Hope and caution. 

“If only you knew how terrified I am.” – Unknown

I’m the pieces of a puzzle no one wants to solve. Not even me. Why would I when it will only make an abstract image that makes no sense? Why would I when I’ve been told time and time again by my own heart that I am not worth it, that I am not good enough?

Fears reside in the darkest corners of our minds. They’re the monsters I fight. The demons I try to contain. They’re my invasions. I know I’m not perfect, and I know no one is, but I’m just a tad bit more imperfect than you, and that just haunts me.

I don’t know what makes me imperfect, but something does and I’m pretty sure people get annoyed when I talk too much about it. Every time I say something, I’m afraid that soemthing will go wrong. Every word of mine is wrapped in hope and caution.

I’m afraid. I’ve always been. And so when I’m asked about my story, I just smile like it’s no big deal and ask them to repeat theirs for the thousandth time, and I find joy in the subtle changes in the story that they make to make it more memorable and perfect. Every time they speak about scars, I close my eyes and feel the skin under my sleeves tingling with sensations of blood and pain. I smile and talk about how beautiful they look in their crop tops and funky hats. Every time I burst with excitement and say something stupid, I stay quiet and regret it for the rest of the day. Everytime I have a story to tell, or a new hobby to show, or just want someone, I just listen to music and find my solace in the pretty words and crazy beats.

Every time I am at a party, I dance a little softly and eat not at all, because I want to be invited the next time too. Every time they crack a joke that I don’t understand, I laugh anyway because I’m sure I’ll understand the next one. Every time someone shares their food, I ask twice and then confirm one last time before having the smallest piece I can find, and saying Thank you. I want to have more, but I wait for them to offer.

I dont have a best friend. Unless you consider 234 pages of a white notebook that I carry with me everywhere a friend. I don’t write diaries because I don’t understand the idea behind it. But I do write poetry which reflects my life as a beautiful world and me as a happy being. But sometimes, it’s sad and just not good enough. Quite like me.

They call it Atelophobia.


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Tsunami

I’m as messed up as this poem. This just might not make sense.

Home.
It’s a strange place
You never know where you’ll feel it.
Two arms and music inside a chest
Or four walls and family dinners
Or spin the bottle and hopeless friends
Or maybe just a city.
My mind is a crazy mess
My heart does not rhyme anymore
Everyone has a story
I’m living a story that
I just can’t put into words.
Nostalgia is a dirty liar.
But it’s my happy place.
You see,
When I write about love,
Words flow nonstop.
When I write about pain,
I don’t try to rhyme, it just fucking happens.
But when I write about home,
My poetry is a lost cause.
There’s a tsunami in my head.
A tsunami of words that don’t match,
And there’s no way to put them together.
I’ve been trying and trying to write
About home
About my time there
About my time here
About what I’ve felt in between
But words of no purpose pop into my head
And although they can be made
Into something beautiful
Like everything can
I’m just not the one to do it.
But I so badly want to.
I want to frame sentences,
And beautiful verses,
Phrases that make sense,
Something.
But here I am,
Going on and on
Not having a clue about what I’m writing.
I’m so sorry.
I just miss home.


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The big bang theory.

Big

This terrible world we live in, is beautiful.
Miracles are all around us. We are miracles. What else do we need to believe?

  1. It’ll take a second for the next big bang to wipe our existence, and yet every morning the sun colors the sky in hues of orange, yellow and blue. Every morning the world wakes up, and somehow, we all live. The sky turns orange everyday as birds chirp, and leaves rustle. And then it turns yellow as we breathe, and feel. And then the blues change, as we make choices to live out our story.
  2. Darkness is an inevitable part of light. Day in and day out, we lose faith and belief, and yet we never lose hope. Even when we are broken into a thousand and one shattered pieces, we still hold onto the tiniest sliver of hope that it will be better someday. Everything seems to go wrong, but we never do. The cosmic stars that made us always fall apart, but they never cease to fall apart forever.
  3. We are made of stars and comets and light. Our fingers are the shooting stars that were wished upon hundreds of years ago, and our eyes are cosmic dust that we think is beautiful. We are all different, for the stars in our body and the light in our hearts is not from one single galaxy. We are made up of millions of galaxies. And just like them, we are beautiful too.
  4. We can love. Among billions of souls that roam on this planet, we always find the lost pieces of the puzzle that we are. Friends, families or soul mates, we fit into their story and they fit into ours. We are all love stories, and poems that rhyme in no decided manner. We are infinities, and we don’t really care if ours is bigger or smaller. We are all the stories that overlap and we are the pen.
  5. We have flowers, stars, and beings so far beyond us that all they know is love. We have sunsets, and mountains that shout back our names. We have fragrances that awakens our desires, and we have each other. We have colors. We have feelings, and we have hearts.
  6. It’ll take a second for the next big bang  to wipe our existence, and yet every night the moon shines bright enough to let us shine too. The sky turns black with white spots that are just us waiting to be born again, a thousand years from now.

I know it’s terrible. But it’s beautiful too, all you have to do is find the perfect place for you.

Bang 


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Blind hearts.

The blind man
Across the street
Sees more
Than the men around him
Who won’t lend him a hand.
He feels objects
With his fingers,
His ears,
And his anticipation;
And wonders more often
About how beautiful
This life is.
He knows no difference
Between red and blue
And yet tells his daughter
That she looks beautiful
In that black dress of hers.
He thanks you
For every little thing
Because he knows
Gratitude
More than you do.
He doubts himself
More times than not;
But he knows how to
Trust his gut.
He is blind,
And he is across the street.
A street you’d only cross,
If you were blind too.


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Earth.

How terrible
must a world be
for innocents to die
and rogues to live?
How terrible
must a world be
for just two words
to be able to sum it up?
“Me too.”

How terrible
must a world be
for hearts to be broken
and promises alike?
How terrible
must a world be
for girls to be raped
and guys to be demoralized?
How terrible
must a world be
for Aleppo to fall
and have disasters everywhere?

It must be
as terrible as
the world you and I
live in.


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