Maa makes a salan for each son
because they like different things
but the beti needs to learn to make her own food
kyun ki uski age pe shaadi aur bachey hotey hain
larka jaan per be jaiy, jaise bi rai
maa ankh band karke osko kabi kuch boley gi nahi
beti aik galti kare
uski izzat zaban per aja ti hai
the sons can go out and party get a girl pregnant
but they’ll still be able to move on and find a good girl to marry
the girl stays out a bit later than 8 pm
might wear a t-shirt,
and the whole mohalla is calling her a slut, saying she’s no longer a virgin
we don’t love our girls as much as our sons
you have failed us girls
us girls are tired of walking on eggshells
of being thrown around, walked all over
and expected to have sabr
kehte hain betiyaan sab se bari rehmat hain
toh aaj hum ko kyun torey ho
Picture Credit: @thepakistanimarthastewart
Now I find myself dancing
to the frantic beat of my heart
at the threshold of judgment
desperate for a figment of
something positive, warm
but realise that I’m shackled
by cynical negations, galore.
Here demons wear masks
of noblemen and kings
and brandish their swords
Continue reading A dance in the dark
I often wondered if you were as sad as I was after you walked away. It pained me to say that perhaps you were not, and one day I had to let my hope dissipate. This is where I walk now, on the road taking me further away from you and any dreams I held onto. I stopped by the ocean for a while and tried to drop your name into the water, but I might as well have drowned myself because you were still inscribed all over me. Continue reading The Aftermath by Samihah Pargas
that badass Black Queen
fluttered across those keys,
matching the grooves of her
scars, the heart of her art
beaming at war
scaling buildings of thought,
mauling the gaul of contention,
shattering mirrors of sought
insecurities & indecision
skipping across the creamy
dusts of nebulas, tapping
the tips of her toes on
starry mists. Continue reading Indomitable Woman
You assume that they will think of you
Remember all of your best attributes,
wish you were here.
Sometimes that’s true.
Sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes I want to bring you back to life
just to tell you how angry I am.
To tell you I love you
and that he deserved better.
I’m not perfect.
Although that should be clear as water, sometimes I feel the need to state it. For myself and for others. Especially for others. It is probably my fault and in my actions. It’s probably something I do or don’t do. It’s probably because of the way I see the world and how I speak of it.
I am not perfect.
And I get tired.
And I give up too.
There are so many things I have given up and not looked back. There are so many things I have looked back but not regretted. There are so many things I regret too.
It’s entirely human. I believe.
Being a mess of so many things, not only good, not only bad, but everything. Not black or white but fifty shades of blue. And some purple, once you wear those rose colored glasses. On holidays. Or those real good days.
The days you hold on to with everything you got to keep moving forward. To keep moving. Even if only an inch or less. Even if to the sides or back. Just moving. Because life is made of movements, moments, actions and decisions you never really got to think through.
Life happens. But I digress.
I’m not perfect. And that’s fine. It’s entirely human, I believe.
What about you?
© Máh Lima
Roll down the window
and drive fast.
Feel the dirt.
In your teeth,
under your nails,
in your ears.
I have tumbleweeds stuck to my lips.
Do you taste them?
They scrape and scratch my skin with
every new name.
The temptation is towards silence
but the noise always seems to win.
I yearn to empty my days of everything but you.
I’ll be burnt but I accept the scars.
See, morning is nothing without a dream to chase,
but while the waste of a generation fades
and days wait only for the moonlight,
my world illuminates in the dark,
where death is a spark,
a spike to the heart,
when all is unsaid,
and the hunger is fed
I contemplate greed
and the silence becomes nothing but a reason to bleed.
The ink is a seed
and everything chases the sun.
– Chris Eyes
Let’s make memories we can treasure.
Make me sigh with pleasure.
Make my toes curl.
Make my heart soar.
Kiss me senseless.
I just want you to kiss me breathless.
the exorcist of my demons
the water that puts out the fire in my mind
the surgeon that stitches the shredded pieces of my soul back together
the angel on my shoulder that keeps the devil from ruining me irrevocably
A garden filled with lovely red roses, I chose a white rose
I started to stare at it meticulously before light of the day goes.
I wondered how it never felt alone, never felt unwanted, never felt left out
I plucked it and its thorns cut through my skin how words do when humans shout.
Braids like Justice,
eyes like Iesha.
home late from
a war-riddled day.
first on the queue.
wine & Nayyirah Waheed.
::. Rico Lowe Jr (@panafrico) Continue reading Braids like Iesha | Rico Lowe Jr.
Abstract art is for me a way to think outside the norm, to let go of expectations and to try and see things a little differently, even if only for a moment. Abstract art defies terms or classification, is outside of borders or -isms, it exists merely because it can and does and the meaning is ambiguous, much like life itself.
if you come knocking at my door
turn the knob and enter
this time I won’t answer
I’m tired of rushing to greet only to get disappointed.
I’m sorry for giving up right on your turn
it’s unfair of me to judge you
based on the actions of the ones before
or their lack thereof.
it’s ok to make yourself at home
get acquainted with the lonely rooms
pay attention to where the shadows form
I’m tired of providing only sun
and blooming when there’s no one to care for.
if after all this you decide to stay
if despite all this you still want to make home
my heart is yours to tame
my soul is yours to love.
one last word of advice, though
beware of full moons.
The tides get high
and I’d hate to drown you too.
Here’s to fragile egos
falling like games of Jenga.
Watch it crumble.
Watch it crumble.
not really humble
a paranoid psycho
afraid to start a conversation—
but I walk a tightrope
cruising on fumes
running out of hope
that’s the saddest shit I ever wrote.
Photo Cred: Hamza Abdulilah
Upon your gaze
At your touch
I melt away
into outer space
Photography by Greg Rakozy
Our foreheads press together as we lie
Breath exhaled from your lungs becomes entangled with mine
I am enveloped by our intimacy
Secrets I’ve never shared sit tucked away in the shadows of my memory
Now they escape my mouth again
Into a place you’ve made safe
Our foreheads press together
Our breath becomes entangled
Our selves transform into one being