Poetry

Worth

I find that we are all worthless until the we accept the measure of our value as something eternal.

Your once appreciated humour may grow to become stale,
Your once inspiring success may eventually fade into oblivion,

But in the ocean of mistakes and shortcomings and forgets,

There is always God,

to show you to yourself as the beauty you are capable of becoming.

Poetry

Euphoria 

Like a warm string of sweet smoke from a freshly lit incense stick that smells of cinnamon with a hint of warm chocolate melted and blended with thick frothy milk but not in a way that drowns out the cinnamon and chocolate but just makes it all the more fuller and filling from the soles of my feet all the way to the tips of my happy hair. 

Poetry

Steps 

​A poison involuntarily swallowed, 

that began as nothing more than a point, 

at the pit of my stomach, 

But then began to crave more. 
It was barely long before before it creeped into my veins, 

And my every thought, 

Spilling out onto my hands and the words I wrote, 

And onto my lips and the words I spoke,

And did it have a flair for making the heart hard, with despair, 

One that would with every second grow. 
And now the rock that was once my own beating flesh,

Would rise up to my throat to watch me thrash, 

And I could do nothing more but drown in my own self, 

For it hurt as much to give in as it did to carry on. 
And I could at times do nothing more than stare, 

Blank, 

At the world that used to be bright but now had died over and over and over again. 
And did I think I’d die with the world the next time it did, 

Given the relentless pain that would spare me not, 

Like a multiple blades stuck indefinitely in the crevices of my spine, 

It hurt to move, so I could only stay still and (try not to) rot. 
Were it not for a crack in my world I hadn’t noticed before, 

And the small strand of sunlight that through it would pour, 

An elation, a relief that was far beyond compare, 

Although subtle and faint, I was sure it was there. 
And from then on the blades seem to hurt no more, 

Or they still did, in actual fact, 

But I had somehow become numb to the spikes and had begun to heal despite the wounds being left wide open. 
And still am. 

Poetry

10 minutes

I could only stand at the doorway, the air itself an oppression upon my shoulders that seemed separate from the plethora of thoughts rushing through my head. Contrary to the popular saying of one’s heart skipping a beat, my chest from that moment onwards seemed to contract twice in what should have been one movement. Not that the rate doubled, but something did. Or perhaps it was just that everything now became twice as much to internalise.

I could only stare, limited to the response of a basic humanoid creature that, in this moment, seemed to have his train of thought thrown off it’s rails. Forget talking, my mind could not form words. My nerves seemed to become senseless yet completely engaged to the extreme, wanting to spasm yet at the same time unable to move in the slightest.

Poetry

Droopy Droops 

​I see you in every single thing. 
Like in the rays of sun that used to light up your face,

But now have nothing worthy to deposit their golden warmth onto,

Anymore. 
And in the glasses I drink from who’s rims I used to kiss, 

while laughing at your jokes, 

Or at you, 

But now do not hear me laugh the same way, 

Since that day. 
And in the grass that bends under my feet as I walk, 

Although there used to be a patch that would bend beside mine, 

Where you used to step, 

But now the blades no longer bend that way, 

And how could they?
And especially 

The now empty chairs which I smile at everyday, 

A part of me crazy enough to think that, 

Perhaps one day you’d be there 

Smiling back,

But you never are. 

And how could you be? 
Missing you as the integral part of my life, I saw coming. 
But little did I realise,

Let alone appreciate, 

The extent to which you managed to turn the absolutely mundane of my life, 

Into the most vivid and colorful. 
And now that piece of me you took with you when you went, 

I can only get close enough to stare at, 

In the rays of sun, 

And the drinking glasses, 

And the blades of grass, 

And the empty chairs, 

But never close enough to touch. 

Let alone ever get back. 
And I ask myself always, 
If, 

Without that piece, 

Can the mundane be more than all that is mundane? 

Can what is dull and grey now become bright and colourful? 
And despite knowing all the answers, 

I’ll smile. 

And grin. 

And laugh 

Because that’s what you would have wanted. 

And because no one needs to taste it’s bitterness, 

Or get a pinch of what it’s like. 
But without that one piece, 

I’m no longer the same. 

And never ever will be. 

And how could I be? 

~Azzam