Social Slave- Part 1


And listening

As it all gets to your brain.

Your wheels turning

As you become a social slave.


Your hair was pretty-straight,

But everyone thought you looked dull.

So you curled it-

You styled it.

Satisfied everyone-

Not none.


Your jeans were really baggy-

They made Everyone frown.

You threw them,

And bought tight ones.

And turned their frowns-

Into appreciating smirks.


You didn’t gossip-

It wasn’t your thing.

Gossip mongers weren’t your friends.

But you let them get to you.

And gossiped-

As you became Them.


You weren’t them-

A crowd of judgmental jerks!

You weren’t them-

Who evilly smirked.


You weren’t Their norm,

You were Unique.

But one look from them,

Made you weak.


It crushed your firmness-

You let Them through your walls.

You became them,

And with them-

You fall.


And become what We-

Uniqueness feared.

A societal norm-

A social slave.




Nowhere Near Home

I walked all those streets

Passed all those stores

Breathed the air of those fields

But I am nowhere

Near home.



I talked to many people

Always asking for directions

I played with the little kids

Forgetting my infatuation.



I ate the Chinese chowmien

Pizza and French toast too

Had cold tea for breakfast

But all

Without you.



I read many books

Romance, comedy and thriller

Spent rainy afternoon

In the library.

Remembering you

Over coffee.



I wrote many letters

But never posted them

Carried them

Around the world

And dumped each

On every road.



I camped near rivers

Or stayed in abandoned homes

The loneliness

Creeping in

Making me

A lunatic.



I wore a shirt for days

Stitched up those holes

Wore them out

Forgot about

Ever going home.



I always cleaned up

Never leaving a mess

Never troubled anyone

And head my way again.




This journey, I took for hours

Days, weeks or months

Never finding

Never feeling

How it was

To be home.


A Poem I wrote for Syria

That tiny heart-
You let it slow down.
Those small lungs-
Are barely functioning.
That frail body
Is shivering to the bones.
That innocent face,
Is losing life.
Those twinkling eyes
Are losing their happiness.
Those smiling lips
Aren’t smiling,
But struggling to breathe
That fresh air,
Pure normality of childhood,
The lost feeling of their home:

These innocent lives are
Heartlessly Diminished.
These Syrian lives are lost.
Heartlessly attacked-
And killed.
Silently watched,
With minds
Numbed by this brutality,
Muted too.

Time can’t be reversed:
Not those chemical attacks,
Nor those innocent deaths.
But, this time teaches us
To stand,
Against this brutality inflicted
On these Syrian souls.

My Randomness

Losing My Streak!

There was this once upon a time that I wrote poetry. I still do but I think I am just losing my streak. When I write a stanza I feel like I’ve written it once before or the meaning is the same as from some other poem. So I wonder what’s going to happen now?

I think it’s happening due to the following reasons:

  1. I am too lazy to note down my inspiration.
  2. I can’t literally put down my feelings on paper.
  3. I think maybe it’s because of school, but I don’t work that hard, so this is the same point as number one.

Poetry just comes to you sometimes and sometimes it doesn’t. When I first found out about this talent, I was happy, I felt like I had a future and that was poetry. But now, time has changed and so have my goals and this poetry has just become a hobby that I like sharing with people and getting their reviews on it.

As I said before, I haven’t written much lately and it can also be due to the fact that I don’t find any depth in my poetry. Sometimes, it’s simply one worded stanzas and no, that one word stanzas don’t speak great volumes, they don’t even echo.

I like writing stories to and whenever I’ve practised that hobby, I haven’t found much inspiration in poetry, but no matter what the facts or reasons, I don’t think it’s going to stop me from losing my streak, not that I want to…..

My Randomness

Being an Author

It’s a great feeling when you see people read your book and compliment it. I always feel happy when people read my poetry and like it. I like writing poetry and get excited when people read it. People love it when their work is admired and I feel the same way too. I just get depressed when I don’t see people more than my family or relatives talking about it, so I just realized that it is kind of hard being an author.

It’s the easiest job around, till where I know but then you have go under so many procedures, like when the book is published, you are supposed to make it public, try to get more people to read it. And then I don’t know what happens but then I might just find out in the future (Insha Allah).