Xienab

Xienab Jun 2014

On the first day I wilt.
On the second day I wither.
And wither
And wither
And wither
And then comes winter,
And I'll be nothing.
I was always told that there's a calm before the storm.
And with April showers, I blossomed again.
But spring has already come and gone, taking it's course.
And the summer sun will only wear and wither me out.
Later will come fall, and we will all fall.

Z.H.

Xienab Feb 2014

Letters

Dear Moon,
Why haven't you lulled me to sleep yet?
Is it because you envy the love I have for the sun?
Does the way it arises in such an ostentatious matter offend you?
The sun marks the beginning of a day
Whereas you just end one.

Dear Moon,
I apologize for the tirade of indirect emotion
But to be frankly honest, I prefer beginnings
I never liked endings
I never liked goodbyes either
And your crescent figure marks the both

Dear Moon,
I find you to be rather beautifying
Such a sight worth marvelling at
But every morning the sun graces me with a benign smile and says to me;
*"My dear, I'm out today, be content with yourself"

Xienab Dec 2013

Skies, Seas & Spines of Books

One way flights into the sky & let fate control the destination of my destiny.

Sail the supple curves of the oceans waves and may the rocking motion rock me into an everlasting fantasy.

Read about Baldwin's palpable endeavors, cover to cover and marvel at Sylvia Plath's anthologies that run shivers up and down my basketball-court of a spine.

Let Shakespeare educate me on love, heartbreak, tragedy and the reality of all stoicism and cynicism bestowed upon my naiveness.

Truth is, I don't know where I'm going, but whether it be the sky, the sea or within ink-stained papers, let them guide me to a place of genuine sincerity.

Xienab Dec 2013

Beautifying Ultimate Elements- Flowers

You planted roses in my heart
& calla lilies in my mind.
Daisies in my palms
& lilacs in my eyes.
Ultimately,
You've abandoned them entirely, leaving them to die.
& I find it utterly heartbreaking that flowers are the most beautiful as they were wilting.
& I find it insanely paradoxical that I could only marvel at them, as they were ending.
-Z.H.

Xienab Dec 2013

Swirling of the Midnight Mind

What is simple in the midst of the night,
Is never easy by sunrise.

Doesn’t that question your heart to know;
Whether the sun is capable of bleaching you clear of all passion?

This was supposed to be a poem;
But I don’t feel so good anymore.

This was supposed to be a “Dear Diary” entry;
But there is nothing dear about this entry

This was supposed to be a rationale about love;
But there is nothing rational about love.

This was supposed to be a motivational speech;
But the audience of my surroundings portray an ambiance of apathy.

This was supposed to be a farewell letter;
But my blood-pumping ***** cannot orchestrate a declaration of adieu.

This was supposed to be a livid rant;
But I cannot pinpoint the suitable syllables that have the strength to impale you such as a bullet.

This was supposed to be a love letter;
But I am not capable of fabricating words to exhilarate your mortalness.

This was supposed to be a poem;
But instead, it is a 3:48am compilation of my most vulnerable thoughts.

And I question;
At what age did I lose my compassion?
When did my smile become so brittle?
When did I become so bitter…?
So brash?
-Z.H.

Xienab Dec 2013

Dear Diary

"Dear Diary"* I wrote at the top of the page. I've turned to these wretched pages because I have no one else to turn to.

I have been wanting to runaway for sometime now. I have an estranged sense of nostalgia towards places I haven't even been to.

Did you know that you shattered my heart? That a shard of ***** lacerated my ribcage? & so I've concluded...

That perhaps one day, when I'm 22, I will cut my hair short and runaway to new york and try to find a big sweet apple they've always talked about.

I will disregard my birth name and I will end up telling everyone I meet that my name is Aphrodite, but I am not greek nor am I a lover. I'll write poetry. The good poetry and the bad poetry. I'll write poetry the way you called your quits, blank eyed and confusing. And may the next person to make my heart glow, be just as kind as you, minus the volatility, equivalent charms.
Laugh as sentimental as 100yr old harpist.
Smile as transfixing as a dim star, on a moonless night
Eye's as beautiful as the sun..

But just as the sun, I never could stare to long.

Xienab Dec 2013

Analysis of Clock-Versifications

It's 2:46am
But I am not sleeping.
I am steady staring at my ceiling, trying to recollect the last time I felt this forlorn.
...the last time I felt a hollowness make its home in the pit of my stomach, only to be satisfied by the thought that you might be thinking of me, just as I do.

It's 3:04am
... and I am still not asleep.
The butterflies in the pit of my stomach,
are now dying.
They once fluttered around so proudly for you,
but you've left them poisoned with abandonment the day you called your quits.

It's 3: 17am
and I am almost asleep.
But I wonder...
If the same loneliness that consumes me,
consumes you too?

Written for a friend of mine.

— The End —