how can I be in love with a land I have never stepped upon
a land I have obsessed over since the first breath I have taken
how can you not be infatuated with a place that created your essence?
a place that brought your mother and father together, passionately as one
a place the bleeds for thousands of years under the footprints of every invader who raped
a place that bears witness to the strength of your people who may be scattered,
scarred, but will never give into fear
how can you be dying to enter a hole that every man, woman, and child
is living to crawl out of
through feet, feral, trucks, broken boats, seas, smugglers, and more?
how can I not be madly in love with a place
of phantom pain
whose inheritance is a soothing ache from
never feeling the wet dust or dry tears,
and touching her,
raw and unclothed?
How do you sustain your day?
He plans to fill himself with water and prayer
each dawn, but he sleeps in
fajr, when a suicide bomber, strikes the mosque across the ocean.
The train is impatient for the spiritual
so he packs his iStuff instead, swiping away the push notification
azaan, unheard, he walks into the hallway of this temporary earth.
She begins with coffee, black, please
and finishes it in sips of three.
First – to forget the night that has past, sprawled on her back, under cruelty
sip two – a tear slips to cool the scalding roast
the final chug – the paper cup she cannot crush because it is the essence of the cycle.
This very cup bought from the coins the previous one filled
empties quickly, self-inflicting singe.
They scramble early
fat free milk is more expensive, scratching their itchy eyes,
they douse their Fruit Loops with floating growth hormones.
They didn’t finish reading
but their bodies carve enough letters to publish a lifetime
of sorry, if they get called on in class to discuss
they plan to lie, again.
For me, each alarm rings in a new poem
I choose the night before so lethargy does not succeed
sustaining breakfast with an apparent literary genius
thinking the written text will suffice
. . . every passenger is at unease by his beard which I admire
my foot almost knocks over her cardboard invitation
they jay walk, and I run behind, protected by small humans in traffic ahead . . .
I go hungry
naive in a facade of selfishly published poetry
because I know the sufferers of the real world
are the ones who breathe the truest mixtures of words
waiting for the right ones
Who will listen?
They say a writer who waits for the ideal conditions to work
dies without putting a word on paper
There is something dying everyday inside of me
Because I can’t stop the clock to write these ideas
like a blight to me.
My soul is seared
Can’t fix my life
like I fixate on words
craving a fix of paper and pen
Ten months since I’ve bled a poem.
Writing is the only true home
sinking with the rest of the world
need to forget society.
I know I’ve disappointed that part of me
for having not achieved what she yearned
for me to achieve
Yet still I know there is an older, wiser me
anticipating for me to change my indolent
course of action
stuck in a timeless mirror contraption.
Break her out
the only weapons are my words
So write for her
Because my heart cannot conceive to deceive my own again.