SOULLESS

I woke up without my soul today.
Last night before I slept I left it dillydallying around the concepts of love, life and other prospects
I've wrecked my mind in search of it, checked everywhere in my heart down to the insides of my pockets
Strange, but I was thinking maybe it got caught looking for some change.
I've widened my search range to the street, begging complete strangers indiscreetly what I could give in exchange for theirs.
My soul-seeking desperation reeking of fears peaking into tears leaking down my face and smears what composure I've held through the years.
Who has it, what ditch does it lie in?
Where could it have gone, could I have kept it from fleeing?
My questions echo through the hollow residue of my being
Maybe I should pray so I’m down to the floor kneeling, praying wordlessly to a God I claim to believe in
.Maybe I should sleep now and see if it returns in the morning.

But what if my soul doesn't miss me?
What if it’s running wild through the fields like an untamed child screaming “I AM FREE, I AM FREE”
“Free of this tiring lunatic chasing after things she can’t have and still can’t figure out where she belongs
Free of embarking her childish fantasies that gets so damn frustrating as the journey prolongs
Free of excusing the misuse of her life, at this age she still can’t confidently walk in her own shoes
They’re always too tight or too loose
Sometimes I even give her the option of going barefoot but she still won’t choose.”
I imagine my soul lying in a hammock on a beach in Maui
Sunglasses on, sipping on margaritas glad to be rid of me.

I let my body sleep but my soul I never let rest
So today, my bones and flesh must do all the work and endure the stress
Today I woke up soulless.

HE DOESN'T WRITE ANYMORE

He doesn’t write anymore.

Before, he would wade in the water till the sea hurled to shore his words galore

But he’s internalized his hurt and his disdain remains unfurled

So I can no longer relate to his pain and heal him from the world.

He doesn’t write anymore.

As if he didn’t know I consumed his inscriptions of a thousand tongues like it was air to my lungs

And I could breathe in the echoes of a throng of his melodies

But his verses are missing from a song of memories

His lyrics no longer belong.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took a nap and woke up to a time his art no longer spoke

Like he broke his pen or lost the wave of its stroke

It’s like a curse I wish to revoke; so bewitch me, cloak me

Otherwise tear these blank sheets from his book, please

Un-produce them and re-erect the oak tree.

He doesn’t write anymore.

Like he took the wrong course and got trapped behind the door of an unworthy cause

And his words have been held hostage lest taken by force

But he’s weak and addled, a tired horse without a saddle

He can only pray for help from a divine source.

He doesn’t write anymore

Though I wish he would.

I wish to inspire him from the ground up; I wish he stood.

I’d dish him food to nourish his mind up; I’d feed him good.

Just to inspire him to write a little bit more

I wish he would.

SOME DAYS

Some days my voice gets weak from screaming in silence
I do not wish to speak.
My soul leaks fluid seeping through these eyes
Unarmed with tools to suture my wounds
Yet I seek to discover where the puncture lies.
My efforts are futile;
I curve my lips but still cannot break a smile.

Some days I get too lost within myself
I transform into a different being.
Disgruntled, Ungrateful victim of terror
If seeing be believing
I'm in denial for that cannot be my image in the mirror.
It sells me so short;
Some days I can barely reach anything.

Some days I shove away the hand that feeds
Loneliness welcomes hunger willingly.
There's a hug of which I'm in need
I reject it seemingly.
My body should be labelled 'Out of Order'
No one organ works in conjunction with the other.

Better days I've deemed ordinary
So some days have become necessary

FOR HER

This is for the girl who still loves the one who loved her before
For that glimmer of hope that he'll love her once more
This is for the angel with the fractured wing
Falling down clouds and spacing from the heavens
Missing out on bliss earth could never bring.

This is for the singer who's lost touch with her soul
Her melody is without feeling
Her lyrics without healing
For the young poet spiralling out of control
Their stories remain untold.

This is for she who sits home alone
Her soul mate's gone, children grown
Fleeting memories are all she can call her own.

This is for the internally broken lady
Forced to exchange life for corporate heights
Nights haunted by the cries of her aborted baby.
This is for the void and woes of the barren wife
In a distance, standing distanced from her husband watching another in envy

This is for the innocence of the child paid to get laid
Disgusted by the filth that comes with her trade
If only she had made that grade.
This is for the unwed mother
Always a bridesmaid and never a bride
For the street beggar
Setting her young ones before her pride
This is for the lone soldier
Structured for battle but darkness falls with no one left to hold her.

This is for the lonely girls who have lost their smiles
Though the world seems to revolve without hope
Hold on tight, heaven will be here in a while
Bearing liberation the mind could never conceive
Just say a prayer and then believe.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF WALEED F. HELWANI

Death does not speak my language
But I believe tears are universal.
So why then do I keep screaming and wailing
Till my body's aching and failing
I'm a child once again, throwing tantrums
Hearing my heart beat through my ears like wild drums
Yet my brother responds not to my call?

The image I grew accustomed to
Has all too soon been depressed to a blotch
The unforeseen stranger stole from our hearts and our homes
And all we could do was watch.

I wish I could speak death's tongue
So I could plead for second, third and perhaps even fourth chances
So I could translate into it the grievances
Of the old and the young
The large, the little
The weak and the strong.
I wish I could offer it all; these possessions
These earthly obsessions
And all I do not lack
So maybe, just maybe oblivion could bring him back.

I take reluctant steps into reality
Greeted by 4-sided murals of spoken words and deeds;
Portraits of days past stamped with authenticity
An array of memories intertwined with eternity.
Still I stand before flashbacks when it begins to dawn
Art remains art even after the painter's gone.

GALLERY OF BROKEN HEARTS

I'm too invested in this thing called love, I'm constantly in that element
Emotions overwhelm me a little too quickly and compromises my intelligence
Cupid must've missed his shot
I must've been standing in somebody's spot
I'm coming up with excuses why this feeling hurts the innocent.
I stood on the battle field so many times, my armour's torn out
My chest organ's been bludgeoned, honestly I'm worn out
Prayers capture that desperate pursuit of happiness
Yet my actions reveal my unwillingness to clean up this beautiful mess
I don't feel at home here, maybe I should just storm out.
What's left of me is outraged
My every being is ready to declare war
Angry voices in my head screaming that I should fight
But now I'm uncertain of what to fight for.
Sentiments run deep, blood flows fiercely through my veins
As I stare hopelessly at my heart's remains

Reflections in the mirror draws out a scarred woman

Frustrations starting to set in, everyday I feel less human.

The canvas is splattered with thickness of red

Oozed out of my body like I slept with thorns in my bed

Pain, hurt and anger displayed underneath these clothes and smile like a work of art

I may just as well be another show piece in the gallery of broken hearts.