Creative Writing





Symphonies For The Undressed Angel In Command - Poem.

  1.  And I was too sad to sing (didn’t know how)
  2.  a lover without the love
  3.  what more could you possibly ask for?
  4.  My veins knew, tried to steer me away
  5.  (I just needed the idea of you).

Sending Postcards From Heaven - Poem.

Sacred white hair, seraphic blue eyes, 
(I checked his back for wings). 
Face like a concertinaed masterpiece,
a fold for every story.

Governing Our Words.

I was thinking about words and how they are all constant tangible letters that are our archaic guides to history. We breathe them into structure and give them life; we create their subtext and sustain them with our own ideologies and memories. Although our ancestors used them to sculpt our path, we have become the commanders of language.

Growing Up As A Muslim.

I grew up with a strict version of Islam where nothing was negotiable. Alongside the regular prohibitions such as not drinking alcohol and eating pork, there were a myriad of rules that I had to live my life in accordance to. From the age of 4, I was sent to classes at the local mosque to learn Arabic, to memorise supplications and study the fundamentals of Islam. I was taught how to pray, how to recite the Qu’ran, and most importantly I was taught about the things that I was forbidden from doing. 

Islam was indoctrinated into my skin.

The Converse Milestone.

I remember the first time that I ever wore a pair of Converse. A boy from school saw them and started shouting 'punk shoes, punk shoes' as I walked along the street.

My school was heavily populated with South Asian children, they listened to Bollywood music, knew nothing but their own cultures and thus refused to accept anything outside of the norm. I was the weird one, the outsider. I listened to rock music, read books on the weekend. I wrote poetry in my spare time; I was not a part of them. 

But I wanted to fit in, I wanted to belong. 
Powered by Blogger.