March, marching towards me

Much I wished                                She didn’t come home

Reflections of her, float like roll film                                                     
Her image grazes my hand         
Larks around my kitchen oven      
In my bed, she sits                         
And, I across, of course, adore

Oh March, marching towards me Hear the birds tell her, I adore her
Swoon of my life, I athirst       Reeling my soul

I want her and I, the best of beautiful things

I say I don’t want it                       
Take me afar                                         It comes anyway                         
Eerily, quietly                                   Oh March, marching towards me  
Hear the birds tell her, I
adore her
Hear the birds tell her, I am

I need her voice, lull                       
My conundrums                                  I need her eyes, halt                        
Me thinking

That soul, there, is beautiful         
Tell her please,                                     
I told myself over and over

I love you, I love you, I love you.

‘Anytime is fine, really’                  
You know I’m dying to hear you.

/Sehrish.S Syed/


Venice Dream

Shingled hair, Australian, her dimples stretched out
so much, I thought the end of her face was dimple-lined.

I’m not Persian, but my name is. 

All the way from Sydney, she flew.                                                                                                   To Venice, to me, she said goodbye. 

I see her sometimes
on that crisp morning- I wrote her a note, unavailing, writhed anxiety.

I fidgeted and squirmed boarding my luggage, if she got it. But, really my heart didn’t want to leave this dandy fantasy, how perfectly the skyline was a painting.
The ripples in the lagoons, riding the gondola
into Grand canal. 

How I fell to her like I fall for everybody. she embraced me,
but it was goodbye.

I regret she came to me, to my room, but long gone was I.                                                        I regret I couldn’t spend the night with the girl. 

I’d tell her about my lonely life, how her eyes were so sparkly. she’d tell me about her city and what she loves. I’d laugh and giggle,
touch her elbow with mine, talk the night.
Oh, it rained. It fucking rained. 

I kept waiting to hear from her, miserably,I did,then she said she loved my kitty.
And now we talk through the phone
And now we don’t, I see her pictures.

I miss me, in Venice, the sinking city
vulnerable, lionhearted romantic. 
From the very first she sat next to me, I was taken by her.
Oh, I’d love to see her again

and dream about her across the breakfast table.
How lovely she danced, I remember. 

An angelic jazz beat would play,
I’d tell her I never wish to die again.
I know I never might see her, though I’ll remember she was my first foreign lover.

That night in Venice, I bid farewell to a stranger in a strange place.

Hey, everyone! I know I haven’t posted in a while, but surely I will be posting more than I didn’t.*sigh* Thank you for your support and love!

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The House Of Rain

Awaiting you, not quite
Awaiting you, perpetually certain 

I used to get wet, when I could afford
Yet, we have so many to care 

The senescent window meets the rain, the rain meets the earth 
    Who loves the rain? 

If you get sick, you’ll get pyretic 
If you get sick, stay home 

When was it that you needn’t brood about fickle time?
  Yet, brewed coffee and papers topple the workbench 

The senescent window meets the rain, the rain meets the earth 
     Who loves the rain? 

You come from them; thin cotton strands, stretched across the blue                                 
Grey in visage, hide the sun
You smell of the sea, life in your sphere 

Rain, come kiss me
On my freckles
We’ll whirl a frolic carnival
As you weep for the days I shed not
My solace, you are 

Rain, come meet me 
On my dark circles
We’ll tell tales along slumbers
And dwell on warmth 
My poetry, you are

Rain, how do you do? How must you do?
I live under your house, under your enchant
Hope, you’ll fall some tea evening 
I love the drizzles in the morning 

Until the next window,
My tears that fall down like silver strings tied

Your person of the sombre room, ears awake



I feel like I’m riding a night bus                                                                                                                             That goes one-way

I feel like I’m in a Van Gogh painting                                                                                                                   Roads, buildings dissolve into the crust                                                                                                                            World swirling around a paint brush

We’re going downhill                                                                                                                                                              In jeopardy                                                                                                                                                                     And the chattering won’t cease

Greys of the marvel mix with the blues of the skies                                                                                              I wish I fetched my earphones ; music convolutes the end dramatic                                                                       The windows were cleaned                                                                                                                              Or the city was washed, or is it nostalgia                                                                                                                      It feels like never after, the one the news wouldn’t know

We’re going downhill                                                                                                                                                              In jeopardy                                                                                                                                                                     And the chattering won’t cease

The ground quivering, rattling                                                                                                                       Shatters in 8.0 MHz, Wuthering

I recall a good memory; the voice of old friends together, laughing

We’re tilting, inclined at forty-five                                                                                                                        We’re falling, inclined at one-seventy-five

                                              The chill squeezes in, no condolences                                                                                                                                       It’s pitch-black in water, serene                                                                                             I feel like a spirit of the floating world                                                                                                       Awaiting mermaids to blow kisses, erasing memories

The chattering ceased                                                                                                                                                        We’ve left downhill                                                                                                                                                                Everyone floating

Inaudible swimmers reach out                                                                                                                     And I wish I was the Betta fish                                                                                                                  

    I killed this morning

I want to stay here                                                                                                                                                          Sink into bottom                                                                                                                                             Mourned as tragic pass away                                                                                                                          Nothing more, nothing less                                                                                                                            Submerged in sea debris

      So, leave me downhill

Until, I reincarnate

Until, no one remembers 

                Until, you don’t remember this verse

And I’ve returned to stardust 


I reek, I do
So truly very much. Spanning as distant
as any relation; whirling people afar, insubstantial, far away
into null and void. Out of radius
out of heart . Galvanized mockery
They do not come back to me
Stained, impressed, here I am
in felony; Reprimanded in loose tallow
beneath worn boats, in a sovereign regime of continual dismay
And  frustration. To meet rejection
is crucification, shackles tightening every beat

And I am one to run
away from. For I reek, I do
So truly very much. Of solitude
of devoid isolation. This
stench I carry
Unbearable, unbecoming
The callous reigning. Who am I
to speak of? What am I to tell
you, a friend? When my soul companion, loneliness
keeps me shade. Misery reinforced, inescapable
How does one suffer
endlessly ruptured
by the laws of physics
and gravity? How does one keep
from intersection.  what sort of communication
holds magnification? What I do, what I did not do
what I will not do is irrelevant. For one cannot defy
the tottering spiral of solitaryness

And I shall bathe and bask, enlightened
in it’s intoxication like a witch
cooking in her boiling cauldron.

Who stops me, who keeps me away
from slow poison; booze and cheroot; the heights of feast
chuckle some jollity dying away
when you wake one morning
beside a stranger
in a strange place

Wailing away, a soft purr
feline kitten. I hear over my head, wipes my face
snuggles over my side all night. Warmth manifold, my medicine
My Ito, my thread
my yarn, connecting me to me
to the world, the people

Aghast, aghast so truly very much
I am. Of the grotesque
Images behind my eyelids
That he will perish
in my hands. They said OCD is your head, Beautiful
is yourself, you are blind.

Even so, fainter the stench
metamorphoses by the clocks. I wish
for amelioration, long into
tomorrow .Stay next to me, grow
with me
Mix your stench
Brim with mine. I shall seek
you, stench remover
My sunrise, red-orange blossom
All the way into the years
You will live.

To The Man I Don’t Love, To The Boy I Loved


My body breaks in its heart’s turmoil. If I were a farmer with two fields, you have half a field of good harvest, half a field of agony and bitterness.  Lastly, an entire field of love I should no longer have.

I’m an unabridged form of a lengthy history book no one would flick two pages on the library bookshelf.

Where should I start this episode, the episode of traumatic souls traumatizing, spreading its infection? When melancholia was no longer casted away with the screaming nights? That day, when the meteor shooting marked, evidently, the finale of any feelings between us as you draped your arm around another girl and spat your best lies?

When I wasn’t enough for you to stay with me? Or when we headed to places we thought would bring us together, instead entangled us in thorny rose wires, and the only way to undo was to tear each other’s flesh until we bled afresh?

When you abandoned the so named sacrificial relationship we had; ignorant, hazy, and trivially shallow for us to even begin to decipher what went downhill?

I’ll start from here. I don’t love you anymore. And, I’m not sorry. I’ve stopped thinking about you.

You left before I could and I’m grateful how it was made easier for me to deal with for I wouldn’t be able to withstand the aftermath of my consequences, regretting that I should have held onto, no matter what. If you hadn’t, I’d always come back to you, right beneath your apartment window like I used to.

I won’t question you. I don’t want to hear these answers because I’m damn sure we both know too well. It’s only hard to confess. But, I dearly wished, you made effort to remain even when we needed to stay as far apart as possible; that you would understand me enough to hold my hand when I wanted to dissipate into the air for I could no longer breathe, when I wanted to rip my heart out and serve it up the table for I could no longer take the pain.

I craved for you to notice my shaking voice when I said it was okay to be at the party with your friends, your plastic friends. But, you didn’t.

All I needed was you to tell me it will be alright. My act was perfect; I was plastic enough to blend in. But, you didn’t.

I wasn’t too much of a woman for you. I was too much of a person, of a human; too sentimental, too sensitive, too profound that every time you wanted to touch the marine of my heart, you had to drown and suffocate in its raging berserk storms. You see, darling these storms that overwhelm my being arise for you to see that a crystal clear, glass sea on a fine morning can be rushed to havoc.

I loved you as you did – no, I don’t think it was even love. It was a sort of deluded transfixing spiral of contorting emotions that like oil paint take decades to dry up. A sort of mutation from regulation, a helical enzyme lost in function. Something broken, twisted – revolting, I gave you too much and I’ve decided I’m not going to apologize for being tough to love. Our relationship wasn’t ordinary, it was schizophrenic. I’m not sure which part of it had schizophrenic tendencies, whether it originated from me, the unstable maniac or you, the diverging anti-social trying to be communicative. One thing for sure I know, we both were mentally-ill. And, we needed reassurance.

I’m only but a cornered, quiet, Marlboro- reds- hooked, drunk in misery, forsaken woman you encounter at the back of an alley sitting on a thrown away cushion couch, pretending she’s a bitch to passersby while sniffing her tears down her clawed throat.

I gave you all the reassurance I gave myself, the bottle empty, you wanted to eat the metal.

Baby, the truth is I don’t love you anymore. Not your toxicity. Not your sympathy. Not your selfishness.  Not how you reshaped. Not the women you slept with. Not the clothes you wore after you got an increase. Not the fake submissiveness to your superiors. Not you. I loved; I desired that sweet boy, kind, attentive and full of warmth to give. He would put me to sleep, he would be the opposite of me, and he would tell me stories of warriors who fought saving lives and die heroic deaths. He would turn the monster inside me ashamed. You only told me about what I was, you told the monster, it was a monster. You told the little girl in pink, her skin will break and shatter crystallized like ice cubes and from it would emerge, from her skull, a monster, a demon bathed red. I desired the you before, you tasted the devil’s fruit, the gory blood splattering all around your feet and your new attained power to dominate the weak.

I thought you’d understand why I liked to dance in the rain even at times I couldn’t afford to get a fever. But, you didn’t.

I’ve been fantastic?  I’ve been shitty as hell. I ask people to come into me, wear my skin, fit my shoes and walk around in my body. I’ve got anxiety, heartache, asthma, hypersensitivity.  I hear voices; they come and tell me that I’m weak, pathetic, and frail. I’ll crumble like paper and meet a dog’s death, judgment would kill me alive and the devil agrees it is the worst death of all. I’m not afraid of death, I’ve thought many thoughts of killing myself but when I realized my zeal to live. It was captivating, to feel alive, it was extraordinary – all of a sudden delusions could turn into reality. I’m telling you all those things I wished for aren’t that far away.  All I want is to not have any regrets when I die. Speaking of it, death is commercial, an advertisement like I’m trying to sell my sadness; it’s only an accessory to pain. You don’t know what the corpse feels unless you become one.  Death does not define pain. You thought dying was an end. I laugh at that.

I roam around unknown streets to see if someone will love me.  Not you.  Not again.

That day when I left early from the restaurant, my eyes were wet when I came back from the washroom. I waited outside for you to come along. But, darling, you didn’t notice.

I got off the metro after we entered to see if you’d want me enough to stop and listen to what I had to say. But, you didn’t come after me.

All those things you didn’t do. I’d do them instead.  It was fine as long as you wanted to stay. I was wrong. These were the things that made me fall out of you. They made me grasp the reality inside my brain, the bizarre outcome, the obviously dubious denial. Why is it like this? Why does affinity deprive you of your ability to rationalize? Why was I willing to do anything, enough to neglect the fact that you never loved me?

Well, fuck you. I’m over that. I’m over how you made me feel. How you let my pregnable defenses wrap around your manipulative lies. How you made me feel like I was less of a woman.  See, now. I want to live so much and I’ve never wanted to be me than ever before. I want to fly to countries, take pictures, write poetry, study harder, and learn new things to unleash all that I was born to do.  I’ve forgotten, I barely remember your face not to mention your voice. To those girls with cheerful personalities you’re attending, tell them they’re gorgeous and treat them well. Trust me, they deserve better.

Someday, I’ll be open enough to fall again, to want to feel affection in a new day. By then, I’ll teach myself to live, to love me, to see and stop worrying. I’ll hold my own hands if I have to. I’ll do my best to be the surgeon I aspire to be. The changing seasons embrace me and pat my shoulder when I stop walking. Music keeps me going. The wind caresses my soul leading me to the pretty autumn leaves. They give me what you can’t.

The good memories I vaguely recall, I cherish. You came to me, changed me, made me stronger, and showed me to see the worse in every individual. To understand, stay silent and not to speak of anything. I’m grateful for that.

I may forget everything about you, though whenever I pass by the street we walked in, I’ll smile and wish you all the best. I can do that.  Just this I’ll always vividly remember, the bouquet of flowers you gave me, how I carefully watered it every day until they died two months proceeding.

These flowers they bloom like sprouting love, to die later with time, to fade away without heed. A replica of ourselves.

I know you don’t remember. It was when you were the boy I loved, when I wanted to kiss you for every minute in a day inside of my head.  I don’t love you anymore. I don’t have to say goodbye either, the universe has already bid farewell to us. So, thank you for letting me go. Thank you, for not coming after me. This, the cold truth I write, no sugar coating, no grievances, no affirmation, but what the heart tells and the monster cries for.

From the girl, you said was like grapevines creeping up a stairway to hell.

Who loves me, a torrent?

Okay. There’s a lot going on right now – the eclipse of changes coming to an end, I can’t be fucking bothered with. I don’t know where to start. In fact, I’m not going to because it’s putrid unavailing. Really. One moment, I feel like an overgrown, terrorized, pleasing child and the next day. Well, the next day, I feel sixty years ahead plummeting into a bottomless well, one- leg-shackled, just to keep the humor for someone to pull me up and let me feel all in reverse. I don’t like my face in the mirror, no matter how many times a day I convince myself to look at it. I can’t get hold of my shit together. I’m somewhere between the verge of tears and a bravado entrepreneur wanting to travel to places. I want to binge and purge, binge drink and binge watch. But, I can’t be bothered with. I feel like my body parts are mixed up, like they don’t belong where they’re supposed to; out of place, out of magnitude, size and everything. Not right. Not physical. Not spiritual. I’m an enigma of thoughtless reverie, arbitrary emotions and nothingness. A water puddle that disappears when the season is over, disturbing tranquility precedes. Tranquility is good, not the calm before the storm.

Some nights, I want to crawl up my  bedroom wall just to see if I have spider DNA or the ghost living in my room would hold me close enough to fill me with warmth. You don’t believe me? I feel it all over my skin, things fall from here and there and you hear sorts of sound like water running, footsteps, screeching, moving furniture and sometimes a nice singing voice. It’s got to be a beautiful man or woman. I don’t know where I’m getting at, honestly. Pardon my absence of normality.  I’m never ordinary. I’m torrential.

Let me make it simpler.


[Play this right now before you start reading the poem, one of my fav pieces from Golden Time – I want to fall in love]


Shriveled, nut

In camouflage, crafty chameleon 

Self-induced retrospection gauge

Blue, Blue

The water kindles a ghost who lives by my feel

Who sings, runs to avert my attention

My bedroom wall, I want to crawl

Out of ordinary, inhibit bravado

Extraordinary malfunction, I harbor

I want to be beautiful

I want to ride the plummet

Down the bottomless well

Enigma of thoughtless reverie, eliminated

Tranquility exhibited


Pamper me

Tell me I’m alright 

That binge and purge should only mean so much

Tears don’t wipe your body parts

Back to its position

Spirituality lies in the physical shadows

You deny 

When you trace your hand across your stomach

And the mirror looks at you saddened

This emotion, this contenance you see

Is witness you’re alive

That you’re all torn and ashes

But you’re alive

Scars leave

They do.

When you paint them with color

They become art, master pieces

What revolting disturbances you have

I love you so much, I do

How can I not love me?

I should, I should.


Ashamed, I affirmed

Who loves me, a torrent? 


[Close your eyes for a few moments and feel the music. I play this when I’m down, it helps you cry as the song’s all about longing to love someone, aching to keep them by your side]

Look what I did there, I did poetry. It’s so much easier and shorter to tell. It can have endless meanings yet it means one to me. Something to you. I play with words, like I own them, It’s amazing to write poetry. I want to write so much that I don’t write at all.

This isn’t the best of my work, but this is what poetry means to me, I can talk about my feelings without talking about them.

I can write letters and they’ll still guess who it addresses.

It’s magical, isn’t it? You know, if you write poetry, you definitely feel the same.

Life Of A Stewardess: A Stewardess, I admire

A Stewardess, I admire
Yawning, when you rest for a brief moment inside your compartment
You remember the first plane, the quavering, the tensed airlift, your heart thumping
Into the atmosphere, ten thousand feet above
Holding on a brilliant smile for all passengers regardless
Of how tired you are, how sore your heels are
Your warmth, manifold
Bearing with rude commentary, impatient on board, sigh at the end of the day
Wholly, you administer to retain your figure as per the contract
Rushing between seats, restrooms, meals and the cabin asking to service, serving the laborious pilots
Always on standby for baggage to attend
You endear the view from the cockpit; how beautiful, unworldly, magnificent
Twisting colors of the sun, twilight being the finest
Watching the outline of many countries; you etch them onto your memory
City lights never looked prettier, adorning the surface of the earth
Oceans you meet like rich blue coastal paint, how marvelous you take pictures to dream
Your shifts, so loaded, you barely have time for your family
Somehow, you make it up to your children, even when you clearly need a rest
Staying at many hotels all over the sphere, you feel like a skilled traveler
At after parties with your co-workers, drinks and friendly chatter hit the day
In scarce time, you walk around unknown cities, how much it fills you with joy; the freedom, relief from frustration
You love it when you walk down the airport entrance
And everyone stops to stare at your elegance, your promising demeanor
Your job, you take pride in
And inevitably look for the reassuring safety of passengers
Uniforms, taken care of gently, fondly
All who’ve been to the airport never fail to remark your radiance
The freest profession you have, you know it
Although, every plane you get on, you’re bound to brood
You might never come back home
Yet, before you worry for yourself, you comply with your passionate duty
In your best, vow to protect passengers
The strenuous training you went through won’t be put to waste, you’ve lasted another flight
You’ll get on the next
And the coming
A stewardess you are
A stewardess you love to be

To Jane Doe

I decided to write a tribute to Jane Does out there, after stumbling across a variety of unsolved mysteries like Caledonia, #59, Simpsons, Mississippi, St.Louis Jane Does, a few to name. I felt an immense turmoil of grief and sadness. The ones I’ve mentioned here are present in the collaboration I put, have a good look at them. I want many people to learn about these cases and spread them all over. I’ve known many who don’t know what a Jane Doe is, how ignorant the world is, still surprises me.

Even, I’ve barely discovered these appalling tragedies myself. There’s a ton of websites such as by the FBI gov and organisations dealing, which allow any person to look on missing cases and help identify or hand in tips. Do visit them some time.

To Jane Doe
Does, wide over the world
Unidentified, forsaken
In misery, how they craft you
How they paint you
In hopes to find you
As lovely as your body
Disfigured or beheaded
You remain within the heart
Of those who hope to find you

To Jane Doe
Where you lay exposed
In abandoned basements, In mortifying conditions
In isolation, In laboratory
I pray over your feeble voice, strained
To cry out rivers
And bring your lovers to your vessel
Your soul undignified
To rest in peace
In peaceful parlor

To Jane Doe
Your Killer is unforgiven, judiciary guarantees
Never will you be forgotten
I wait for your case
From unsolved; a grieving statement
To solved and liberated, to reburial and found

To Jane Doe
You will be justified
The prosecutors, sheriffs, police officers
Are urgent to your despair
In hopes of relieving your spirit

To Jane Doe
You will be remembered