The Story of Her-

The Story of Her-

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I once knew a girl,
Without a smile;
Not even a- grin;
Face- blank.

I once knew a girl,
With shoulders slopped;
Footsteps drawled;
Words, unheard.

I once knew a girl,
Whose hearts been frayed;
With eyes that showed-
Depth of pain.

I once knew a girl,
Betrayed by most;
Left to fend;
Gone astray.

I once knew a girl,
Who proved to me-
Snakes indeed do,
Change their skin.

Now I know a girl,
Whose smile depicts-
A battle won;
Tables turned.

I know a girl,
Whose come out of-
The other side,
Diamond in a rough.

I do know a girl,
Who says to me-
“I found peace,
And I found me”

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The Blur-

The Blur-

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She sees a blur in the mirror-
An image imprecise;
A star fading in the distance;
A girl losing to life.

Not a glimmer in her iris,
Despair now flooding in;
Her frayed heart making noises-
Only the lonely, could decrypt.

And these were the effect of words;
Missiled at her by the world;
Bit by bit they tore her soul;
Blurring out, the star she was.

But to every curse- is a potion,
And that of blur, is love
A word of kindness spoken-
Such effect it has on the stars-
It unravels the blur all around.

Quote: Charlotte Bronte

Quote: Charlotte Bronte

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       This quote by the wonderful Charlotte Bronte pretty much sums it up for me. Sometimes, writing is not about inspiring or being creative. For those few moments in reality, we write simply because we just can’t help it. And for the lucky ones, these moments come more often than sometimes. I know this might sound like a bit of an exaggeration, but to certain writers, writing is akin to breathing. Just as we need oxygen to survive, writers need writing in order to live- you wonder why people say writers are insane. I say if insanity means living a life worthwhile by creating a world unimaginable to the ‘sane’, then yes, writers are insane.

I’m going to keep this post short and say briefly, sometimes, we write because we just can’t help it. And you know, that is answer enough to anyone who questions. On a side note, Charlotte Bronte is a poet and novelist. She lived till the age of 38 when she passed away whilst pregnant. She is the author of the highly acclaimed novel Jane Eyre.


For more inspiring quotes, head over to Silver threading where this blogging event “Writers Quote Wednesday” is taking place.      Till next time 🙂

She Lives on Forever-

She Lives on Forever-

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She is not a writer,
Or trying to inspire;
In fact if you ask her-
She is in need of inspiration.
But they judge from her writing,
And they think that she’s broken;
And the words filled on paper-
Are of a heart that’s been bleeding.
And she grins at their gossip,
When she hears them in whispers;
Writing is not a weakness,
It’s a strength conferred to her-
By laws beyond understanding,
Of those who dwell In ignorance.
So They keep to their gossip,
Being stuck in the same spiral;
But she does keep on writing,
Traversing writing boundaries;
And her name makes the papers,
And she lives on for centuries;
While the bones have been decayed-
Of both her and the gossipers;
that’s the strength of her writing,
That she lives on forever.

A not-so-Lucky day

A not-so-Lucky day

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Extra lessons extended till 4:30 pm that unlucky day and Layla couldn’t wait to get into the air conditioned car of her mother after school. The sun was a hot 42 degrees and Layla had been in school since 7 am. She was beginning to think middle school was not fun at all. The two pieces of sandwich she had packed for lunch was already soggy and sweating by the time it was lunch break. A sip of the water in her water bottle and she decided it was time to get a proper water flask.

“Clink” clink” “clink” the school bell ringer signaled school was over, and without realizing the English tutor standing beside her seat partner, Layla gave an excited scream with her hands outstretched above her head, “Yes!!”.

The teacher whose eyes were now staring deep into Layla’s soul said briefly- “excuse me?”
It wasn’t a question. The rest of the classmates stifled their laughter as Layla mumbled an apology- “I’m sorry Ma”. It seemed even the teacher had a long day because Layla was left with a mere warning.

School bag on her back and lunch pack in hand, Layla ran along the filled hallway, her ponytail swaying behind her. She was never happier to be a few feet tall than at that very moment. Like a mouse scurrying about in a kitchen store, she made her way to the main school gate, unhindered by the 300 and something large sized humans that had filled up the hall.

A bit of color drained from her face after she realized that her mother’s car was absent from the dozens packed in the school driveway. “Oh well, maybe mum’s just running a little late” thought Layla as she sat down on the pavement, not Intending to take her eyes off the cars coming into the drive way.

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And I shield up

And I shield up

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I am scared of loving you,
And ending up hurt;
Or better worse losing myself-
To your words;
I’m scared you can’t handle,
The baggage I’ve got;
You might be strong but-
I sure have been through worse.

I’m scared of commitment,
Forever’s too long-
To be with one person,
I fear it’ll be too much;
I’m scared of the soul that’s,
Hiding underneath;
The skin that you show me,
And he might be mean.

I’m scared of the path you have-
Chosen for us;
My love for solitude,
Protrudes from your world;
I’m scared of the future,
All thanks to the past;
I’m scared we won’t make it,
And I’ll be hurt bad.

I’m scared I can’t take-
Any more in this heart;
I’m scared of getting bored,
After the first trial;
I’m scared of being stuck,
In a loveless life;
I’m scared of ending up-
A blur in your life;
I’m scared so I shield up-
myself from love.


 

Writer’s Quote-

Writer’s Quote-

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How many times have we thought of stories to write and then let them slip away all because of the tiny voice in our head screaming ‘no, that’s too silly’? I personally can’t count the number of times I have let an idea go because I thought they wouldn’t work. But here’s the thing, how do we know they won’t work if we don’t even try it? How do we know they are indeed ‘silly’ if we don’t at least write it? We owe it to ourselves to give the ideas a chance, they aren’t going to write themselves. And even the most ridiculous thought written down is a million times better than the well-thought story left unwritten.

Just Imagine a world without Emily Dickinson or William Wordsworth’s poetry because they thought their wordings weren’t good enough; actually, I can’t even imagine. And How many worrible first drafts turned into best-selling finished products? Tens and hundreds. If you could take something after reading this post, I hope it is that, “even the silliest ideas and thoughts are worth being written” . Looking forward to reading your “out of this world” post and stories.


For more inspiring quotes, be sure to check out Silver Threading, where this event “Writers quote Wednesday” is being hosted.

Till next time… 🙂

A gem amidst rubles-

A gem amidst rubles-

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My respect for you
Has doubled and tripled;
When all doors are closing,
Your feet are unhindered;
Though unappreciated,
By those at the table;
You still keep on pushing,
Striving and fighting-
For peace to prevail,
In a now broken palace;
For girls to be brought back,
Though hope is now faltered;

I respect you Dear Ma,
For efforts unwavered;
For keeping your words,
When the leaders are faltering;
For staying afloat,
With the waves all about you ;
Words aren’t enough for
Effort you’ve been putting-
To finding the girls
Neglected by the elders;
But words all I have,
And I give them to you Ma-
In respect and love,
And wishes that you prosper
Keep staying afloat-
A rare gem amidst rubles.


This poem is dedicated to Mrs Oby Ezekwesili, one of the few Nigerians who till date are still struggling an airing their voices, striving and urging for the return of over 200 school girls kidnapped  more than 8 months ago. Words are all I have, and this only way I know how.

image  Here’s a link. 

Strength…

Strength…

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It’s making a choice,
Due to manic hormone;
Yet sticking with them,
Even when you hit low.

It’s going to bed,
not planning to awake;
still rising to work,
When dusk gives way.

It’s smiling and strutting;
Though inside is hurting;
Admitting ‘I’m not fine’;
But adding ‘I will be’.

It’s rising then falling;
Still rising and trying;
Though chances are slim you’ll-
Succeed yet keep trying.

Strength ain’t gun or dagger;
A man armed with armor;
It’s finding your feet even,
When they’ve been twisted-
Not broken, just bent.

From the eyes of a child 2

From the eyes of a child 2

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When I awoke, the sun had begun to set and Ahmed wasn’t back yet. An uneasy feeling in the way only a seven year old could explain come to my mind, and I had racing thoughts of Ma and Baba. The events of the afternoon felt unreal and the thought of home clouded my judgement. In that moment, I forgot everything Ahmed told me and instead raced as fast as my legs could carry me towards the direction of home without glancing down.

As I got towards the main town gate, I stumbled; fell down and rolled over on things that felt like a mixture of cushion and wood. It was uncomfortable, not to add the skunky smell that filled the atmosphere. I managed to find my footing, stood up and took a look at the mattressy-wooden thing that I had rolled over on. Staring at the sight in front of me, I shrieked and screamed. My legs were numb, my hands shivering, tears flooding- I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Lying beneath my feet, in front of me where hundreds of bodies, draped in white with patches of red all over. This couldn’t happen in reality, no, I was only dreaming. For the first time since I had left school, I looked up and around me. To my right and left, men and boys with blood stained clothes were dragging bodies and dumping them at the edge of the already huge pile. Women were gathered together a little away from me, in clusters, weeping, sobbing loudly. Some were on the floor and rolling in tears, others were sitting with hands constantly flared up. Some of the women were seated, with babies clutched to their breasts, a blank expression on their faces- a lot of the women, I recognized. It seemed nobody noticed the little girl in brown skirts and a white shirt, ruffled thick black hair, standing behind a pile of dead bodies, shivering in fear with tear stained face. Too many lives had been lost that day for the living to be noticed. Humanity was lost in Baga, and that wasn’t the only thing lost sadly.

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