Keyboard warrior

Keyboard warrior

There are twenty six alphabets
strong enough
to make someone’s day,
or make you fall in love,
maybe even hold destruction by the scruff
of its neck and save the planet.
You can raise toasts, gods, hell
and sing them lullabies.
You can turn humans into life-savers.
There are twenty six alphabets
at the core of every soul.

Continue reading Keyboard warrior
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Cosmic.

Cosmic.

I visited a dead city once.
It had
no roads, no shelters, no bodies.
There were only broken walls,
shattered roads, and souls –
an aftermath of war.
I believe that after our final lesson
of letting go of life,
the souls learn how to stay
and so among these ruins,
they kick back, relax, and love cosmically
because this graveyard was and is their home.
In the wreckage,
on some stones, I found epitaphs
“A. Stark, died protecting his family”.
On others, I found eulogies written by
one dead friend to another dead friend.
There was destruction here but also a promise
that these souls were safe
from humans.
There was hate but also love,
my fear but also my hope.

I’m scared that the world will end in war,

that the last thing we’ll hear

will be a battlecry or the silent roars of bombs,

that we’ll go out with a big bang too.
We’ll fight for just a day too long

and spit curses,

catapulting us towards oblivion.
I’m afraid that with the flick of a switch,
we’ll ‘factory data reset’ the world

and just like that, cease to exist.
No more history, no more books, no more readers.
Just broken buildings and the howls

of nature. Smoke, ash, death.
I’m very scared that this tendency

of humans to fill in silences with noise

will lead us to destruction
because not many of us understand

that silences and peace are deep conversations

and war is small talk.

But I am also hopeful

that love will save some of us.
When the human call of death comes,

two young souls will hide.
People with hearts so in love that the universe

deems it too big a loss

to lose them.
I’ve always pictured these two kids

finding shelter in the deepest corners

of the world. If need be, the Earth will crack open

and keep them safe inside.
They’ll be put to sleep while heaven

sings them lullabies

and hell itself rises to protect them.
No war, no screams, no hate

will reach them.

And when they’re ready,
they’ll come back up
and be our next Adam and Eve.
I’m hopeful that something as magical
as love
will bring us back to life.


Into stories? – Let’s live forever
Instagram – @myspirals

Stop fucking poetry.

Stop fucking poetry.

“it’s easy to be a writer in 2019”
what makes you think it’s easy
to be a writer ever?
Some get traumatized
by bullying or an early divorce or assault
and they write war cries
down on paper. Every syllable, every decibel,
screaming louder than their oppressors.
It’s the scream, the pain, the voice
of survival.
Some stay happy
because everything worked out
and they pen down crooked smiles
and sunshine on paper. They heal you
one hope at a time.
I write about love
because even though my heart has been broken,
it’s still beating
and I find that magical.
I find it amazing that I can live as a thousand pieces
and love new people in new ways.
I find it beautiful that a broken heart
still falls in love when it needs to.

Continue reading Stop fucking poetry.

Through the eyes of Mohamed Mattar

Through the eyes of Mohamed Mattar

About a month ago, news came that a young man had died protecting two women in Sudan. He was shot. His favorite color was blue and that’s where #blueforsudan comes from. They still need our help and that’s only possible through spreading awareness. So this is me, doing that in the way I know how to.


This poem is fictitious but hopeful.
(TW: misery, death)

26, died protecting two women.
Stood like a wall
made of every instance throughout his life that made him
the man we know;
protecting his humanity to the very last breath.

With his finger wrapped around the width
of his mother’s finger
like a burka around the head,
he must’ve said his first proper word when he was 17 months old.
“aas-” giggles “-rakkh” drools.
azraq, blue.
His mother must’ve told his abbu and cried a little.

Despite living in a conservative household,
his parents probably spoke to him about everything.
He must’ve known about the horrors women had to face
at the hands of men who slaved for liquor,
at the hands of monsters that called themselves human.
While his bedtime stories were of castles,
his dreams must’ve been of being worthy of it.

When Mohamed turned 13,
he cut a black forest cake for the first time.
It must’ve been a gift
because his friend’s mother had called to thank him
for saving her kid from the bullies,
or judging by the type of man he was,
it must’ve been a gift by the bullies to thank him
for making them human.

Some random facts about him that I think
could be true:
His first breakup was mutual.
His favorite food was kofta.
He was always a good man.
His favorite t-shirt had the graphic of a cute doggo.
He loved cats too.
His mother was proud of him.

One fact that is definitely true:
we are proud of him.

Two hours before he became the voice of Sudan,
he cut a black forest cake for the last time.
He’s gone but his first word has stayed behind,
to protect.
26, died protecting two women.


Into stories? – Autumn
Instagram – @myspirals

You have not seen ruins.

I know I’ve written a lot about war. Last one for quite some time, promise. Enjoy reading this, though! And please spread peace and love.


You have not seen ruins
The way 1945 has.

During the world war,
The schools that taught discipline
learned to have safety drills
and teach antonyms of peace.
The teenager that loved playing football
trained in the army
and often fought for the one thing bigger than him.
Weapons clashed so often,
it drowned all music,
and sang the lyrics of ‘Where we left off’.

I’ll share one story with you.
August 9, Nagasaki.
A three-year-old Yasujiro was playing in his house.
He was tearing the pages of a book
when he was blinded by a white light
like a million camera flashes.
Oh, how I wish it was really just cameras.
He was found under the debris of his house
among many other things
like his broken toys and an open book.
He’s grateful to have survived
But he lost so many things that mattered
His sleep, his hearing, his will to live.
He is happy now.

When someone knows they’ll die
and they get to send one last message
it is always filled with love
it is always an ‘I love you’
an ‘I will miss you’.
You know why?
Because they do,
they will.
Is war really worth the open book?


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: Stories and poems that we share.
Related post: Wars and families.

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