Design for Trauma.

When my moods change without prediction, I withdraw into my shell.  Like an ostrich obstructing its arrest, I plant my head safely into the ground.  Although life has thrown me curveballs, planting many obstacles along my path,  I rose above the rain to reign resilient. 

As the sole male heir-apparent born after four, fiercely independent daughters, my parents' religion and culture collided to overwhelm me with a list of duties, and obligations.  Until my father took the downtrodden road for deadbeat dads, creating a strong, empowered single mother out of the waif he left behind.

Mom fought hard day in and out, wreaking havoc on the system, her education taught her tolerance, and blessed us with integrity, and wisdom.  Calm prevailed for a short song, until addiction dug its ugly claws into my sister's broken heart.  

At twenty-three, her lungs, kidneys, and heart stopped, and set her free from the LUPUS that medical research seemed to have forgot. I was nine and had no idea who death was or what it sought, so I collapsed into myself until neither shrink nor exorcist could figure out why I'd began to rot.

Substance abuse, self-harm, and solicitation started my rebellious stage.  I felt caged inside the body of some unfamiliar fiend; rape resulted in recklessness, street gangs, and rage, as I raced against the clock.  Suicidal ideation, and attempts became my obsessive thoughts, until a dual-diagnoses derailed my disappearing act; Bipolar-II and post-traumatic stress became cut away at me, like a double-sided sword.  Eventually, I'd make another twenty-seven attempts to end my pain, three of them were near successes, but I'm so thankful that I got them wrong.  

Added trauma, anxiety, and visits to the ER occupied my time, when I wasn't exploring my sexual identity, as I tried to simultaneously grow and rewind time to heal the little boy inside who remained lost.  Another sister's untimely demise and I thought life had finally won; in an instant, I lost my sister, role model, and best friend then watched my entire world flash bloody red before fading to broken black.  With little strength inside to go on, I went out like the light inside me that had also died.  Until the day I discovered a reserve of strength inside me waiting for me to pull it out; this is where I began to heal myself before I could also help the world.  

These scars, this story, and disease are merely pieces of my flawed design for trauma, without them I'd be someone else but I am strong enough to bear these crosses.  I am better because of my battle, life beat me into beauty.  To you, my garden might seem overrun with weeds, or rotten but to me, it is the rain-forest that saved me.  

Divine Happiness.

As an ever-repeated whisper,

you are more myth than monolith,

mysterious as midnight Mojave-mist,

though rumours are the only remaining proof that you even exist.

Like legends from less-desperate times,

you have always been larger than life;

whenever old wives retell the tale,

they all agree that you are the reason 

for every rhyme.

No fairy tale is complete without you,

the absence of 'ever-after' is a crime.

You are praised in song by swallows,

and bleed through every glass of wine.

Held on to by the hungry, 

you are at home in hope-filled hearts.

I pray, now, as my own flame flickers,

for your presence through the dark;

You—the currency of counted blessings.

You—the love that lights the endless sky.

Lead me to salvation, and away from anger.

Lift me up! So my spirit can finally let go, and learn to fly.

The Hardest Expression to Hide.

Words wrestle with it present, like a symphony of silence.

Downcast eyes drink in every sight to spite desire.

Sighs surge through throats-hoarse from swallowed pride.

The hurt is heaviest when I've made my mother cry.

Disregard disappointment, but you'll still find it 

behind every ache inside your weary heart. 

Agra.

I love you, world wonder—

like Shah's love for Noor Jehan

erected a Taj Mahal in Agra.

Like Mumbai city streets love 

the smoky din of rickshaws 

during rush hour traffic.

Just like Amitabh loved Rekha

in timeless Bollywood classics.

I would trade it all; every sari,

gold bangle, or string of pearl,

for a spin around the white 

ceramic floors inside the palace

of our love. 

I would forego a million fragrant jasmine petals just to fill my lungs with 

your sweet breath.

I am balsam, you are agarwood;

our passion ignites in smoke.

I bathe in the Ganges of our love;

only these waters purify me.

Joy.

Happiness is the elusive harlot whose face I recognize but rarely see, it evades me like snow fall on a Hawaiian beach.  Although the occasions on which it's revealed itself to me, were fleeting and sporadic, albeit few and far between.  

She is the harbinger of hope, the jezebel of joy; evident in strangers' smiles, and the empress of all that we enjoy.  Visible on children's faces, she lives in their laughter too, she is the gatekeeper of good vibrations, as her demeanour is quite infectious, too.

Happiness is having your loved ones at your shoulders should you need them, it is igniting their euphoria, and focusing on their fulfillment. 

Although her affection takes much effort, her fruits are worth the wait, for once she decides to smile on your fate, her loyalty always remains.

Found in the feeling of unconditional love from family pets, you can discover her dancing when there's a spring within your step. Like the radiant sun, she kisses your glowing skin; her presence fills you with warmth, and illuminates you from the outside-in.

Happiness has always been a journey, not a destination. It's centred entirely on the process, instead of on the final product.  For it is there, along this route, where the transformation occurs; as you evolve into a fantastic phoenix, you are no longer a flightless bird.

Hallelujah.

His every breath, my sustenance;

for I am weak without His voice.

Humbled by His covenant, 

in His worship we rejoice.

For God so loved the world,

he gave His only begotten son.

He has wisdom of every pearl,

thy kingdom come, thy will be done.

Give us this day our daily bread,

His kindness shows us mercy.

For our sins, our shepherd bled,

of His sacrifice, I am unworthy.

The world burns and evil reigns,

when will our Saviour come again?

Only He can heal my pain;

in His name we pray. Amen

Silence IS Golden.

It is the appeal of stolen, serene moments during unhuman, late-night hours; in this solitude I rediscover fragments of me, that I'd anxiously been losing. 

Insomnia, although nefarious, provides these opportunities for introspection, where I've learned to love the silence, that is as melodious as violins. 

Here, amidst all of the violent stimuli that I'd ignored, I reflect on the many lessons through which I've been transformed.

I've learned to bite my tongue and eat my acid words; without this realization, my loved ones would have all flown away like frightened birds. 

My growth has come through counting blessings; gratitude keeps me grounded. It was in these cathartic sessions, I lost my attachment to material possessions. 

Alone time needn't feel lonely, it recentres our soul, reminding us to keep evolving, for it's the secret to becoming whole.

Noor.

As noble as Noor Jahan, 

she nestles, like the fragrant nectar 

of nourishing neem. 

Unbeknownst to her, 

her pheromenes emit steam

that lures many suitors.

With the exact majesty 

of her maharani predecessors,

she silently seduces from

the sanctity of her sequined settee. 

Pervasion.

It is blurred lines and electric shock;

when your brain declares war on your world, unleashing an endless barrage of twists and turns. 

Like a tyrant foaming at the mouth for power, it attacks you from behind then tries to tell you that it loves you. 

Running on empty, the highs soar through pastel skies transforming you into superman; with serotonin as your sole disguise.

Shopping sprees take your hard earned money turning it to dust; your reality bursts into flames, your thoughts begin to rust. 

Like the walking dead, your lack of sleep takes the lead, treating paranoia like an honoured guest. 

Anxiety, conspiracy, and chaos hold seats in the polluted parliament inside your head, each chipping away at your sanity, pushing you closer to the edge. 

At the brink of madness, betrayal holds secret meetings with despair, causing your only light to flicker, before it finally fails.

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.

Arachne.

Carrying her sorrows in silken sac,

unwavering whilst weaving wildly.

Under a sombre sun, or 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 as she counts 

one less blessing .

Scarlet letters sealed 

her fate as a spinster,

wrongfully accused 

of eating men for dinner.

Society classified her as 

a sinner,

once jade, emerald, 

but now 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.