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Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
Every star across the seven skies
wishes to kiss it is a gold dust.

Not to mention the Moon in the centre
waning and waxing in the open and in secret
keeps unleashing longing to rub
this non-sublunary piece on its forehead.

She knows only then the rough seas beneath
her will calm down in the soft raining moonlight
rubbing off such a lucky blossomed forehead.

Oh, if only scarcely they could ever see it
the galaxies since their inceptions longing for it.
The bliss of the eyes tucked away from the scene
Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet!

The mother is fast is for all and is down to earth
She, the mother Fathima descended down
from up above the heaven that pivotal frontier
only all the prophets’ Prophet has seen.
Then was no Adam nor Eve or Jibreel!

Paradise finds its core with its resonant lore
in the shadow of the original feminine Fathima
the immortal hotspot the original matter explored.
Paradise lived and breathe beneath her
but she touched down at the heart of the earth
without stepping or touching on paradise
only to give away her stake to others!
No land she would take on her way back indeed
Not in her name, know where Fathima’s grave is?
When people visit Islamic holy city Medina they look for the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been the 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 It's been said that she preferred her grave to remain unidentified.
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2018
God ensures everyone a shore
floating on the sea of the soul!
No stone is as solid
lying in any temple.

Light up the flame lay it on
the passage to the truthful
selfless human conscience.
Unleash from the unseen
the one true enduring origin!

The more one understands
the universe's more meaningful!
Hails from the one yet to expose
the utmost intelligent of all!
Shofi Ahmed Jan 27
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
I take care of everything in this world
They can’t stop me
Since I used to be
You know I could **** a million trees

These people on earth need me but
I don’t need them, if I throw disaster
In their mouths and their bodies shut
You know on this earth I am your master

You are just living on in the edge
A tsunami like an ocean of wedge
Don't try to play with me
And you know what consequences it may be
Messenge from our Mother Nature.
J-J Johnson Mar 2015
"No! No! This cannot be happening"
The words stumbled out as I tried hard to keep the sogged eye from draining
My vision became blurrer
And blurrer as I turned and run out of the house
Grabbing my stiletto as I did
Under the pear tree in the garden I stopped
And allowed the now heavy eyes
To drain the burning water
They flow on as if rain onto a wet clay statue
Bitter and hurt
Bitter from the disappointment and forlon
From a mixture of shock, disbelief and loss
Served in a glass of betrayal and a tray of painful regret
I raise the dagger in a drunken cognition
For my sob now has become the cry of a damage soul
A disfigured spirit
I can barely hear them from without in the midst of the caos
Those little voices in my heard
Screaming out at me
Hitting ******* the walls of my mind
Pushing my conciense
"Do it!" one says
"It wouldn't solve the problem" the other retorts
"But it will end it!"
"Leaving bigger problems"
The blood in my head is more than in any other part
The heat rising in exponents
The tension now causes my whole body to trob
To ache
My mind cannot hold it any longer
The quicker the better
I opened my mouth to say my final
But all the came out
Was a scream.
Not Lauren Mar 2015
word of your alleged affiliations reached me weeks after it was all said and done; she was now queen of your world and I became a mild sore in your side like I feared I would

I don't know why I'm surprised. I never amounted to much anyway. I often let my feet burn in the running bath water just to feel something besides a building wall of anxiety in my chest.

I often dreamt about you. also about her - that walking prayer with a Devil's torch. I could've handled my tears if it weren't for the coffee shop you two were admiring in my dreams. do you remember my favorite place?

a nightmare is a dream until it becomes your reality. sometimes when I wake in a cold sweat complete with tremors, the breeze still smells of expresso and pastry
writing prompt: choose a page of the book nearest to you. take the first sentence, and the last, and then fill the spaces in between.
Osiria Melody Mar 13
I.
Quite irritating and aggravating,
Hater tater tots come wailing
Prevailing in their scathing, vapid thoughts

Appreciating their own reflections,
To the likes of Narcissussss
Derailing your train of thought with their words:

Vile arpeggios of "you're mediocre" shift TO
crescendos of "you're incompetent" TO
diminuendos of "you can do it" in hopes of
making you feel better,
Although you know that bit of motivation from
them is a lie—a blatant lie

II.
Quite condescending and stupefying,
Hater tater tots come to knock down your
door of confidence
Prevail in your defense of self-respect and
vow to protect your house of strength

Appreciating your own reflection,
To the likes of humility and empowerment
Derailing their doubts about you with your actions:

Victorious arpeggios of "I'll still write"
shift TO crescendos of "I'm better than my
past selves" TO diminuendos of "I know
I can do it" to stay afloat,
Although you know that the flaming
torch of criticism may burn you now
and then—blatant pain

III.
Amid the tornado of public criticism that
your mind is rotating in,
Amid your deteriorating state of
motivation,
Amid this negativity from
others that is pure B.S.

IV.
Bake the hater tater tots
Burn them with your self-confidence



Melody
3/13/19
Love your poems because you should appreciate your work the most.
what is life to an estranged fisherman who catches shells
but knees held up by strings
sullied and winterbleak
and armless orions
and bar-of-red-soap memories
marred inside a confetti tin can?

i am programmed for a slap or two
down at the old public yard sale
where two cents buys a soul
and a thousand useless words

i have lifted all my woes
from inside the battery cavity
of all my clocks
how they ticked and tocked

and every spring upon the
arrival of ants and mildew
i fold myself into a paper swan
perched atop atticjunk
seen from the circular window
stiff and sullen
People think that to be alone,

you must feel lonely…

that to stare at a blank wall,

you must be depressed…

that to be listening to nothing,

you must be overwhelmed…

that in order to cry,

you must be sad…


I feel lonely, when people keep on bringing this up.

I feel depressed, when everyone thinks me weird about all this.

I feel overwhelmed, when the world asks me if I’m fine all the **** time

I feel sad… I feel sad to know that I can’t be understood, for being human…


When I need a break from the world,

it is not because I hate it.

It is so that I can keep on loving it,

without having to compromise myself.


Silence is not a disease,

and I am not infected.

It is a gift, a rare offering,

forgive me for enjoying it.
This is my first original piece. Please like, share and spread the word, also feel free to leave a comment and give me feedback. Any reaction is support to me!

Also feel free to visit and support me on my other social platforms, links to which are in my Bio!

Thanks millions!
-The Positive Pessimist   {  ):)  }
Shayla Ahrns Feb 2017
Life is not always big
We are all here
Small
And drifting
Figuring it out
Loving and hurting
Leaving and healing
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Just a dew drop, let alone the sea,
and a handful of earth, not the Planet Ge.
Not a shade of blue, save the rose for bee
Purely a clear drop didn’t spill in the core,
because the whole sphere feels the pinch.

Singing chorus rains down, bouncing back
to earth the only open-through planet.
No black hole is as deep as the sun jumps,
dives in the dew on every flower they wet.
Every bird in the trees sings and tweets,
yet one is stone quiet, shouldn’t even hiss.
Shh! shh, the sleeping beauty is sleeping!

Cut above the rest, the unique earth
brimming with the infinite finishing line
by design pans out to the transcended pi.
Pure spring, the waterfront by the Moon,
untouched, unspoiled is her swimming pool.

How she goes by, wetting her ****** toe
Only to bubble high up the transcended circle
If only the sun could rise high in that pole,
for the rest of species could sneak a peek.
She’s there with the capstone of the pyramid!

Shots beyond the fixed circle, netting the eyeballs.
The stars, the Moon on the move for pure freedom.
The thrilled earth did come out, smelling of roses
Off the golden cut pi-decimal-abyss digital spring.
With a handful of earth and a drop of water dew
This is a pure mirroring thanks to the original, you!

At the end of the string apt you lovely took her by hand
and she took it in emptying her heart and soul.
Earth is now too thin on stock, she is no more
Just a shadow, a 360-degree hollow flute!
Oh light at the end of the tunnel shine and show
Play in like in the Night of Ascension once more!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
On the very edge the living earth
dared to replicate Queen Fathima
The Queen of Heaven’s footstep.
That way is the destination de jour
graced by thousands of prophets of God!

In the name of Allah she descended
on the Night of Ascension.
From the Night of Measures unlike the rest
none can enumerate it yet an unnumbered zone
in the perfect geometrised transcended location.  

The earth steps in the gap making way for her:
The only asymmetric golden ratio
Slips out to the symmetric prophet flock!
Sequenced in symmetric phi she moves on
in the veil, reveals her unique divine relation,
the front burner for sure is ever closer to God!

So pretty she is the paragon work of art
the sunrise amidst the eternal night.
Her beauty in her shadow is burning fire.
She is 'Zahra' pure light the luminary dynamo
the only one woman had no shadow!

The great women flocked and mirrored the earth.
Treading across every atom on that angle
perfectly aligned down the Moon.
Until those beneath the skin atoms
bang, explode, on approaching the behemoth,
the vibration beneath Fathima’s foot!

The ocean billows up
feels life on the high
floating on the clouds.
Choreographed like a little dew
hanging low on the rose.
Just to drop down on that hot spot
like a cool honey drop.

Even the Moon on the horizon
fancies to sip from this drop.
Ah, the lunar punter is rowing down.
The sleeping beauty wakes up
eyes are on the silver dance.
Eying on every star in the night
the Moon is floating down.
The seven seas sing out in the dark
bubbling with exuberant fireflies
that would gleefully rock the moonlight boat
over to the cup of this pretty little drop.  

Poetry in motion is a sea on the ground
the same is known as the Moon in the sky!
The storylines jump ever more
on that way over the shady grove.
Painting the colour of the winds
the sky rains down on that spot
singing the sweetest title song.  

Never was a woman prophet of God
to the one primitive woman, the leading lady
'Sayeedatun Nessa' Queen Fathima
heaven is no secret, it is an open mirror!
For her heaven is made an open book
the first batch of houris came to be
tuning into the sounds of her toes.
The earth in its primitive water first moved on
bang, Big Bang, soon she drops in it her hair lock.
She's the hidden gem in the secret end of God!

For the planetary ebb and flow on the way heaven
the planet earth is the only stepping stone.
No matter how many times it tries on
there will still be an unturned stone.
Until the very one woman, the original
the Queen Fathima steps on.

Her presence connects the dots
the nadir and zenith perfectly line up
intersect into one grand perfect circle.
She will close it with the pi once for all
without a gap spilling new decimal.
Putting it all on the map ‘as above, so below’,
all in all, like it's in pure scientia scenario.

Heaven will open its grand door
where the queen will stand on.
No more reverse engineering physically
the original, Fathima will step on,
on the last turned stone.
From the one great woman
paradise starts from here on
from beneath the mother’s foot!
zebra Aug 2018
im a self describing a self
a face on a liquid surface
a plasticity
a brain
a three pound infinity
always remodeling itself
and making new copies

a copy
of
a copy
of
a copy

a massive  accumulation of copies
each a slight distortion
from it's original eminence
a history of minute alterations
all subtle deceptions

my so-called reality
a memory
of
a memory
of
a memory
a repetition pouring the self out
self corrupting the self
until it is somebody else

a fibbing shifty double-dealing soft machine
trying to remain intact
it's signature
a disjunctured awareness

my cells talk **** about each other
i'm more microbes than human
every synaptic light of the divine casting a shadowed past
a devil to the true origin
a mangled remembering
my pillar of reality
spirit from matter
not the other way around

i no longer recognize myself
am i human
or perhaps a robot
an alien
a walk in
that left the original inhabitant
disembodied
to wander perplexed in a netherworld
lost and crying

or, just a bad copy
of
a copy
of
a copy
of
a co

py

of

a

a

co
Savy Jul 1
The light goes through you
No longer a reflection of your beauty
No longer an oasis for my erratic pulse
A thorn to the eye and a boiling knife to the chest
Not blinded, just vexed
Not shining but dulled
Your fire just a flicker of what it once was
The flame you lit in me now void of warmth.
The impact you had on my heart
Now nothing more than a bruise
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
Shining upon the rose,
lovely the sun rises
over the midday sky.

Without a second thought
the brightest one steps up
bends the ear on the ground.

Prophet Muhammad's (PBUH)
wife was waiting.
He was walking his way home.

Maybe or maybe not
one can revive from the
death sleeping at the night.
Hearing the sound
of the homecoming
beloved's foot though
one can't die.

The blessed lady heard
the sound of the foot
and was sure it was his.
This is it, it's the man, it's his!
He is coming home.

The sun is walking on the way.
It will show up
upon the rose in no time.

Ah, only to discover,
it was Fathima walking
father's home!

She, a woman had
her foot sounds the same as
the man's, the greatest of all!
The very one cannot be copied
because he is the masculine original.

Because from the one
same circle came
the man and the woman.
Maybe with a little gap
spilling infinite pi decimals
new days and new nights.

Still, these are a show of
the one Moon and the one Sun!
Oli Sep 15
well i could explain, but i dont really want to
i could try to convince you, but it's not in my best interest
so I'll keep it to myself, and nothing's gonna change that
it's the way that i feel, and i feel
feel


i gotta work a little harder for it
i gotta walk,
i gotta walk

calling you, this bliss
orginal sin
https://youtu.be/8ijyxF_FcvI
Joanna Nov 2
When sharing with a friend the journey I am on, I let down for just a moment and allowed me not to be so strong.

And in conversing about this and that, I found myself reminded of a day when I did not worry *** for tats.

Which for just a moment, I felt a small release from the pressure that can build, and eventually steal one's peace.  

Replenishing a joy in life, that has been a taproot of strength when dealing with such strife.  

Giving me a vision of the donkey in the barn as ******* and harmless and freeing me from harm.

And in that same moment, I saw my spirit fill with light,  causing me to accept this gem of love as my sole delight.

Leaving me to wonder why things become so blurred, instead of growing clearer with the words I have heard.

So that we can enjoy the treasures that cross our path, and no longer fall back on a familiar state of wrath.

Knowing we are called to be originals and not replaceable gems, but singular and upright while at the same time one body in the end.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
BoringBoy Feb 9
Lately,
I've been thinking 'bout you,
You've put a spell onto me.

Maybe,
Pure love'll make something new,
A future I want to see.

Crystal blue polka-dotted skies,
I wish I knew love could be this fine,
Tell me a story, do you love me,
I'll be a party, let's make a movie

Lately,
I've been thinking 'bout you,
When I feel this type of free,

Play me,
A song we can mingle to,
My soul is ready to sing,

Is it just my mind, you're so ******* fine,
Just like my love, and a bottle of red wine,
You're my favorite story, replaying till the morning,
You've captivated me, now I'm stuck, because...

{^^^Lately...}
;P When I sang it, I thought it had potential.
Creator Sun Aug 23
Loneliness is but a thousand words,
A solitary figure, nothing more,
something less.

He will never be complete on his own,
yet he cannot break through the bars of his own existence!

He exists to be lonely,
yet he can’t exist without others around him!

The others that surround him, ignoring him;
The others that surround him, that haunt him;
The others that surround him, that don’t notice him;
The others who exist just to place emphasis

On his pitiful, meaningless, excruciating existence.

He is not alone in his situation,
but he is alone.

He will forever be alone.

Unless someone breaks him free.

-SLJ
Ye, found my first poem, submitting/publishing it now.
Sasha Raven Jan 26
"Humanity has many gods, but the universe has only one." - ©Copyright: Sasha Raven
Mary Gay Kearns Oct 2018
The insects and wild flowers
Follow the banks of ‘The Wandle’
Allowing what is hidden and not heard
Behind posted iron railings
To be noted, found on a map, imagined
Its very name conjures up the journey
Drawing one into its currents and flows
A place of beauty where time seems slow
Rippling the edges of thought, living as a space,
Exploration, given  by inclusion and exclusion
Forever to ‘wandle along’ under the sky
Between the gaps in the real
And what finds itself from what
Came before in experience and words.

Love Mary x
The River Wandle is the largest river of the south southwest sector of London, England. Its name is thought to derive from the community around its mouth, Wandsworth. About 9 miles long, it passes through the London Boroughs of Croydon, Sutton, Merton, and Wandsworth to join the River Thames on the Tideway..
Mouth: River Thames
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
I
A flower that smells of pure bliss keeps an ear to the ground
It's a serene one sitting beneath the stars down on earth
The moon, far, far, seven seas away, loves to drop into her lap.

The Bay of Bengal billows, music has gotten beneath the skin.
The leaves furl out off the deep wood with the birds
singing out to the top of the trees, rhyming with the leafy dance.
Heavensent, that was in one sanguine day in the spring.
The Mother’s Language Movement in 1952 sprouted like this
on the eighth of native Falgun month—oh magic did it unleash!

On that day our beloved brothers were shot dead
They could swallow the bullets with smiles but won’t give up
demanding the official status for the Bangla mother tongue.
Angels wrapped round the martyrs amid lamenting mothers
Laid them on Falgun’s perfumed ground bleeding corpses
Seas of roses bloomed and blew them out red, red kisses!

They are gone not the stone wall of consciousness they raised
Ah, at the sprout of the spring what were they echoing?
Ingrained deep in the soil the pre-designing voice in the planning?
Who can tell? The world gels on February 21 in celebrating!

The angels then snapped up our martyrs’ souls off the land,
placed them on a piece of Heaven where they can hear the jingle.
Down on earth, a nation springs up, has gotten its wake up call!
Stepping on the sweetening arc of the mother tongue melody
the stone turns a flower, all in a butterfly moment soaring to victory.
Thanks to the movement - Bangladesh itself later comes to be!

II
The sun comes down to the rose painting on the land
In the heavenly Falgun hues it nibbles some wild summer dreams.
“Serene songs of earth stirring the water,” like it comes into play,
rowing the cloud bubbles singing in southern breeze.
Ah, a walk on the sun-kissed kaleidoscope land is a pure bliss.  
Every blossom spray of the wind is soothing sweet
Hop on and play straight to the ruby heart, as if it's a flute.

Mother tongue means speak free, fearless, in full streaming.
Speak the heart to the world without the fear of losing the cloud
that will listen, bouncing back on the brink of the sky river.
Then what did one say, hear, or was awed by in the blooming Falgun?
Could it have been the spring humming in her native lingua
or King David singing in mother tongue by babbling brooks
what in any other language, even with a silver tongue, isn’t possible?

Allah has listened to our martyrs’ crying mothers and fathers
The martyrs’ souls whisk through the galaxies and starry fair.

Soar high over the clouds, take the rainbow's *** of gold away,
Like a hue turns 360-degree in the colourwheel bask into the colour.
Still, dip the toes in Bangla mother’s soil salted with perfumed art
Like Himalayan water swirling down melting deeper deep down
This magicland is polished for everyone be it you, a fairy, a star
or off the ploughed-out barrow a walked out wonder!

A pristine voice duo’s voiceprint gleans to the spring in muse,
Pops in a beauteous scurry and speaks in the mother tongue!
Hidden within the earthy depth, only emerges with time,
only dances in tangent, that day slipped out with the butterflies.
And finally the blue nymphs take the plunge drop down the sky  
That day the mother’s voice triumphed, whose is the most original!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Not Lauren Oct 2018
Love is varying but you were not what I expected when the word first tarnished my vocabulary. The word is sinful and leaves such a foul taste in my mouth; no one will ever get as sick of the word as I did.

No one's ever surpassed the absurd expectations of this vile word & I don't want to stick around to find out if I’ll fall into its clutches too.
My love is ruined.
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