Abandoned Vessel

I've decided to abandon writing/blogging for a while. Like most things in my life these days, I just don't enjoy it anymore. Maybe I'll come back once I have good to share with the world.

Just Cringe and Bare it

What do I do when the only person I can really talk to wont talk to me. Can't talk to me. I try to replace them but others don't fulfil the need. I end up feeling more lonely than if I were just alone. I just want to hear their voice, have them say my name, and listen to me talk. Its a simple yet strange desire.

Blindness

Two eyes of the lifeless
Take, making those breathless
Asleep though in wakefulness
Well in to wanness
A sickness of witness

Saddness

A dull aching knocking
Retreat from it quaking
A sound long foreboding
Of madness its making

My Allah Is The One

"I am sorry for my weakness"

Make Dua For Me

The Messenger of Allah said; “The supplication of a Muslim for his brother in his absence will certainly be answered. Everytime he makes a supplication for good for his brother, the angel appointed for this particular task says: `Ameen! May it be for you, too’.” [Muslim].

I just did it!

I just did what every girl thinks of doing at least once in her life. Chopping off all my hair. It feels liberating. I'm going to be rocking a bob for a while.

Charha de rang, soneya ve

The peacock decorates his beloved with his colours.

Vibrantly painting her with the ink of his feathers.

He gives though he loses what cannot be retrieved.

Stark white feathers are how saintly lovers are reprieved.

Humbled of his riches he does not think to grieve.

His heart only dreads the many paths to his bereave.

The peacock decorates his love with his feathers.

In mourner’s clothes he blissfully stalks after his colours.

Selflessly pleased at the pleasure of his lover.

He gives as if it were not to another;

Rather from his person, plucked to personify this other.

In giving, receiving the colours of his lover.

Medicine

Pick it up, pick it all up.
And start again.
You've got a second chance,
You could go home.
Escape it all.
It's just irrelevant.

It's just medicine.

You could still be,
What you want to,
What you said you were
When I met you.

You've got a warm heart,
You've got a beautiful brain,
But it's disintegrating
From all the medicine.
Medicine.

You could still be,
What you want to be,
What you said you were,
When you met me.

-Daughter 

How to fall back in love.

Today I dreamt that I had left this country of mine for a new country. I didn't think to deeply about what was in this new country because I couldn't decide what characteristics I actually wanted this new country to have. Anything thing I thought up made me hate it...such is the case when you hate everything. So I made my new country a desert, with an oasis . Nothing else but fine grains of sand, a couple of trees, and clear water. That's all I could decide on, an empty, rock-less desert.

A Resolution

If its help you offer, I require more than that.
I need a nuclear arsenal, an army, and a revolutionary manifesto.
I require unprecedented rapid global social and economic restructuring.
I need the wealth of the worlds top 10% and the influence that comes with.
I need chemical and electrical rewiring of my brain and selective amnesia.
I  will need perfect health and incredible physical strength.
I will require the favour, intervention, mercy, and pardon of the Lord of worlds.
I need the capital to ransom myself from the fire and punishment of the grave.
I will need a light and guide to navigate the qiyama.
I need a key to the entrance of jennah, and access to prime real estate. 
And who but Allah swt could help me all with that.

Purity of Hate

After everything the most resounding result is hatred. It has taken over my days and robbed me of my nights. I hate. I hate just about everything, everyone, and everywhere. Everything from the disgusting little atoms and molecules to the empty meaningless space around us. I hate that stupid little ugly quivering dog next door and the fugly old lady that refuses to control it. I hate snow, cold, and the sunless sky. I hate money. I hate poverty. I hate my house, I want to set it on fire. I hate that voice I hear everyday that complains and screams and offers no pleasantries. I hate my friends. I hate how lazy and naive I've been my whole life. I hate skin, hair, and saliva. I hate people from my community...and really all immigrants...and non immigrants. I hate white people, black people, brown people, and Asians.  I hate people, and their stupid non nonsensical cultures and their ugly sounding jabbering in their strange languages. I hate atheists and idol worshipers. I hate the French...and the Brits...the Dutch...South Africans; screw those guys. I hate dirt, filth, and residue.  I hate animals...plants...anything living or dead. So nasty. I could run away but there is no where to go. The problem is clearly me. I don't even see the point of living anymore. I hate life. I would like to be rid of it. I feel like life is some type of infectious disease that has trapped me in this horrific torture shell of a body. And death would be like cracking that shell open...and finally being free of it. A release and hopefully, relief. 

I don't like to write

I've written myself many a letter
Told me many a tale
To comfort and lull many emotions
That came about my way
But these letters no longer sooth me
The use of words no longer suit me
So to the world of language and poetry
Goodbye and without me farewell