My narrative Reportage
They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
However, poets get their ideas from stories,
But my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon (:)
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man got on the train during rush hour
He passed right through the crowd and went on his way to the front car
and leaned against the moving  door

His sudden outburst of laughter made the passengers looked around
He was a sight for sore eyes this character,
but instead he became my instant story to tell
Or behold a Poet laureate mastered piece  
Dark soiled clothes he wore, his dingy T-shirt he use for a hanky:
With empty pocket hanging low, toothless he smile and kept on smiling
Slurred speech and some missing toes he became my focus point
What’s the use of having lot of money and not sharing?
Within those moments, I saw a decade of homelessness within his character
An ex-mariner, a husband, a degraded broken hearted soldier,
America a failing superpower country:
and most of all New York City a FAILING disaster
So I began my journey, either to compose a poetry piece or tell my eyewitness story into sections of poetry and fiction:

~~
I am not writing any poetry
Not a huff,
Not even a romantic mood,
I talked to a distress

Unto thee of say my friend:

The suffering of pain is more than a pain
Words of distress
No longer I can't say either

The story of that night
That is longer than a long night
That night, my love had died before the dawn

How do I tell thee

The suffering of love is unforgettable
Than the love you never achieved  
Middle of the night to about chest pain

When I could not bear it no longer
Then at late night I call a friend to awake
No longer I can't say either

My friend
O' my friend!
My dearest friend!

How do I tell thee
My soul grew dry that is more than a wither petals
No longer I can't say either

When the sudden stopped of time
I stood, Saw the closed distant door
No longer I can't say either

To be alone in everybody
Within a moment a known seems to be unknown
No longer I can't say either

The last thing to understand who she is constant
The story of the lost bright Star
No longer I can't say either

The door is closed
Maybe someone has locked
Alone, The sleepless nights of choking

One's that hard
Many pale faces in the crowd of strangers
Love is lost within too many hopes

How do I tell thee
No longer I can't say either
~~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen

The curse of feeling
Is also deceiving
For I am always grieving
The loss of never achieving

It's hard living with a fragmented brain
The sad truth is we're all insane
And one day we will fall like rain
To deal with stupendous pain

My very being a damnation
Pleasure of life lost its sensation
To numb it all a temptation
Would be an end to this narration.

There's a face staring back.
It's not yours its not hers.
Its not familiar but
Its always been there.

That normal face you make.
Its not yours without it.
That thing you do.
That made you unique.
That face thought of it long ago.

Those skills you have.
That seem to come from no where.
Did you think that was you?
I've practiced all my life.

Those genes that you wear.
The ones that no one can share.

What bits do I now own?
Do I need answers?
From this face that has shown.

A face approaching faster
Perhaps one day soon.
I'll meet my father.

I live next door,
To a ballerina,
I hear music all day,
And see lights on all night,

It doesn’t bother me,
For we are good friends,
I knew her forever,
Even as a child,

Sometimes I see her,
From my bedroom window,
Dancing like her life depends on it,
Only, it really does,

She moves,
With such grace,
Delicately on her toes,
As if it was easy,

She glances out her window,
Sees me staring,
Flashes a smile,
As if everything was okay,

But I too knew her too well,
To fall for that lie,
I looked at her long and hard,
And now I see why,

Beads of sweat,
Fell down her forehead,
Her legs shook,
As she did a developpe,

Her face was pained,
Strong hint of confusion,
Yet she smiled away,
As if she wasn’t hurting,

She was beautiful,
She could pass as a goddess,
But if you looked closely,
You could see she wasn’t flawless,

Her ever-so-fake smile,
Is what gave her away,
And the shine in her eyes,
Was simply the tears kept inside

Just when I thought,
It was a trick of the light,
She tripped and fell down,
Into a puddle of her own tears,

I didn’t know,
What to do,
Should I climb out my window?
Or leave her in pain?

One thought was dominant,
And it was neither of either,
I screamed just enough,
For her to hear,

She looked up,
And cried once again,
I asked her what was wrong,
Was everything okay?

She said it wasn’t,
As she walked towards her window,
And then did I see her body,
As thin as a straw,

She told me her story,
Everyone was screaming at her,
They said she was pathetic,
Useless in so many ways,

She said she agreed,
They were telling the truth,
She was too fat to be beautiful,
Too fat to dance,

That’s when it hit me,
It explained so much,
She had a disorder,
Anorexia nervosa,

I told her the truth,
While her body shook,
I shook my head and said,
“It’s going to be okay,
My little ballerina”

She smiled, and left.

Find coastlines along the edges of your body,
mark your territory
and invite gallant young men to try their hand
at crossing a huge wall made of crystal glass
and steel verses.

Let them be afraid of the tombstones gathered
at the gates; tremble at their own risk
because your heart can't handle an unsteady hand:
it's filled to the brim.
And as the tourney dies down,
as the men scratch the surface
and leave with pieces of your arms,
your eyelashes, your cheeks,
there will be one
who is there when the dust settles.

Allow him to love you,
in a most consuming way; let him
take your body a shrine and let him
call it his only home.

Finally,
break his heart,
and watch as the poetry
spills out of you like
an angry river, from a spear
he wishes he'd hit into your chest
not cupid's arrow instead.

our love...
exists.
our love exists,
behind closed doors,
behind four walls
that push up against my lungs
squeezing until I suffocate.
our love exists while you
stand there and stare,
open mouthed
unable to accept
the fact that you denied
a delicate butterfly
the right to take off
that you set fire to a field
of tulips that were begging
for new fallen rain.
you touch me with electricity,
but i am used to this burn.
i am used to this broken feeling;
the feeling after your wings have been
plucked off
and every last layer of skin
has been set on
fire.