Kash Baloch — Poetry on Identity, Love, and Survival

As I stare into the end of the bayonet, my grief enfolds me, disheartened that I have sunk so low. Saddened to have finally reached the end of the line, my last breath catches in my throat as I prepare to go home. The images of my life arrive, like clichés, to flash before my eyes; I watch unfazed, and even through the happiness, all I see is failure. I am immune to optimism, idealism failed me. But seeing the reality of my world is what cured my insanity. Accepting that I was not perfect painted my canvas with the brightest colours, as I found myself in corners of the Earth I had only seen in magazines. The selfishness of my final act is not lost on me, even though, try as I may, there are loved ones who I cannot let go of.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’” Mr. Rogers’ popular quote has perhaps never been more relevant than it is right now, in these times of upheaval.   It resurfaces after every inexplicable atrocity, repeated and shared until we are convinced that we can retain our faith in humanity.   Recently, it has become a mantra for me, providing a fleeting moment of hope in between the merciless chaos and despair. Currently, it seems as if the whole world is involved in an elaborate scheme to keep my heart and spirit broken.   The past few weeks have been particularly depressing, with one senseless act of violence preceding another, overlapping without a single second of peace in between.   It has become impossible to turn my head without encountering some form of injustice.   Whether it was the worst mass shooting in recent history that targeted th...

We lived high, upon the mountain, the streets could not seduce us anymore.   Far away from the sounds of the city, no traffic jams on our way into work.   All we could hear was the sound of the ocean slapping playfully at the lazy shore,.   Here we could celebrate in silence, serenity filled every corner of our home.   And all we knew, all we needed was beside us, here was somewhere we could grow old.   I was always frightened, afraid of losing you.   So everyday, when I came home, you would be endlessly accused.   I could not swallow my paranoia, insecurity was eating me alive. All the hurts from the past kept piling on until they were as majestic as Everest.   That day, we woke early to trembling, our house shook until we felt a sudden jolt.   If only we had paid more attention, and strengthened our foundation, then perhaps we wouldn’t be awash in water, or drowning in the seventh se...

Holy water valentine, whose lips are cherry red, strolls into the pastor’s shrine, thoughts filled with dread. Temptations consume her, she is burning in her sin. She clutches her rosary so tightly it makes her singe. “Father, father, help me.   Forgive my evil deeds,” she calls out for mercy, or a cure for her disease. Her fishnet stockings tell a different story, one many believe is inspired by greed.   But with the Lord as her witness, she only worked the streets so she could eat. Jezebel of virtue, once she was so pure. Devoid of any wrongdoing, that was her allure. The other congregants turn up their noses when she walks. They return to their stone houses, before pelting her with rocks.