Raindrops & Bullet Wounds

Hello! Welcome to my poetry blog! I can assure you that these are my own unless stated otherwise. Please do submit any critique you have for me!

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Land after land, city after city, street after street, Home is always changing. Frosty summer hues travel to harmony's destination, Trains dip past nostalgia, to cloud-flecked catastrophe, The map to hope leads to a dead end.

-Amsel Bilal, Azamat Omuraliev, Claire Adler, Mostafa Irfan, Grace Morse

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Her Sun Sets in the East

When three; emerald carpets embrace her as companions, Silver stokes of pointy blades tug the cloth of her dupatta. She draws an open life, two irises in the mud, “Eyes are God’s to make,” says Baba jaan, “Not yours to re-invent.”

 Four; the water glows orange. Its noisy layers caress the surface of her toes. She digs her fingers into its blue & fishes for rainbow stars. Baba jaan, come look. Look what I found. Too late. It’s time for prayer. She throws the stars away. 

Five; she knows namaaz by heart; Baba jaan recites a strange string of Arabic in her ear, What does it mean?

Six; wood is purple & trees a crisp form of pink, A melody of colours reside within her room’s walls, Inside becomes her refuge; closed & open. Baba jaan, I made this. Look, I made magic! He tears the sheets she had whispered to, “Don’t do this again jaan.”

 Seven; she sees red polka dots in the sky, But Baba jaan says  they are silver. The wind allows a comfort warmer than the one at home. She dreams. Baba Jaan brings her back With crushed pastel colours he found beneath her bed.

Eight; she hides the paints behind curtains; Secret canvases of her own refuge. A green sunset glimmers in her palette, Silenced with Baba jaan’s love, “Jaan, wear your dupatta.” “Jaan, stay in the house.” “Jaan, the sky is blue.” 

No-- The sky is not blue Baba Jaan, The sky is twilight’s shade of purple songs. Why don’t you see that Baba Jaan?

Why?

 Nine; though she begs her eyes to stay awake, By now the sky is blue & that is that. The dupatta is straight & that is that. Baba Jaan knows, She is a girl, & that is that.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

identity.

She raised a glass to

glossed out perfection, defined definitions and

hyper real futures. She

vomited remains of her inside;

Shaped her resting flask to

what they wanted, but

killed rounds

into squares.

She saw to their satisfaction,

covered ankles and arms and breasts

and hands and a head and hair and everything she

called her own:

shattered and

shaped into those fucking glasses;

 pink and lush and square and as crystal clear;

Like blue skies meaning freedom;

Like raindrops meaning rebirth;

Like two pints of alcohol

telling her everything was normal.

She sucked in heated glares, fixed

her own mirror’s mirror and all

 windows and phone screens and

cameras and

misty sunglasses damned

in winter’s summer escape.

“Identity” was

funneling her ear and mind and

perhaps

her heart too.

 She grew then.

Grew she to curse

squares

with defined definitions and

perfect sounds and lullabies and music notes and

Everything that was

like freedom in blue skies;

like rebirth in raindrops;

like all that was normal in a mix of

two pints of alcohol,

disaster,

and her.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

To every ficitonal love story, I say:

Guided by drumming hearts and

movies of soft kisses caressing pink skin,

I dreamt of midnight escapades with tinkering

bottles & messy sandwiches.

Love was alive within a heart that

knew not what love fed with.

Subtle senses of virgin breath fogged

the mirror of orange tears,

I believed it was to come:

Body warmth and murmuring

Hidden in monologues of Augustus,

Silence of Charlie & eyes

of every worded boy

clasped within the pages I read.

All unreal and yet manifested

a hope without life, a love

so unreal.

This love commanded me in flowers and

screaming reds, to say yes and

yes and yes again

to every smile received.  

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Definition.

Heated eyebrows in sync with

those resting reds beneath noses.

I soothe the funnel of my heart in cryptic

messages; twenty six letters

curved and tested into confines of words and

call it poetry.

To release the reds in eyes, and

blue within lips of screaming efforts, and

greens in the fungus of my own brain,

I lash onto misery in rainbows and gardens and

call it poetry.

In romance of ugly waves and scribbled

white pieces and torn up, scrunched up

blank yet filled on its own papers,

I flex nimble fingers to draw in words.

I call it poetry.

- 8/13/16// Definition

 

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Kaleidoscope of Echoes

She takes hold of my hand as my eyes dissolve the forest’s colours into curtained darkness. She runs my fingers through the mahogany trunk and I breathe in its brown aroma. She guides me into the lake's waves of dulcet blue, singing in my ears. She then rests my hand on the soft dew of wild lilies as their pink fragrance engulfs my nostrils. Slowly, my senses wake to the sound, feel and scent of each colour. While my eyes still remain cursed with blindness by birth, the black forest now becomes a beautiful array of bluish green hues.

-A.Bilal

[wnq-writers]

I lost my ink To spread the word Now I have no control And spread it with a pencil Pen and paper was the motto Now I have to pour What’s out the bottle With paper and lead Well technically graphite On the page That needs to be written

Civilize Chhun  (via wnq-writers)

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

It is MY passion; MY drop of love. It is MINE. You have no right to take it away from me

A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

I can tear the skies open, I can break the boundaries of silence. I can fly beyond the galaxies of wondrous beauties, I can calm the seas into the palm of my fist. Yet now, I wake and I can do nothing.

A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

When I was young, you painted a world of lullabies and dulcet waves of water blue. Now I am old, and see the same picture with silent screams and raging shores askew.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Just a little girl Swinging on a swing And that little girl Is pushed to the ground And as she falls to the ground She cries because the bruises sting Just a little girl Screams as the bully takes the swing. Just a little girl Goes home and rings To find mommy who laughs And says its a normal thing For bigger girls to push little girls Off the playground swing. So that little girl Goes to her room and sings 'Why would mommy not listen That girl always takes my swing' Years later the little girl grows up to be A fragile little thing She becomes a little teenager And she isn't fitting in She locks herself in the school bathroom To escape the students sing 'What an ugly teenager Shes better left alone, weeping' So the little teenager grows up to be a quiet little thing Because her youth had people telling her To hush her useless talking And growing up she saw that, well, No one listens to her crying And whenever she used to speak out loud People never seemed very caring And instead of helping this little girl They kept a distance from 'that ugly thing' So the little girl who grew up to be A silent little thing Made a vow to leave the world And stop herself from paining. She went home one day And tied a necklace of rope on the ceiling And in seconds she was gone Only her body remained hanging And only then did people remember Of the hours she had used to spend crying And began to weep as they saw Just a little girl dying And wept even more as they realised That only if they were listening This little girl Who they had mocked for her appearance, And laughed at by taking her swing, Would have been alive, well and breathing. If only they had listened. (Written on 4th September 2013) -A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Everyday I sit in sweet sorrows hoping for a better tomorrow. And everyday those hopes of tomorrow bring me the same bitter sweet sorrows.

A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Sunrise to the Sunset

Twilight descends to strange layers of deep purple blue

Somewhere, the east calls the west to let light bloom,

And his call is answered with frozen sunlit streams askew.

Somewhere, he wishes the orange shades to stay,

Yet the west drowns each red droplet, into night’s water bay.

Somewhere in the east, light rejoices in humid sun,

And the dim lit moon closes the eyes of everyone.

Somewhere, east prays the eternity of the crimson sky,

Yet each orange droplet is swallowed by nightfall’s closing eyes.

So every day, new fiery rays of the morning globe

Vanish into clouds of midnights robe.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

A New Friend

The orange speck of sunlight vanished amongst the clouds of deep purple and blue Crisp wind pecked through the very spines of densely packed markets and time seemed to race with each hurried step of the pedestrian

I trudged; fighting the revolutionary breeze and the ticking clock, struggling to keep with worldly missions

Then just as suddenly; time and the ultimate race, stopped. And my legs found themselves stationary

Right around the corner of my eye sat an old man, poised in a cradle of timelessness Hunched in an unusual disposition Skin kissing his bones, and nimble fingers desperate to grasp hold of a recently bought apple, now slipping away.

My legs found themselves once again, but this time pacing towards the man And as I touched his shoulder to help him rise They stiffened, as if unfamiliar to human warmth. Frozen; he stood, in this abysm of surprise.

And in that timeless act, did we both witness the apple rolling down the sloping street and me chasing behind it, returning it safely back to him; the stranger to Kindness.

Beautifully, he remained

both, still as he stood

and moved beyond measure

Lips curving into a gratifying smile,

Kindness no longer a stranger;

Rather, a new friend.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Serenade Of Last Moments

Pieces of a broken mirror lay flat on the floor, Sudden shivers and heaps of heavy sighs surround the silhouette of a broken girl.

Bloodshot eyes seek familiarity as she picks up a piece that pierces her veins, One glimpse of her shrunken jaws and she throws it down the drain

Deep sounds of agonizing despair engulf her lips, the smell of raw scotch etched into her skin with grief She strikes the bottle on the bathroom floor and lies on the bloody windows of relief

Time sees his death quietly return to life Yet she silently screams for a savior in her strife A broken mirror lies into her eyes as she sees herself leave her mind She breathes into the air of sweat, and bloody tears And as life begins to leave her dying on the floor She closes her eyes, a second too early, before hearing the knock on the door. -A.Bilal

[amselbilal]

Brewed at 3AM

Hello midnight thoughts of forgotten days I was wondering where you were The times slept peacefully seemed not quite right And surely do i stand questioning Jealous were you? Of seeing me calm? Upset were you? To see me untroubled?

Unknown to mind was peace And known to it was trouble And now you are back again; My midnight thoughts of forgotten days

A.Bilal