Poetry
I. it was the month my father left and my mother learned how to laugh again i sat down for lunch in the same construed table with trinkets collected over years as she and i pulled the afternoon apart with a fork she always wore a gold bracelet dulled by
Poetry
i. dhaka unfolds me with its stenches traffic and what- not ii. the sun spills on the sidewalk like runny yellow yolk folk music i hear on dirt sometimes holds my attention elastic iii. beneath five floors two children make a paradise out of one pile of sand. five fingers
Essays
My relationship with the language I was born with has changed significantly over time, and this particular metamorphosis has come at a time of self-actualisation as I grow into adulthood. I strongly believe that language shapes the way we perceive the world. There is the English I speak and breathe,
Poetry
a thousand leaves, more than a thousand in fact green on brown on green on brown, waving, unanimously swing in open defiance of my frustration with this godforsaken land and perhaps for the first time in years i feel like a child bruiseless, in awe, with a tinge of melancholic
Poetry
panchhi banoon udti phiru mast gagan mein To be a bird and fly in the magnificent skies you tell me to live life for the living aaj main aazaad hoon duniyaa ke chaman mein And today I am free in the garden of the world and not the capitalist imperial
Poetry
it was the summer i became a whore runny sunlight like broken yolk on concrete my room swells like a sore throat today and i think of you, how do i tell you i am alive, alive and i want you to live too, but i miss you i listen
Poetry
your eyes are black deep like the caves of Lascaux i put my palm against yours fingers too, soon intertwined trace the shapes in my mind, outlines drawing chickens, or a duck like children on paper glue on googly eyes for added effect crayons melting onto it, unto us our
Poetry
dying bastard plays piano the curtains blindsided a weak yellow haze sugary sweet outside brown rustle, balm to my soul inhale: the heat curled around me like a child indesperation on a hot July night talking was simple, when maa wasn’t there exhale: I breathe through heaped lungs your
Poetry
i exist in the smallest of spaces in the underside of a bed a corner of a balcony the plants are my friends they exist in tree-time grounded in reality i dont want to take up more space i dont know how to fight i just want to go home
Poetry
beneath tin sheds i stand reading literature about the beauty of trees clouds roll by when my feet get stuck to the ground a blockage orange skies slash buildings to softly sing of birdsong at day-break of warmth in the smell of coffee in the little bits of nothingness if