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

Poetry · Satay

That moment between being awake and being actually awake

 

“It was like being plunged headfirst into a pool of ice water without a chance to catch the slightest breath beforehand.

Disorientated.

I hadn’t the slightest idea where I was or who I was or why I was here or why I was suddenly awake having not even remembered falling asleep or why I was in a room that was so terribly familiar yet I couldn’t recognise or why I had no memory of any previous existence of mine despite knowing I’ve been here for long although I knew all the information was somewhere but unreachable because it was so

far

 

far

 

far

 

away.

 

I was still blind though.

My eyes hadn’t opened yet.

 

And it only got better when they did.

A sudden flood of sharp white light that filled every crevice of my cornea and stripped what was beginning to surface of my conscious completely bare, now leaving me with no idea of what I hadn’t an idea about, as if I was newborn baby that somehow got stuck between the womb and the world without the slightest clue to what was going on and without the means to know what and why.

Or perhaps worse than that, for not knowing on its own would have been fine but in that split second that I was in that felt that like an eternity stretching upon another eternity I did not only know nothing but had the means to know something but could not know whether or not I knew the means to knowing could be trusted.

It was like trying to pluck out something useful from a cloud of dust that spanned the entirety of my conscious, which proved to be impossible. My mind was struggling between the life I knew I was living in reality and the life I knew I was living in a dream just moments before and the life I knew I was living in my dreams and would not settle on one for more than a flicker.

I must’ve lived and ended about a million odd lives without knowing whether any of them were truly mine and my eyes weren’t even halfway open.

That’s when I began to get nervous. 

I’d realised that all the millions of lives that I’d just lived a thousandth of a second ago all came packaged their own problems and any of them could have applied to my own real life and in fact all of them were my lives and all the problems that had to be solved had to be solved by me but I didn’t know how.

Thus I set about to think of a solution, the entire world (or the half that I could see of it) spinning round and roubd endlessly before my eyes, my heart in pain, my mind intoxicated, almost as if my brain had been saturated with a concentrated alcohol that was seeping it’s way through layer upon layer of my subconscious and getting to the very core.

And then

it just

 

 

 

 

 

vanished

 

 

 

 

 

as soon as it came.

 

For my conscious conscious had managed to surface before then,

successfully traversing

 

miles

upon

 

miles

 

of fluffy subconscious grey matter, 

the cloud of dust that spanned the entirety of my mind,

in half the time it took to open an eye.

 

Then the immediate clarity that followed,

the sweet feeling of knowing, 

knowing where I was,

knowing who I was,

knowing what I was living.

 

A rare moment of lucidity that enveloped my brain like a warm honey with a cinnamon tinge,

rendering the alcohol that was previously there,

even in the deepest cracks of my being,

gone.

 

How sweet could opening one’s eyes be?

 

For I could only help but smile,

at the clarity,

 

at the familiarity,

at the comfort,

at the ease,

and at the new day.”

 

~Azzam

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry · Satay

Cold Showers on Winter Mornings

“Stumbling

Eyes half open

Not unlike my soul at that moment.

Half of which is standing at the bathroom door and the other half clinging staunchly still at the sheets

Not wanting to do it as much as acknowledging that it needs to be done

And it is the step onto the cold, stinging tiles that renders turning back a no-longer.

I knew full well that the choice between right and easy would inevitably come one day,

but that did not make reaching out for the tap any easier,

 

As the cold air began to creep through the gaps and envelop my entire being,

eagerly waiting to embrace its liquid counterpart,

knowing full well that it would despite how much I didn’t want it to,

because I had no choice.

 

For the world does not take lightly to body odour,

in particular those emanating from unwashed bodies.

 

Perhaps if I knew such an ordeal had to be repeated at this time of the morn each day,

I would have chosen to stay in the womb.

Where it was warm and so was the water,

and I was clean without having to make myself so.

Such is the bliss of the unborn who are safe from the calls of the showerheads.

 

And with that thought comes the impulse,

the turning of the hand.

Counterclockwise.

For it dawned upon me,

that it was nobody’s fault but mine that I chose this path, when I had the chance to stay and be warm as before.

And thus comes the subsequent sound.

The rustling of non-solid ice through the ice cold pipes hugged by ice cold air in an ice cold world.

I knew it was mere moments before the fall.

And before I had a chance to take a step back, it had happened.

Bursting out of the holes above me like a platoon of angry blizzards,

screaming through the air,

Impact.

their cold, evil touch numbing my head,

followed by my face,

then everything else.

 

And I could do nothing more than stand,

and scrub,

or force myself to

despite my muscles finding it hard to move.

Holding in the screams that were scratching at my throat,

begging to come out.

As if it would ease the pain

or render the world warmer.

 

And thus I shoved them back to the bottom of my stomach,

where screams belong,

perhaps hoping that they would be of some defense against the ravenous, devouring cold,

that was working it’s way outside in to my very core.

It wasn’t of course.

 

And  I could only hope that the event of me not smelling bad would come before my potential freezing to death,

Hoping and fighting,

Punching the air,

clenching the jaw,

gritting the teeth,

whatever would put off the monster of the cold from devouring me completely even for a fraction.

 

And it was just enough.

 

For before I knew it, it was over.

 

The cold now nothing more than a weak lingering in the air,

The soles of my feet now only complementing the tiles,

the tap now in its original clockwise state.

 

It was over.

 

It was all over.

 

Everything was new.

 

Everything was breathable.

 

Everything was warm.

 

And I smelt absolutely amazing.

 

Perhaps,

 

this is what if feels like,

 

to be born again?”

 

~Azzam