I. Apply foundation in a tone more perfect than the one you're born with,
doubt that there's anything beautiful in the term "natural"
blot your lips with the cherries you deprive yourself of
and wonder, "What good is difference when it's not appreciated?"

stop reading this.

II. Forget how you were born;
every freckle,
every beauty mark,
every uneven line etched into your face are nothing to be celebrated.
Deprecate yourself, you are unwound and beg this world to shape you in its eyes.

skip this line.

Society speaks subjectively of happiness, but fill your head with lies
that we're all pretty if we can keep up our disguise.
The weight of this world upon your shoulders,
alludes to being big as too much to handle.
Curl into everyone's palm as if you're so fragile,
they have to pinch the skin on your bones with the thumb and index finger.

stop.

III. Draw on the perfectly plump pout, filled with nothing but
expectations of everyone else.
Your beauty is not a privilege for anyone,
but judgment that has defined your worth.

skip.
Emprises that market upon your insecurities,
admire that solemn face in the mirror
as the reflection discourages you
at the acknowledgement of any impurities

Start.

How To Be Beautiful Lifelong


Admire the history that lives within the heartlines of your palms,
how strong you've grown, once cradled in your mother's arms.
Disregard where it is you've come from, but how much further you've journeyed forward.
I. Apply the sincerity in your best friend's voice when
                        she calls the time you've spent together, beautiful.
Do not doubt the splendor that comes from wisdom.

II. Every wrinkle you've earned,
as time gives back to you from lessons learned.
Blot your lips during the release of laughter
as saliva mists through the air,
your joy so vigorous
the ghosts residing in the graves
regret no more.


You are as you should be,
a composite of everything that gives you life
and grants you purpose.
Begging for this world to love you,
there is no fault in this desire.

They speak of happiness as if
it's only a potential-oriented concept,
Do not let your heart surround the gossip
or it's golden armor become bronzed.

III. Draw on the canvas of existence
in the brightest of hues, in the purest of love.
Filled with nothing, but expecations for yourself
say farewell to the darkness
open the curtains to light.

Your beauty is magnificent
as your name will be transcendent.
In each day we decide to be ourselves,
the poise presents itself.


—V.H.

Black lungs, bright eyes.
You are my only addiction and I inhale you into
my blood
stream

.
Leave me in the wreckage and I
will sing of you forever. Take me with you and
I will only slit your throat.

I'm afraid again
I'm alone again
I'm trying again
To have a voice
To speak up
To show someone this pain

Here it comes
This is the part
This is where you pass me off
Just a child
Just a kid
Knowing nothing of pain
Don't be silly
You aren't really hurting
You aren't really dead

It's not a real pulse
My heart stopped
Long ago
Do I not look dead?
Of course not
You aren't even looking

I'd do anything to breathe again
I'd give anything to feel anything but this
Anything but pain
Maybe, just maybe
If I carve in the heart lines
Deep enough
My heart will start again

The last words of an upstart
Coming into their own
Feels like the heart stopped but the fire has grown
Wild and strange
Bristles with energy
****** expression unchanged
The face of adversity might’ve put on some weight
Surface unearthly
Distorted and framed in odd spotlight
Reflection is way beyond my means but I’m alright
The waves stay unchanged
Adamant in resolve and I’ve learned from the same mix of granite and seasalt
Great leaps come grand skyfall
I wish you sun rays
          Sometimes I even wish I could stay
But we have our own fates
They clashed for a time but now we part ways
Just til the next time our paths cross and blaze trails across the skyline









                                                ­        Whirlwinds and paradise
                                                        ­Never missing the heartlines
                                                      ­  Forever kissing the starlight

बूँद-बूँद बर्सू मैं पानी-पानी खेलूँ खेलूँ और बह जाऊं

Are clouds allowed to settle into the sun?
is rain allowed to curl up
against warm rays in the evening sky?
will rains be rains
if they aren't a messenger anymore?
will the earth miss sieges
yearned for?

In the eye of a yellow storm
in an afternoon canvas,
is rain allowed to un-spill?
To un-pour, un-cascade,
un-fall?

लब तेरे यूँ खुले जैसे हर्फ थे
होंठ पर यूँ घुले जैसे बर्फ थे

Is fire allowed to be consumed by soft snow?
are flames allowed to find a home
in the heart of winters,
nestled along heartlines of ice,
cosy, never cold,
will red still be red
if it is painted over by peace,
orange still orange
if the sun sets on stubborn fears?
In the embrace of gentle snow,
is fire allowed to un-burn?
To settle down in comfortable ashes,
to un-spark, un-engulf, un-destroy.

मैं आसमान, तू मेरी ज़मीं

I told myself that I was done with this
but here I am again,
stuck trying to follow heartlines
on the hands that let me fall.

Leave me out blind
I'll be dancing in the wind in time
Leave me out to love
I'll be on a bended knee
Stand with me on the aisle
With epic vows from your troublemaker
I want to be yours & you mine
I'll be your forever till we ghost

Leave me out blind
I'll follow your scent through the maze
All day, everyday
I'll draw you a smile
The one that fits your perfection
Through thick 'n' thin
We'll be scared together

Leave me out with a pen
I'll be with every version of dictionaries
To help define my love
But even words aren't enough
Beautiful!
A word never tire of saying
Just keep following the heartlines
It's your way home
To your Forever & Always.

My promised Meridian
A poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian into English by the author

Could you possibly find the name of the City in my own personal riddle;
The Landmark starts on the hill
And my sculpture is the landmark on Koohsangi Hills
Take the letter "Y" as its name
A thousand miles above the Sea Level
Geographically archived on the life line of my Palms
You know, it's my third gravity
And makes the gravity less.

And this last landmark
As if it's a dreamlike bas-relief on KOOHSANGI HILLS
And here it is
My footprints on the earth
Left after me.

Is this the same Geographic Meridian
Or my own promised land?

Now look at my Palm again, notice the heartline
The whole Land mass
Its Gravity captured me
Triangles are reshaping into a curve
My whole life like the Sharp Winding Geometry of New Labyrinths
My garments are there
Stuck !

As if there is no pear here
And my dress looks like a pear
But dark
Shadowy
Oxygen of air
A glass of water
And how I love you
Like a lonely cherry
This land had a crush on me!

As massive as that dream
Quite dimentional
Three dimentional
Like your heartlines
Folded, steamed in the Laundromat
But this corner is not gonna get creased.

The Landmark at the end of KOOHSANGI Street
Like a ***** I had been trekking the city, every corner of it
Which has given voice to my coughing throat...

Is this the promised meridian
Or my own promised land?

What's the last memorabilia?
Is it my face whirling in the winds shapelessly?
I'm not there any more but my heartlines there after me...
My whole heart head to foot became the murals of the City
Prickly pears
Prickly pears
When the lines join, your fate's destined
And now I have a new face.

How symmetrical it is!  

The City Mashhad was the answer to my riddle
Very complicated
Never entered my Vagabound mind
And now I'm the poison ivy of KHORSASAN
My dress over the washing hanging
Growing over the walls of houses,
One after another
My collective memory could have never found the name of this City!

One thousansd and one nights have passed
I was restless to sleep
But tomorrow
Would be the first day of my life!

Long after
The city would be a double Cherry
And what would be left after allllll....
My face over the hillllllllllllls...

Sawtooth skeins
of water candombe in
achroma, winds at
two-five, the water that
hits the roof el contestador
and the water that hits the water
la tumba. The procession leaves limpid
stipples on ***** plex and
renders finches pointilistic;
the peeling periwinkle deckwood
has the dewey quality
of a runway model,
glossed with the bay's blue sploshing.
Beyond this, deeper in the gray:
mountain striates
in harsh gradient,
spring to myrtle to a blueish-reseda,
redwood peak nodes
anchors for erratic heartlines.
The drumbeat pulses these lines
at their mist-vaguened edges
and moves all.
It's a flash, fifteen minutes of
California rain.