Truth Of Life

Bitter is the taste of sorrow
No better is the face of delight.
If you can’t learn to make your own tomorrow
It never ever gets easy to decide.

But all these paths they seem to be
A barren land of make believe.
You put all your faith and hopes
But they just die away so easy

Coz the thing that makes you smile
Kills you the most.
And the ones that you love
Just hurt you the most.
This is what life is all about
It only gives you death.
You think you’ve started to live
But you only get closer to the end

Now I can’t wait to die
Can’t wait to say goodbye.
I’ve lost all lines of life
I’ve lost the will to fight.
Pulled down a 1000 feet
So far gone and all alone
All I can do is breathe
Until the clocks tick for me

Coz the thing that makes you smile
Kills you the most.
And the ones that you love
Just hurt you the most.
This is what life is all about
It only gives you death.
You think you’ve started to live
But you only get closer to the endPost 36

The Valentine’s Day

She is like the late winter’s moon, pale, but beautiful; cold, but graceful. She lies there with gloomy eyes looking at me, with unanswered questions glistening there to be acknowledged by God. Why did this happen to her, to us, to our country? It’s 2023, our bubbly 8-year-old daughter, Heena, running around the house with a red balloon in her hand; “Happy Valentine’s Day Mom”, she says to her paralyzed mother who is admiring her energy with a smile brightening upon her blanched face. I bet she could picturise her same self in that 8-year-old.

Heena was a perfect portrait of Mariyam; the same spark and enthusiasm she had seven years ago. Before this tragedy had hit us before Syria was devastated. Everything is fine now, with the country, but a tad bit of political instability is still there and an emotional instability is still there in our lives. We survived it, however, not with great success. War had hit us bad, stealing the happiness we could derive even on our mundane days. Mariyam, my wife, didn’t only lose her ability to move, but with that, dance, her passion had also abandoned her. Her will to live escaped her soul.

“Happy Valentine’s Day my Princess”, she spoke lightly to our daughter. Celebrating this day with my family, I am reminded of celebrating our wedding anniversary, 7 years ago, in which our lives cramped into the darkest of the corners we had ever faced because of the waging Civil War.

Aren’t we all pawns in the hands of time, the greatest player of them all. The greatest creator, the greatest protector, and the greatest destroyer. We all resemble the minions scattered around the Earth; ready to face the wrath of time. The doom decided to be laid upon us. Time had played not only with our future but with our emotions as well. Pushing us through the worst we could imagine, or rather, something we couldn’t even imagine. Our lost hopes had accumulated like a heap of garbage which was about to be dumped. And time was the devil which had joked upon the scenario the world was in. As if we were nothing, but again I would say, pawns in its hand. Pawns in the hands of time.

I kissed Mariyam on her forehead, “Happy Valentine’s Day”.Post 35

Here’s The Story

Everyone who has known the story, and everyone who has not; Here’s the story.

Every morning was a text,
Every night was a fight, so complex.
Every call was rare, 22 seconds max,
Every complaint vocalized, ‘Relax’.
Every date was hard to plan,
Every explanation mumbled, ‘I have been busy, man!’.
Every luring noted, ‘You will adjust to me!’.
Every promise promised, ‘I’ll try my best.’,
Every shivered promise added, ‘I’m sorry, I’m trying my best.’.

Every other girl followed was an excuse unknown,
Every mess here is not known.
Every cuddle got a push back,
Every message just got stacked.
Every eye contact conveyed a stare,
Every vow of love- unpredictably bizarre.

Everybody must stay unaware,
Every buddy gone out with is wrong- it’s possession, not care.
Every tear meant a kiss on the forehead,
Every tear means, ‘Stop or get down the car; drama is what I hate!’.

Every little while recollected is an unease as that night,
It was 3 am, you were gone; in that circle, I was alone.
Calls were not received, neither my cries,
You committed that you’d be back!
Answer me, please? Why were you not?
The morning was a reason, a lie- caught.

Every half smile, every unloved kiss, every half hug & every untrue, unmeant regret is respected, but not your efforts so half,
Every chance, sold cheap.
I have been sad for awhile; cold, drunk, late, blue bruised, and wrong,
Please, come back. Make me laugh.

 

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The Pain

Pain is fierce. Hazel Grace was right it demands to be felt, sticks to you. You can’t stand immune to it. No matter how brave or strong you depict yourself to be. Deep down it starts eating you when you least expect it to.
Slowly and steadily it gulps you in.
Meanwhile, you don’t even realize and put a brave face on the world deceiving yourself of being immune.

I have so many questions and doubts, but nowhere to go to and no one to turn to.
So, I decided to bring them out in the open for you all to have a glimpse at my soul.
Because the Pen is my sword and the Paper is my shield but the irony is together they help me bleed.
Bleed my heart out to the world.
Aah!
Coming back to my questions, off they go.

What is it that you look forward to during times of pain and utter nonsense, which least of all you should be going through.

How do you convince yourself of loving and believing in divinity and worst of all hoping amid so much evidence of random chaos.

How do you defend your God and continue worshipping and preaching his love,
When a person’s innocence is rewarded with pain and fear or worse.

What is it that keeps you going.
What is that gives you strength and vigor to rise up yet again just to face the same crap?

And, Why and Who decided, that it has to me or the people I love with my aching heart.

These questions.
They don’t end with a question mark because a mark won’t do justice to my questions.
And also they haven’t been jotted here for you to answer them, rather they have been compiled in the hope that if by any damn luck left in my destiny I end up bumping into your Gracious God, I should be ready to fire him with questions that currently are burning me.

With Love
Tiamat.

 

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Why were you at a party if you were sad?

Too high; your nails, your dress was black.
Your heels pointed, too high.
You smoked again as you were over with one,
Tens of cigarettes and oceans of shots at once.
Species of stalkers were observing you,
This attention, that light-head, this hangover- it’s new, for you.
But this? It isn’t you.
You were talking to the wall,
I had to hold you; you were walking with chronic falls.
You were dancing to chords of anybody’s choice,
You danced, you sang, you drank, you puked.
You screamed.
In that maddening crowd, you screamed.
I was right there, I could sense a quake in your voice.

You swayed with everyone in the pub.

They all know your name, your favorite drink, your ex-boyfriend’s name; finer details about you!
I give you my word, I am not taking you to any more clubs.
The bouncers had to pick you up, the bartender had to be stopped.
The DJ was mute, you were not.
It was already 4’o clock!

The cabby drove us to the ridge.
We had to jump out of the car, we had to run over the bridge.
Once at home, you needed serious aid.
You seem to be okay with your injuries now,
Can we please share your ache?

Why were you at a party if you were sad?
‘I was doing such a good job of hiding it. How could you tell that?’

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