
he was one of those who
yelled reformation when i was
only nearly two

i am seventeen and so was he --
when i was born.
i love how thirteen connects
our birthdates;
mine is twelve and his fourteen
and i said to him thirteen was my
favorite number
and purple was my favorite color
for his was blue but
i thought of him as red --
red not of the lust but
red of the color of tomatoes --
his mother was a tomato seller
and since i had known that,
tomatoes began to taste sweeter
sweeter than ever

when i said i liked purple
i didn't know it was the color of
the rain,
his first love ever --
when he was just a kid
he wanted to marry her
but then he learnt at school
the rain is not a girl at all
not even alive
he couldn't marry her but
he still loves the rain
so i do too

you know,
i once was an anti-coffee
i used to drink only and only tea but
he loves coffee
so i do too
i once sent him
my favorite coffee along with
a ta-ta-for-now letter
and he replied to me electronically
with a stabbing sad emoticon
:(
it still stabs
but then he said
the coffee was good
and i smiled
but he didn't know it

do you know
what's better
than a cup of coffee in the morning?
"it's two cups of coffee"
he'd say something like that
so this morning i decided to
have a super sweet tea,
sugar so much it
almost tasted like soda --
every gulp was
painful
to my soul.
i almost found the
god in me if i had drank the second cup but
i made coffee instead
no sugar like i always had
not because i like bitterness
it's because every drop of coffee is him
and he is sweet enough already --
but i broke the rule of two
this morning i had
three cups of coffee
three cups of him
and it wrenched me --
la douleur exquise
-- the heart wrenching pain
of wanting someone you can't have

i don't even have a single autograph
of him
i hoped that he would write me letters
with that pretty handwriting of his
but at the same time
i was afraid that he wouldn't
so i sent him bunch
without an address to reply to --
you know, this is based on a true story;
he is a writer
but he doesn't really like
to be called a writer
because a writer will be jealous
of another great writer so
he calls himself a reader instead
and he embraces his thirst of great books
he is a librarian
he lives around the books
he lives for and from the books
he has three cats
and seems like he will
have more cats and more
like his mother,
his mother loves cats too
it's prophet muhammad's favorite pet
or so he said
on the radio

he is a poet
a broadcaster on a local radio
every friday and saturday
and at the end of the broadcast
he will read poems
sent by emails
even you can send your poem
but not all poems can be read
there are so many, you know
here we really love writing poetry
but few like reading it
like me
i read his poems
not because i loved reading poetry
it was because
it's his, it's him

but now
he has done what he should do
he has completed his role
he has made me believe in poetry
he saved me from the disbelief of poetry
he taught me that poetry
could heal
he said that writing poetry
is hugging
and reading it
is returning the
hug
he would read a lot of poems
when he is sick
and now
that's what i do too

he was the one who kept
my feet on the ground
every time i felt down
i sang silently a7x's m.i.a.
lend me your courage to stand up and fight
so he lent me his courage
so i could stand up and fight
and every time this life
felt so wrong, lacked meaning
i remembered his name
and a promise i promised
to him
on my own mind
"don't die before we meet"
yeah, i wouldn't die
i would never die

there was no other way for us
than being yinyang
and that's why i decided to
hate what he loves
he loves coffee
but i couldn't hate it
he loves poetry
but i couldn't hate it
he loves rain
but i couldn't hate it
he loves sylvia plath
but i couldn't hate sylvia
i can't ever hate sylvia
i can't stay away from his sylvia
i love her
and she loves me back
sylvia is my earth
and that's how i realize
he and i can't ever be --

you know, this is based on a true story;
because i say so.

I stopped watching TV. There came a point in time, like an eraser on a pencil, that I realized it's all for entertainment. Who we pay to entertain us- some open armed football star, some local news broadcaster with a cheeky smile and fake lips, or maybe we give money for the chance that the boy with a broken heart will actually fall in love after he kisses the fourteenth girl- we are made to believe that only then will he know what love really is. I cut TV out of my life, it began to make me sad, it almost had me convinced that there are more bad people in the world than there are good- it almost made me believe that how other people live is how I'm supposed to, it almost made me crazy to think if I don't cry over the same brainwashing tragedies as anyone else, I'm not human. TV is an invalid form of weak entertainment, put down the remote, turn off the TV and plug yourself in to what's real: the life that's right in front of you.

In one shot, the actress posed in a barely-there Burberry cape, revealing quite a lot of her *******, and it is this picture which has been criticised. Broadcaster Julia Hartley-Brewer condemned Watson for her hypocrisy in campaigning against page three while then bearing all in a ‘posh magazine’, while also suggesting that she wouldn’t be taken seriously for the move.

Watson, however, defended herself, stating that she was ‘stunned’ by the controversy, and didn’t see what her ‘**** have to do with it’. Indeed, many have backed the actress up, arguing ****** and fashion have nothing to do with feminism. And yet, in society at the moment, it does seem that way.

Women across the globe struggle to be taken seriously unless dressed in a certain way. Even our own Prime Minister is fodder for tabloid’s style sections; focusing more on her shoes than her politics. This certainly wasn’t the case for her predecessor David Cameron.

Similarly, professional women are only taken seriously when conforming to the predetermined white male power ideal. Suits, straight and sleek hair, minimal makeup (that is still flattering to a feminine ideal) is encouraged, and leaves very little room for women of colour, gender nonconforming people, and others.

This double standard between genders is evident not only in professional spheres, but in everyday life. Women who choose to wear the hijab, for example, are sometimes demonised and are branded as oppressed, with those expressing such an opinion often having no factual knowledge of the context behind the garment. Surely a woman’s choice of how they present themselves to the world is their business and their business alone. As Watson argued, ‘feminism is…about freedom, it’s about liberation, it’s about equality’.

Fashion and style is an incredibly powerful tool which one can use to express oneself and its value most definitely shouldn’t be discounted within feminism. Denouncing stereotypes of style and outdated ideals of beauty can empower some, and allows people to embrace their uniqueness and difference. Others, however, may be empowered by embracing typically gendered style, or what may be branded as ‘conservative’ fashion.

The importance here, though, is not what they are wearing but that what they are wearing is a consequence of them exercising their choice, and how it allows them to express their personal beliefs and message.

Watson’s choice to wear a revealing top is just as valid as her choice to wear a suit on any other day. A person’s style should not impact their validity or respectability. It is not for other people to say what may empower an individual. That choice is yours, and yours alone. Whether a woman chooses to pose for **** photo shoots, or cover herself from head to toe, it does not make either any less feminist nor any less of a role model.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses