60: estranger

stranger
th/æ/n fiction,
stranger

th/ɛ/n reality,

stranger(,)
th/æ/(ɛ)/n everything
i thought i knew

(about you) is

fiction-worthy, th/ɛ/n

reality sinks in, th/æ/t

you
are

(/ə/) stranger.

- 8/12/12 2.37pm

stranger
th/æ/n fiction,

stranger
th/æ/n reality,

stranger
th/æ/n everything
i thought
i knew

is the sudden awareness that
you
are
(/ə/) stranger.

- 8/12/12, 2pm

59: run away

i feel bad

not because
i
had

reciprocated

mistreated
laughed

smiled

cried.

i feel bad

because
i

fear
being
dispensable
dismissable
disposable.

i feel bad

because

i
would

rather

disappear

than 

confront.

this is how i preserve myself.
this is how i save my heart.
this is how weak i am.

and this is why

i 

always 

flee.     

58: why i am a feminist

i am a feminist
because
They keep reminding me
by touch
by humour
by education
by interaction
by observation
by prescribed obligations
that
it's a man's world out there,
and men and women
i am told
are as different as night and day
and we need to RESPECT that
men are the decision-makers --
women should only be drones --
because women can't lead, only follow;
we need to just stfu because we're hollow,
and if we disagree,
they'll make damn sure there'll be sorrow
because we're only good if we can blow,
right?

no,
i don't hate men.
i just don't trust them.

57: five and twenty

quarter century
old, and what have i achieved?
my dreams, what were they?

56: into thin air

would they notice, if
i disappeared into thin
air? no, i doubt it.

unworthy of being visible in their eyes.

55: pointblank

What is the point of
having both eyes open when
you choose to be blind?


What is the point of
having a heart and mind when
you keep them confined?

54: i surprise myself sometimes I

he asked, "you really
wanna know?". i freeze, inhale
sharply. do i?

in the car, there's not much you can't see or are able to hear. or do. or hide.

53: Disabled

Sure, she can't see, but

she can read, hear and feel words
from the Beloved.

We can't understand
God's words with our fingertips,
so who's handicapped?

inspired by a blind girl at a tafseer class i sometimes attend. she was sitting in front of me, and was intently listening to the ustaz explaining about the surah we were learning during the session while running her fingers around a seemingly blank page of a thick book. upon closer look, i realised it was a braille quran. 
i have been blessed with the gift of sight, and i can read quranic words anywhere if i wanted to; what's my excuse not to? :(

52: Submerged

Somehow,
I find myself in the middle
of the sunken fields of Despair
again.

But I am not stationary.
And I am not alone.
Because the weight of
pent-up tears and
the wrench of
dark undercurrents 

make me sink
faster, deeper

into the overbrimmed
realms of Dysphoria,

the dystopic home of

the rejected,
the tormented,
the dejected,

the fragmented.

Here is where

you will find those
who are in want of 

a teaspoon of Concern,

a big pinch of Gratitude,

a handful of Appreciation,

a morsel of Happiness,

a sprinkle of Hope;

from those whom
they care about the most

(from those who
care about them the least).

Struggling together in
solitude: suffocating in this
sea of hot ever-flowing tears and

sobs of endless desperation from being

souls trapped in lucklustre, unfulfilled lives

still trying to seek someone who understands, to
save us from ourselves. But there is nowhere to go but

Down.

And the lower I go, 

the more I give in

the more I give up

the less I give a fuck 

about the world.
About all this.

Will this go on forever? Will this abruptly end?

Will this just end up being a nightmare,
where I wake up drenched in my own sweat?

And ah, what if I'm able to save myself

But am unable to save the others,

especially those who dragged
me all the way down here?

Do I leave them?
Not an option.

I couldn't

I can't

I won't.


old:

in the middle
of the sunken
fields of
Despair,
the weight of
pent-up tears and
the wrench of
dark undercurrents 

make me sink
faster, deeper

into the overbrimmed
realms of Dysphoria,

the dystopic residence of

the rejected,
the tormented,
the dejected,

the fragmented.

Here is where

you will find those who 

lack and are in want of 

a teaspoon of Concern,

a big pinch of Gratitude,

a handful of Appreciation,

a morsel of Happiness,

a sprinkle of Hope;

from those whom
they care about the most

(from those who
care about them the least).

So I
suffocate in this

sea of tears as the

sighs of desperation from

souls trapped in lucklustre lives

seeking those who can try to understand.

But there seems to be nowhere to go but down.

And the lower I go, 

the more I give in

the more I give up

the less I give a fuck 

about the world.
About all this.

Will this go on forever? Will this abruptly end?

Will this just end up being a nightmare,
where I wake up drenched in my own sweat?

And ah, what if I'm able to save myself

But am unable to save the others,

especially those who dragged
me all the way down here?

Do I leave them?
Not an option.

I couldn't

I can't

I won't.

51: who i really am

from the depths of my soul,

at the bottom of my heart,

inside the core of my mind,

underneath it all, 

i am

afraid of being alone
of being left alone
of being left behind
of being left undone;

afraid of being apart
of being broken apart
of being broken inside
of being broken hearted;

afraid of being unloved
of being eventually unloved
of being eventually ignored
of being eventually forgotten;

afraid of being disappointed
of being predictably disappointed
of being predictably disappointing
of being predictably unneeded.

these 'irrational' fears                    

guide me

          restrict me

                    control me

                              force me

                              to

do the things i do 

think the way i think 

feel the crap i feel.

from the depths of my soul,
           at the bottom of my heart,          

inside the core of my mind, 

          underneath it all,                        

i am

Sca(r)red