Cameo.

Your love was a cameo;
a supporting character to my storyline.
Transient, in every role
just like an inexpensive wine.
No plot twists or cannonballs,
a mere filler to buy extra time.
Yet somehow I'm missing you,
but I know that's not a crime.
Lights, camera, action
Act one: and you were already mine.
Your charm caused chain reactions,
audiences clung onto your every line.
Around the intermission,
we snuck away to unwind.
But like most of my romances,
ours was the tragic kind.
So, I take a bow and watch
as the curtains fall, this is our final act,
and, at least we had a ball,
silence as we fade to black.

Spice Rack

When repressed emotions reach the surface, they crash through my floodgates, like raging bulls in thin, red curtains.
They seep into my bloodstream with poison worse than gunpowder bullets.
No words remain to ease the suffering, that stains my soul with spice & sorrow.
Saffron shames me like a scarlet letter, so I submit to its turmeric terror.
I'm not a slave until it beats me into bonded labour; it's on those days I wish that I were braver.
Like all things else, it fades away; time has always been my sweetest saviour.

thank u, next!

I defy danger; feel the energy of strangers & so I remain, an endearing explorer.

Through every endeavour, in all my alluring adventures, I grow wiser; I prosper. I blossom, like Banyan trees in tropical, Thai weather.

As astute as Asoka, or perhaps even Alexander, I stay as resilient as the rebellious oleander. I'm not afraid, won't take 'no' for an answer.

Never a victim, even when I've been preyed on.
With each taste of triumph, I try even harder.
I am a warrior. 
I am the commander.

Beast of Burden.

Aching like broken backs on beasts of burden, or perhaps the over-confident wrists of unsuccessful surgeons.

Heavier than the hearts of ex-lovers who are still hurting, more calloused than the splintered fingers of soldiers no longer serving.

Preyed on but never self-pitying, like idle hands no longer earning.
Thicker than a theatre's final curtains.
Oh, how it burns like my throat when it first tasted bourbon.

It is the fraying thread of fickle turbans, and also acquired skills, as they're emerging, like new languages that we're still learning.

Regardless of the fruit it bears, there is one thing of which I'm certain; vulnerability's seeds grow differently in all our gardens.

Super Mario World.

Cut the fat from my diet just like I cut my losses. Defeated my inner demons like Super Mario battled bosses.
Used up all your coupons, now all that's left is me. Raised my weapons and defenses, my respect's no longer free. Count your blessings before it's too late, and buried six feet deep. When time runs out you'll know it, life's lessons don't come easily or cheap. You could have the best luck one day, but begging for loose change the next. So sit down and be humble or else you could get wrecked. There wouldn't be resilience without the terrorist that is trauma. You will never be a winner unless you drop the melodrama. Or you could remain a victim with your appetite for pity. Sit at home alone and lonely despite living in an overcrowded city. There is no cure for chaos once it corrodes your mind, happiness is an endangered species, it is truly one of a kind. Cyclones can come and go, tsunamis might seek to bury you beneath the sea. Without the will to break the chains, there is no way for us to be released.

Aviator.

You see, the difference between me and him, is that i keep marching forward to my own rhythm, while you'll just continue being a victim. Of your own insecurities, and fears, the kind that will ensure you remain alone and afraid for many years. Crawling, pleading, begging, kneeling before your own self-loathing, blindly, searching for a scapegoat in whom you can place the blame, as though it isn't you who's responsible for the binding. And as your web of lies keeps winding, I'll be floating on the clouds, twenty thousand feet from you and all your doubt.

Agápe.

No eucalyptus leaf or salve could save her,
aloe was even unable to alleviate the ache.
Radiation scarred railway crossing ribs,
a maze of malignant monstrosities.

Stage three symptoms of a sinking soul,
hospice workers heard heartbroken woes. With each breakthrough's failure, her future faded further;
a flower wilted from one final forsaken Summer.

A broken bass, steadied then sedated,
perforated pulse that beat then fell flat.
Sighs were heaved and wrists were wrung from grief.

Suddenly a silent hum sprang from her center,
a symphony that left science in a stupor.
Medical marvel granted a second chance from her creator;
equipped with a clean bill of health erased by Heavenly saviour.

Vinaigrette.

I //
Rambunctious feet chattered endlessly in anticipation, like a chorus of teenage girls tittering over their schoolgirl admirations. Though most boys are as brittle as chalk held between calloused fingers.

II //
Aggression is threatening as awakening sleeping dragons; it roars and gnashes its teeth like the razor sharp blades of a meat grinder. It is like water for chocolate or caramel to a Diabetic. Raise your weapon again and I'm afraid I'll have to teach you a lesson.

III //
As a grisly peach chafed my paper skin with its bristles, my spirit moaned then gently weeped tears as slow as turtles. Charcoal's charm stole kisses from me, like a brazen burglar. So, I sit and reminisced about the ways you hurt me.

I. As an orchestra of birds rouses the world from slumber, their uplifting songs soften ears before jarring alarm clocks. 
II. The fresh promise of day shatters the decay of darkness, as mountains of sunlight conquer caverns of midnight.  
III. Fireflies are put out and nocturnal critters creep back into their caves.  
IV. I dampen my throat with dew from lifeless leaves then scurry back to my own bed

 days ago

i ||
In relinquishing our rebellious egos, we earn the right to be our own rulers. Free from restrictive reins or saddles, unchained as we were meant to exist. There is no sweeter song than our silenced self-doubt. It is the wolf who barks and then retreats; a revolver with rabid bullets, unload it so you can get some sleep.

ii || 
A peregrine falcon soars to through higher skies, dipping every now and then to admire new sights.  The bright, pastel coloured breeze beneath its wings, the sole copilot needed to careen across kaleidoscopic clouds.

iii | 
The final bell rings a ballad of dismissal, as hordes of evacuating feet collide into a blur.  Sneakers replace assigned seats and essay papers, if only these summer days would stay for good

Cherish Me In Chains.

Like waxen residue atop a windowsill, 
or the smoky traces that outlive the candle,
our love survives like hibernated winters,
amidst the fuss of reanimated springs.
Concealed beneath a single 
chrysanthemum's caresses,
far beyond the pale of hollowed,
summer moons.
Aubergine, the artifacts, 
of our affections, 
embrace me like another Autumn 
come and gone 
too soon.  

Should you forget to cherish
our chaotic, midnight memories,
remember that I will neglect
to honour you, the same,

If you fail to fall apart 
like the fragile frost of
February snow, 
I will become as brittle
as the brassy bark of 
every ancient birch.

If a day arrives when your 
calloused fingertips soften 
from no longer piously
sliding across the braille
surface of my skin.

The very next is when
my antedeluvian ears are
no longer flooded with
the melody that is your song.

But, if you should stay devoted
to my melancholy, wistful memory,
I will remain as steadfast as 
a pious congregant,
lighting agarwood at the altar 
of your love. 

Once in a Lullaby.

The roaring twenties went out with a bang, and left deafening silence in their place, as idle minds and hands became devilish playgrounds at alarming rates, one black Tuesday darkened an entire decade.

As a war widow, she had no choice but to return to the dance halls from her flapper past.  Determined to avoid separation from her children, she jived until her feet bled red, white, and blue.

They only saw her bright-eyed encouragement as sunlight bounced off her teeth, and made them sparkle.  Her smile stole their attention from the tears that pooled in those same supportive eyes.  

As the massive ship set sail for Emerald Isle, she raised a white-gloved hand and waved goodbye one last time.  She sighed defeatedly, then collapsed onto the mossy dock, for it was all that stopped her, in that moment, from sinking to the depths of her own great depression.

Cluttered.

Reaching for a light switch as it 
transforms into a ferocious beast, 
words fly from my chaotic mind,
at record speed, then slip out 
from between artificial teeth.

I boil water in egg yolk, 
then eat a banana peel, 
put my pants on backwards, 
and fail to separate what's fake 
from what I once knew to be real. 

Elvis wails as Ella croons
inside my head, the whole day through,
and I sit, confused about the way 
that Billie Holiday could somehow
sing the colour blues.

Horns outside my window transport
me back to safari elephants,
as I become convinced that they've
returned to give me a taste
of my own medicine.

In my return to innocence,
where everything old is new,
I stop to smell the flour,
for life is far too short to spend 
each day retightening loose screws.

Earwig.

Anxiety's an infestation of the mind,
it lays its eggs under my skin, securing a foundation for the home where it will rear its kin. 

It is the black widow of doubt, and, simultaneously, its web; the venom in her sac, and yet, the prey within in her net. 

When sleeping fears are struck awake, they grin whilst baring fangs, delighted to claim their stake now that it's witching hour. 

The eerie thing about irrationality is that it isn't self-aware at all, as it stops to convince us that like a candlelit living room, we also have no power.

Untherapeutic thoughts can seem like millipedes, whose rows of feet can be felt as they compete in the Olympic games that are being held inside our chests as we concede defeat. 

There are schools of thought that somehow exist believing the past can't be relived. 

If that's the case, then I'm ready to take the world by storm as the owner of its first and only time machine. 

Unless, instead, I submit the termites who take tenancy in me when trauma hits as my receipts.

Intelligent as it might seem, insanity is adept at being quite obscene.

Currently it is a caterpillar who's built their cocoon within the fragile forests of my overripe emotions.

Dangerously close to the edge, even one misstep could force me to burst into a binge-eating, body-dysmorphic butterfly.

Pestered by its petulance, and its lack of diplomacy; without tact, and without warning, it arrives like an entitled ant.

Nattering like gnats and nettles, it chirps the loudest, yet has the least to say. 

It's a busy worker bee in bonded labour, and also its commanding queen who dials me on the daily though I've already disconnected the only phone number that it knows.

Transcendence.

In Thebes, the origin story of Atum the Creator involved Earth and sky's division into Seth & Nephthys, a third gender; both non-binary, by nature.  

In Greek and Roman antiquity, 

there ruled a Goddess named Cybele, 

whose followers transitioned, famously, from male into females.

Ugandans, once upon a time, raged against restrictive gender norms, as priests and Teso tribesmen preferred prints made for the women in their homes

Adoration filled the eagle-eyed Indigenous tribes in pre-colonial times,

as they celebrated sacred two-spirits who  enhanced their lives.

Hijras have existed, in India, for as long as the festival of lights, 

but it wasn't until this century

that they earned economic rights. 

When Joyita Mondal was elected India's first transgender judge, bangles clinked in thunderous applause. Determined to aid her sisters, she abolished trans-exclusionary laws.

Throughout the his and hers-tory
of the world to date, 

our gentle, gender variant friends 

were visible, and loved.

It wasn't until religion won that 

they were forced into prisons.

What good is false piety,

if all it does is inflict pain?

Why can't these wicked men 

see their prayers are pointless, 

when their palms are stained with blood?

To this day, we sidestep around inclusion in our own communities;
safe spaces only for some,
as they centre on cisnormativity.
Like false apostle wrestlers
who rarely sit and listen,
we landed in a sea of thistles,
silenced like the 'T' in 'LGBT',
and 'whistle'.

Somehow, over the muffled screams, 

we have the nerve to call our cultures civilized, when just last year alone, the U.S of Assassination claimed twenty-five innocent trans-lives. 

When trans-people of colour were disproportionately targeted in these attacks, when will we learn to love instead of separating white from black?  

Until our politics are stripped of poisoned prejudice, 

gender nonconforming folx can only 

live in fear of further violence.

Unless our sisters have access to

healthcare, housing, and are gainfully employed, we cannot pretend there's progress until discrimination's been destroyed. 

Give them power through our platform;

lift them up so they can stand alone;

make them feel like mighty Marsha P.  

starting revolutions with a single stone.

We mustn't forget race and sex were never choices that we consciously made.

Let us fight for our most vulnerable, and

amplify their muted voices that fragile men forbade. 

Let us resist until they return to their rightful places next to us once again. This civil rights movement demands the overdue acceptance of our global trans-families and friends. 

We will not evolve until they can be seen without also being afraid. Only once their suffering will finally end, will we ever be able to appreciate their truth, and their transcendence. 

x

Sibling Rivalry.

It must take incredible resolve to stay focused at the circus.  For some, chaos is the buzz and pestering of a simple fly.  It is a feat to stay afloat despite being deprived of a lifeboat.

With the self-restraint of saints, equipped with minimal complaint.  How does one bite their tongue through lifelong chronic pain, as their loved ones bellow over broken nails and migraines.

This kind of bravery seemed made for comic books and fairy tales; epics based on Viking Gods, or stories about sailors and sperm whales. Until that unforgettable day not too long ago, when I rubbed my eyes, in disbelief, as I watched my own sister effortlessly complete superhuman deeds.

There is nothing quite as loud as the silence that accompanies the truth; it echoes inside of us, before it blares like trumpets in a padded room and then blows off the roof.

I spent a lifetime believing confidence belonged to those who dared to shout.  Mistaken, now, as I admit my sister's silence did not stem from her self-doubt. Instead, it was her way of saving us from the fires we started in every single house.

Now, I burn from my own shame, for all the times I cursed her out, assumed she was my rival when she'd only been looking out.

For making false accusations to twisted sisters who laughed at me behind my back, and even to my face.  I cannot eat my acidic words, or ever remove those stains.  I can, however, commit to behaving the way a brother worthy of her should behave.

I beam, with pride now, as my vision is no longer clouded by my own delusion, or promises uttered by others only to be lost to the wind.  Grateful, more than ever, to have finally paid attention long enough to applaud an authentic femme fatale, who is also my best friend.

The fear of loss has made me quicker to count my blessings from above; the greatest of which, are her and our mother's unconditional love.  From sibling rivalry, to reverence, she is the one person I could never be without.  If it weren't for those pinches, I'd probably be six feet underground.

Shakti.

I stood there helplessly, drowning in defeat,
darkened by my inability to breathe life into
your rusted heart's resilient beat—
a symphony I memorized from the inside,

in forty weeks.

Incapable of returning you to the raven haired beauty of your prime, I bite my tongue until I'm numb, as if my lips have been sewn shut with twine.

You heal me when you hold me then transport me back in time, to the days of yesteryear, when I was still your innocent, little child.

I am haunted by the trauma when I will one day find, that I can no longer turn to you for comfort, or the reassurance of your smile.

I know I run but I am frightened, when I see you've become so frail.My mind refuses a reality where you are no longer my nightingale.

Your song lulled me into slumber, as you softly sang the world to sleep.

If only I had looked at you long enough to see,
that all you were ever doing was trying to love me.

There is no bond like that between a mother and her only son, even if he is less deserving of
her pride than he is of her scorn. 

Trauma.

I found you unconscious,
foaming at the mouth.
Failed to resuscitate you,
before my screams filled the house.
You were more than my sister,
you were my confidante, as well.
And since you crossed over,
my life has been Hell.
At least we were together,
holding hands,
for a quarter of a century.
All I can do now is accept that
you are no longer here with me.

Arachne.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,
unwavering whilst weaving wildly.
Under sombre sun and callous cloud,
she spits and hisses, feeling jilted.

Centuries since she's been hopeful,
eight eyes, wide open, filled with wonder.
Mourning every almost happy ending
crushed each time she lost a blessing.

Scarlet letters sealed her fate as a spinster,
wrongfully accused of eating men for dinner.
Society classified her as a sinner,

once jade and emerald, now a black widow.

So she spun her salience armed for battle;
no army could have anticipated her arrival.
Adorned in a coat made of her ex-lovers;
Hell hath no fury like the venom inside her.

Circonflexe

His arms unencumbered me,
removing all signs of weakness,
seasick though I was,
I somehow survived through stormy season. 

A whisper, a glimmer;
strategic breaths that kissed my neck.
A runner, a sprinter,
only he could rescue me from wreck. 

Inside my tattered mind,
two wrongs could never make a right,
until he blessed me with his Francophony
that made me blossom overnight.

Homogeneous.

They often called me yellow—
marigold and mustard bellied.
Only my fear was ever apparent,
even after naked wars against the winter.

The cold burned like waxen candles—
it left my jaundiced skin searing all summer.

Gayness was a crisply-cool deathwish that
rippled right below the surface,
until I realized all I could do
was live my truth in earnest.

And in spite of my reserved nature—
this itch refused to be removed.
So there I was, this peacock,
with his coat of many colours,
wide open to assault,
that accosted me like splinters.

Inner-city youth turned circuit kid adorned in glitter—
I have worn many faces,
though the kindest ones appeared upon my sisters. 

Displaced, I lost many races
yet somehow still remained a winner;
I salvaged scraps of shrapnel
though society classified me as a sinner. 

I am me—the sum of my parts;
sexuality could never render me a victim.

Resolve.

I was not made to falter;
weakness looks better on other men.
And every time I hit the ground is
just a chance to build
my fortress walls anew.

When my city crumbles,
it does not mean that it
will never thrive again.
I refuse to listen to the protests
of my insecurities
that urge I quit while I'm afraid.

They may be ferocious beasts,
but I will not back down that easily.
This time—I choose to live!
I will not come undone.

So what if I sometimes slip
and sprain my resolve,
.I know I'm not the only one.
The moment has finally arrived
where I stand and fight,
and face my demons head on.

I won't give up, I'll soldier on
until I've crossed the finish line.
I will stumble forward 

long after the race has been won.

My late arrival to the ball
is no reason to sulk backstage;
the show must go on.

I choose to live! I won't give in.
My stubborn heart will not stop 

for anyone.

I carry on, I am quite strong.
The day has come for me 

to make my mark.

I'll take what's mine, long overdue;
I'll fight the urge to run and hide.
I choose to live—

and it's a beautiful feeling

to know that I have grown.

Alpha.

I'm the Alpha, the Omega, 
you're played out like Sega.  
Genesis—originator; 
nemesis, you're just a hater. 

Delusional; 
you're no prophet, sis. 
I am opulent, 
you're the opposite.  

Alif Laam Ra, 
When I hit you with the ha; 
Hey Ali Baba,
this is the return of Jafar.

When he does his magic tricks,
just avert your gaze,
before it's too late 
and you're all ablaze.  

This false leader's lies 
end in fiery graves; 
couldn't even lead a pencil 
'cause he's that depraved.  

Ankh ankh, bitch; 
just move out the way—
better save your soul 
before that judgment day.  

You can call upon Ra, 
or even email Anubis, 
no God would save you now, 
but I bet you already knew this.

Mamta.

Your strained voice
cries out to me, like the sage sitar.
It sings a sobering song
that transports me through sand.

Suddenly, a memory of your
loving care becomes so real.

I watch, awestruck,
as you took my tears
then weaved them into cloth.
Embroidered with golden silks
you pulled from the fabric
of your heart.

We never had much,
but your patience had me convinced
you were the palace in which we lived.

I exhale—only the warmth of love
and adoration escapes from my lungs;
in you, we have the stars.

Despite the struggle,
we only ever tasted the sweet saffron
you skillfully slipped into our souls.

Shalimar is in you;
my mother IS a Taj Mahal.
Her every breath's a nectar;
it is cardamom's caress.

I would reanimate a hundred thousand times
just to relive the splendour of her shadow;
it was the sunrise of my lifetime.

I would relive every sadness behind my eyes
just to breathe the soothing citrus-scented air
of her orange grove.

I have never come so close to saintliness,
and I can soundly say
my spirit has never been the same.

Three. Sixty. Five.

I -

Bones rattled and teeth chattered, 

like unwanted shrapnel from some unsavoury stew. 

Smiling whilst administering lethal injections 

that painted both our lips blue—

even Gestapo couldn't be callous like you.

II -

Cleansing rain falls from clouds 

onto my caterwauling heart, 

rescuing it from the extreme state 

where its mouth was blistered and parched. 

Today—I have been granted a fresh start.

III - 

Ablaze again; amazed, by the ways 

I have evolved into a better man. 

Not terracotta delicate but rather, 

resilient as rock. 

Baked but bathing in the beat 

of brilliant song.

IV -

Recycle, reuse, reduce, then rinse, 

and finally repeat. 

The regrowth that left me reborn 

buried itself beneath the Beeches,

and below the streets; 

a cycle come full circle and complete.

V -

With little visibility, 

all I could do was brave whatever lie ahead. 

When all falls down and failure reigns, 

remember even yeast rises again 

it can blossom into bread.

VI -

In the aftermath of my desperation—

once my sorrow's streams dried up like the Sahara. 

I wouldn't resign myself to monochrome. 

I could not surrender to Sepia! 

I opted to explode with vibrancy instead; 

raging reds, orange opulence, 

and you'll-never-forget-me yellows.

Equanimity.

Like the fog protects the sky,
I held you close, with watchful eye.
Incapable of enduring another loss,
as trees mourn leaves slain by the frost.

On bended knee, I gave myself to thee,
only canines know such loyalty.
Like petals perspiring with dew,
there can be no me without you, too.

So, I just dance like second hands,
that measure time, in all the land.
I am the key—you are my lock;
like lyrics in our lover's rock.

Us.

You and I were like Alexander and Genghis Khan—we conquered the entire world;
In your arms I was the oyster,
who proudly displayed his very first pearl.

You and I were giants—no match for Jack and his pitiful magic beans.
I gazed lovingly into your eyes; you were the golden goose of my dreams

You and I were Dostoesvky,
Dickensian when we talked.
But soon enough, we stopped listening,
and all we ever did was fought.

Remember when I was Shah Jahan
and I built you the Taj Mahal?
Your eyes despised it, soon enough,
and you demanded I add another wall.

Do you recall the times I tried to redeem myself with jasmine scented words?
Pretty soon all you did was chastise me
with your acid speech that burned.

You and I could've reached the top of Everest, but all you did was tear down my Great Wall.
I wanted you to be my empress, but you just wanted to watch my empire fall.

Now I am lost for words—my lips have been sealed and then sewn shut;
I just wish we could go back to you and I, instead of left questioning what is what.

Aminata's Refrain.

If a Marula tree falls in the woods, and no one is around; does it even make a sound?

What about when a warrior queen wails for the infant son who's been ripped right out of her shaking arms?

Does anybody hear it? Even if their tattoo tears concealed it, I know their eyes still had to see it.

Mother Africa wept silently through all those strife-filled years, her only solace lie in knowing that her stoic sun was near.

Blazing high up in the sky or beating against the scorching dirt, he wanted their invading feet to burn, just like their crackling whip that hurt.

As the neutral Earth tones blushed, imprinted by innocent blood, a permanent stain remained to ensure their names would not be washed away by monsoon rains.

Being sold out by neighbouring tribes hurt more than these pale faces whom they'd never seen before upon their shores. 

Was it even worth the reward of being the last prisoner whose head banged against the wooden floor?

Thrown into the stomach of a sardonic ghost ship, with the same siblings they had just helped the enemy enslave. 

Instantly swallowed alive by all the hateful eyes that questioned why they'd danced with these devils anyway.

And so it had begun, the beginning of humanity's end; when our brothers became animals to the very monsters who stopped seeing them as men.

Down here it was pitch dark and silent, just like the jungle, late at night; their vision struggled to make sense of whether they'd died or were somehow still alive.

The foul stench of rotten flesh filled the fetid air; whispered prayers shouted loudly for a creator who was neither here nor there.

As the rocking beast screeched to a sudden halt, sunlight peeked through cracks in its rotting walls. 

Perhaps their saviour had heard their cries after all? Maybe justice would be served and this evil would be stalled?

And so, these beautiful souls believed their torture was over and done.

My heart still aches to know their captors
were just starting to have their fun.

Shackled like chattel, and less worthless than cattle—they were poked and prodded by demons who believed they were far from godless heathens.

Wade in the water, children, we shall overcome, but not until we rise up against the poison in their souls.

Your acidic heart of insecurities could never break my spirit, it can only break my bones.

Just you wait and see what my maker has in store for me—you'll only know my agony when you're the one in chains, and I'm the one who's free.

Partition.

When fame and fortune are achieved, and there is not much left to do, 
that is when I search within for an answer or a cure.
Caught up in society's rules of what, how, and the who, 
I orbit into obscurity, then free fall into an open sewer. 

I am successful at most endeavours that I set my mind to—
whether it's racketball or the creative arts, I often take the lead. 
So I sit and seethe then make believe I am a witches brew, 
right before I prick my finger, and I let it bleed.

Excelling at almost everything can be a blessing and a cancerous curse, 
as choosing one simple path can become quite complex. 
So, instead, I obsess and move forward, in reverse; 
I stray further from my purpose, and grow painfully perplexed.

Robbed of my own livelihood like a runaway, derailing train;
despite a dozen different modes of transportation, I still cannot be moved.
My success vanished as mysteriously as a Malaysian aeroplane;
Stubborn as a mule as I wreak havoc with my cloven hooves.

Urdu:
Hum pe yeh kisne hara rang daala,
dekhao mujhe apna dil saaf hai ke kaala. 
Yeh gham ki goli hai kisne khilayee
hai kisne mujhe buri nazar lagayee.

Shayad hai maine kisi jinn ko sataya,
mot ko kisne pukara, ussey kisne bulaya?
Zindagi humari kaise itni kharaab hogayee, 
bachpan ke khilono ki tara, khushiyan humaari kahan khogayee? 

Kya kisi jadugarni ne humaari loee ki guriya banaali;
ya kisi ajnabi ko hai di humne gaali? 
Zara sa jhoom loon ya apne aap ko dufnaloon? 
Samundar mein doob jaon ya paani meh nahaaloon?

Tofa ho ya toofaan mujhe koi faraq nahin, 
ab fiqar main apni doob ke main thakgaya hoon. 
Woh masoom larka kahaan goom hogaya,
jiske aankhein mein kabhi nahin they yeh aansoo.

Punjabi:
Jiddaun dil vich dard hovey, 
teri avaaz menu chen devey;
na haath jaane, na roo jaane 
kidda rassi vangoo vataya gaya. 

Jadoo da chola paakey, 
menu hasna sekha;
meray zakhmaan de uthay 
pyaar da maram la.

Mi vich nachda phirda si pehlon
hun chand de totey bhi chen na devan,
sooraj di garmi hun sukoon na devey,
dil vich apne pana menu dehday.

Menu ma di yaad sataandi aa,
kanna vich avaaz audhi aandi aa.
Audhi ankhan vich taarey chamakde si,
Audhe paaran vich phul mehekde si.

Urdu Translation:
Who gave me this envy, show me your heart, is it clean or black with dirt, who fed me this pill of sorrow, who gave me the evil eye

Maybe I annoyed some sleeping genie, who mentioned death, who even called him? How did my life get so messed up, like my childhood toys, where has my happiness also been lost?

Did an enchantress make a voodoo doll in my likeness, or did I offend some stranger? Should I spin (roll with it) or bury myself? Bathe myself in water or drown myself in the sea.

There is no difference between gifts or gales to me, I've tired of acknowledging/observing my worry/frustrations. Where has that innocent young boy gone, whose eyes never held these tears.

Punjabi:
When there's hurt in my heart, your voice brings me peace, neither my hands nor my soul know how my life got tangled like rope. 

Teach me how to smile/laugh with your magic, heal my wounds with your love.

I once danced in the rain, now even pieces of the moon don't bring me peace, the sun's heat/rays don't bring me solace, so grant me sanctuary inside your heart.

My mother's memories haunt me, in my ears, I hear her voice; stars once glistened in her eyes, I found flowers at her feet.

Silenzia.

Find me where the cacophony of sounds meets deafening silence, where pin drops seem to echo, and whispers blare like air raid sirens. Out, past all this plastic noise pollution, is an escape where our bodies do all of the talking.
I am loudest in the pregnant expectation of audiences awaiting an orchestra's first notes, search for me along the surface of the unbeaten drum. Slide your fingers on the coastal cities of my parchment skin, sometimes I even hide between guitar strings that have yet to be plucked.
Where aria meets melody, and where bass tickles the rhythm, you will notice me dancing between the lines, like a dervish, whirling, intoxicated.
I am in the sighs, and the frustration—every exhalation between lovers in a spat. There is much of me in their reconciling, and in the fire that rekindles their romance.
Listen closely and you will hear me in the throats of birds, I am there in the few moments of silence before they crow and wake the world. I feel most serene when I am tranquil, and more radiant than the rising sun.
At the bottom of the ocean, where it is pitch dark and eerie quiet; hear me harmonize with humpback whales, whose songs below the surface interrupt the intimidating underwater silence.
As society slides further away from stillness, hush your mind and listen to your heart; if you seek then you will find me, at the nape of light and dark.

Aurat.

Woman brought us to the Earth,
but man will take us out;
ruled by ego and insecurities, 
he shoots before he shouts.
The fourth world war will be fought
with sticks and stones, like in the past:
for the third will annihilate our home,
with one single blast.
If women ruled today, 
we would still have our humanity,
instead of this endless rage, 
that is often coupled with
unadulterated insanity.

Age of Aquarius.

You signed your name in invisible ink upon my stony, restless heart; where others failed to leave an impression, you left an eternal mark. I was intrigued by you from our first chance meeting, even though you loathed me from the very start. Now, I remain indebted to you, for illuminating my path through the dark.

If you weren’t here; what would I have done? If you weren’t near; who'd I have become? Without you, dear; my life is a gun. Without you, I fear, my sorrow would've won.

At eight years young, when Sam excitedly introduced our families, I tried to impress you with Street Fighter, but to my chagrin, you had no time for silly games. Soon, I'd find excuses to visit your home, to catch sight of the unicorn, but even then, you were too cool for me. While I engaged in foolishness, your wisdom still surpassed my child's play.

If you weren’t here; what would I have done? If you weren’t near; who'd I have become? Without you, dear; my life is a gun. Without you, I fear, my sorrow would've won.

Perhaps my pursuit of your friendship shrouded me in desperate shades, so I gave up, and invented lies, just to appease my bruised, infantile ego. I even tried to start a playground war, though your bicycle wheels were immune to my grenades. Even still, the truth remained, that your disinterest dealt the harshest blows.

If you weren’t here; what would I have done? If you weren’t near; who'd I have become? Without you, dear; my life is a gun. Without you, I fear, my sorrow would've won.

It wasn't until I grew some more, and fate reunited our airy spirits in fire.
Middle school solidified our bond,
and set the foundation for our lifelong alliance to transpire. We survived mutual losses hand in hand, and supported one another through life's many falls. Centuries from now, archaeologists will find, that you were painted on my ancient cavern walls, all along.

If you weren’t here; what would I have done? If you weren’t near; who'd I have become? Without you, dear; my life is a gun. Without you, I fear, my sorrow would've won.

To this day, I cannot pretend, there is anyone who has been a more genuine friend. You've outlasted all the rest, to come out on top; without you, my dear, I fear, I never would've grown at all. Through objectivity and tough love, you appeal to my understanding of myself and of the world. Gratitude pales in comparison, to all the ways you enrich my soul.

If you weren’t here; what would I have done? If you weren’t near; who'd I have become? Without you, dear; my life is a gun. Without you, I fear, my sorrow would've won.

Ultraviolet.

Paint without apologies on life's chaotic canvas, since there is no one else who can fulfill your purpose. Dance with the watercolour winds, just like the wolves did. Whose poison tongue convinced you 'solo' is synonymous with 'worthless'? 

Listen to that tiny voice within you, the same one that whispers softer than the stars. On the surface, all is calm and steady, but do not wake this resting jaguar. 

Poor are they whose pleasures depend on another's permission. When you already enchant audiences like the magician, why do you settle for being his assistant?

Let your art mirror the beauty of your smile, cut and paste each piece of you until you're perfect. Show them the strength in being an unmanned isle, let them wonder if their dependency issues are worth it. 

You are capable enough to conquer Gengis Khan or Alexander. While all these reds need blues just to become purple, you already entered this world vibrant and violet. Always remember that you were destined to be their commander, instead of following orders, like some complacent copilot.