Surround yourself with positivity. Appreciate the sunrise.
Take care of Mother Earth because she provides you with the fruits of life.
Be humble with what you have because there are others out there less fortunate.
And when you breath take it in like its the last one, release those worries away.
Be brave, step out of the cave and love
And laugh, think, cry
And laugh, think, cry.
Now isn't that a full day.
Don't get lost in the starry sky
alight at the Moon for countless stars!
Two wrong moves
Three plus two
Five broken lives
of grief on
Add up where I went wrong
They go on and on.
An example of life?
In life, you can only count on yourself.
And when you take out all the
of your life,
you are the only
Count on yourself. Believe in yourself.
*Note: I've been thinking about prime numbers a lot recently, and so I decided to make something out of it. I know it's not really a poem, but here it is anyways.
I hope you enjoy.
The world goes round,
oblivious to sound.
We ride its spin,
until our sun goes down.
What have I done?
Rode the pillars of fun.
Spent my last dime,
should I turn back and run?
The scythe leaves its sheath.
What does fun equate?
It's the end of the world,
don't be late.
Do you remember the exact moment when
You finally stopped counting
The cigarettes you lit
The times you uttered ****
The pages you torn
The calls you missed
The opportunities you gave up
The promises you broke
The moments you said goodbye
The bridges you burned
The words you never said
Do you remember when the
Record kept going higher,
Faster than you could count,
You lost track of the last number?
Was this the tenth time I let you down?
Is this the fifth day in a row of the both of us not talking?
I mean, why does it even matter?
The world has turned more times
than we could tally,
The sun sets every day,
Numbers, they go on forever
And so could we
is2g there's a point i'm trying to get across here somewhere
if you count to ten
in your head
while holding your breath,
as if breath is an object
with a shape and a texture,
by the end you'll have
forgotten how to breathe.
you need to pause,
to let every black swatch
of worry evaporate
like crooked puddles.
And you feel a trickle
of something under your skin -
perhaps a calmness,
a word not yet invented.
In your mind, a clock face,
hands that aren't hands,
Your voice, your voice again.
Now, remind yourself
to exhale, see how the scene
how it felt to hold in
such a temporary thing.
Written: August 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
She's in the kitchen
(close the door)
just mixin' up some metaphor;
a true conundrum
through and through
and through to me and thus to you.
Her humble hunger
thunders 'neath a wilting tune;
tuned to too many
to count without
a thought within.
She must profess
(but shall confess)
to any who will listen;
closely she holds
a tragic history
mostly mystery to most.
She solves my soul
(I deny that hole)
which she still fills;
with such unrelenting joy
that is My Love.
How long is one day?
Some say it's a day
others say it's a day
with a night but one
is yet to figure it out.
Every day the sun sets
precisely at the end.
Only to rise new again
at the end of the night!
A day is never enough
to count a day.
Poets are wasting days,
like been given to spare.
Poets are counting nights
to the beginning of Life.
She has lost count on how many nights she spent alone,
spoiling her thoughts while sipping her whiskey at the balcony
looking at the stars and the moon with intimate longing,
and wishing to be one of them as if she was one, once
They say that to live is the rarest thing in the world,
as for her, life is always a puzzle with one missing piece,
an endless labyrinth with no way out, let alone the dead end
an unsolved riddles with no absolute clues, let alone the answer
Sometimes at times like tonight, she'd let her mind wander
to streets she has never walked before and people she has never met,
with language she barely understands nor familiar with,
thinking maybe solitude is not a bliss after all—it's an agony
I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
on its invisible way
Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down
in that low spot
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?
They take heart
divide it by energy
I haven't got
Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands
...and I never got dressed today
Imagine if it was just me and you.
What a dream that would be.
You're nothing like my last.
Call me just to hear my voice.
You don't let your pride get in the way.
Tell me time and time again that you wish I would be yours.
I know you would treat me right.
For me you'd put up a good fight,
but this is a match that you're not ready for.
Consider this the standing count of eight.
I see I'm leaving you hurt,
that's not my intention.
I am spread out like a *******
your own personal Jew and
while I bury my blood in your
thread count I knit one
Why do I let you annihilate me
like this then stitch me back
You use the same holes each time
then ***** about their emptiness
leaving me no time to rebloom
Your garden looks like so many
dug up graves, your kind of love-
one prays while the other one brays
we cannot get enough of you
having left ourselves, bones and
all with nothing but our souls
Bundled up on the Aluetian coast
On some brisk breezy Bering Sea roost
I turn my glass to a young feathered crew
A King Eider mother counting her brood
She counted once then twice
Found her missing wobbler
Fighting under floating ice
Picked pecked and prodded
The little prince finally herded
and nested warm and nice
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
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 the galaxy only to disperse
into a profound constellation never finds a bottom.
Because 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 at the 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.
when i look
in the mirror,
i do not see the
“oh my god, you’re so skinny,”
i do not see the
“you need to eat more,”
“there’s no way you’re not anorexic,”
“i wish my body looked like yours.”
when i look
in the mirror,
i see the
i see the
“she’s skinnier than you,”
i see the
“you need to be skinny, or you won’t get a husband,”
i see the
i see the
"you need to be the skinniest one in your friend group,"
i see the
I hold this jar of fireflies
Under the moon
They float inside and wait
Sweeping across dewey grass
I count them
One by one
On and off they flicker, see?
Twilight I set them free
Don't they look so lovely?
I count the days
the end of waiting days..
I know not how many
million stars there are.
But I know there is
only one earth.
Maybe we have counted
the protons of the atom
as many it has in its nucleus
counted the electrons on the run
orbiting the nucleus.
But the spinning circle is a zero
yet to compute the unifying one!
It's a pattern spans the universe.
I know there are
billions of us human
out there on earth.
But all I want is only one.
Just to count on
a permanent one!
The big earth
is a bigger zero null.
Standing on barefoot
without the perpetual one.
No glue, no roof nor a sign
only on one pure rigid science!