Fireworks and vivid chaos,
blinding lights in the pitch black sky.
The sudden gregariousness,
cross-dissolving into one's sigh.

Back home in a blanket,
hot chocolate in hand.
A wandering mind, hardly cognizant,
unleashing one's disguise.

With the shutter open
to evacuate life's scenes,
revealing only those broken
in one mind's eye.

Fading rapidly from awareness,
once immersive, now an indistinct sight.
The suttle gregariousness,
has all but gone dry.

your love is like gravity
it grounds me to the earth

I just have to hold on
and put one step in front of the other

some days I want to float away into nothing
but then I remember I have love that
roots me here in reality with all its gravity

///
When the time has returned
Hearts can't go out from you
Lost love seems to be a footprint
Decayed stone is a sign of thy

The last laugh
The flute
Putting forward the images of the day
Today it has grown a big miss for the poet

Spots at matches
Someone calls the untimely
I See
You see
Everything becoming change

Slow
Quick change
You and me
The Trees
The Hills
The River
All

Your restless mind
Grew cold
Even fastest cyclone
Became cool

Leaves fallen
Grew again
Spring came
And moved away

She came
She sang
Again she went away
Never hold back
Just left this footprint

The last laugh
The flute
Putting forward the images of the day
Today it has grown a big miss for the poet
///
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

I condemn you. I condemn you.
One; for the pain you brought.
And the second for the continual shame.

**** you. **** you.
One; for my severed heart on the ground.
And the second for the boot stomped across it.

I hate you. I hate you.
One; for my dignity.
And the second for my pride.

I shall forgive you. I shall forgive you.**
One; for the pity I feel for you,
And the second for my own self-worth.

I am sometimes hit with a
heavy dose of doubt,
does anyone care about
what I write?  

maybe I shouldn't write?
no one wants to read this stuff.

but then I remember that
I write for me,
and I write simply
because  it comes
out of me.  

who am I to stand in
the way of creative expression?
So I just get out of the way,
and put pen to paper.

The family all together over the holidays
It's always been a happy time
And that
Is really all I want
To feel that pure joy I always used to this time of year
Once again
Without those broken moods
Interfering
Because my inner demons
Have already taken every other joy in my life
And wrecked so many things that should have been perfect
PLEASE
Don't let them take Christmas too

He stares into empty space,
In his eyes, faces fade and die.
Darkness creeps from the corners of his mind,
Slowly losing self to time and tide.
Standing in the midst of chaos,
Charred remains of humanity clings on barely.
As the very foundation seems to crumble and fall,
Blood and dust
Fills the crevices of his heart.

He sits by the window,
Pale face,
Scared.
Outside,
Not even light finds way through the smog.
Bloodied knuckles and broken bones,
His small hands hold onto the remains of a burnt picture,
Smiling faces and sad eyes.
Afraid of the shadows,
Crimson dreams visit him at night.
He looks at the reflection in the window,
Watching as his sunken eyes brim with tears,
Wondering why they left him here alone.

As he lies down under the covers,
Trying to forget the gunshots and the screams
Echoing thru the night,
He wishes to never grow up,
Not here,
Not now,
Not when *hope is dead and gone.

The tide charged in deeply, taking all that was never there for the asking.
Desecrated sanctity let flow scarlet rivers while the moon tied her tongue and the sand dried her tears.
A heaven of weeping constellations dimmed as she rose, this shaken child, silent and mourning, her innocence torn and bloodied by this fierce current that knew not her name.
She wept a tear of farewell, her eyes faded in acceptance of a fate once warned. Stumbling, ragged, once hallowed now hollow, she dared not ask why of the moonlit wind as it blew her homeward, to be forever the keeper of secrets.

Immune to the depravity.
Enslaved to the creativity.
A weaken soul, to the artist brush.
A becon of burning coals, in the artisans stove.

Two sides of the same coin.

We are writers.
We are painters.
We are smelters.
We are dancers.
We are singers.

We are art.

We are, us.