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water in the glass
night with the stars

you came alone
with all your blemishes

behind the walls of your room
folded letters in hands

imaging a meeting
of our clouds

finishing line on lost roads
i found your black jacket

there were blue roses
roses of park

but, but they weren’t mine
time travel,

dewars in the glass
nights in the bar


red eyes and weeping skies.


A Feminist Call

to the men who think that they can own any women,

some say she can’t do it, some are too petrified to say anything

women’s freedom is a topic of debate

whereas the men is allowed to party at 4 am

the hardwork isn’t considered hard because it was done without a men

they say to be silent when you suffer

words are nothing spoken from their mouth

don’t dream big otherwise you will fall

how you’re supposed to dream about space

be obsequious to everyone, it’s good for a women

how you can tell when you are not a women

don’t raise your voice, it will not be listened

a women’s head is nothing but filled with muck

what we know is that a men can’t stand against a strapping women

all those years we struggled not for our rights

but for the equality among human beings

don’t sing that old men song again and again

we will not sell our bodies to you

we will speak loud our rights to you

the women will not live in boundaries now

we will march in the streets without

the fear and trepidation

we are made of water and fire

our beauty will not define us

it’s a free world for all

why it can’t be one for us.

Rheumy Eyes

the rude rules set for our existence

how the sunlight coming from curtains

reflects your grumpy and cranky

the purple dodecahedron shaped shoes

waiting for the drowsy feets

the sundays are spend with strangers

the forlorn hands bringing the shine

earth doesn’t forget the past

years and years what we dragged

the apartment carries the weight

where the rolling sea is singing

let us hear the sky squawking

the two names whenever are heard

the louder the whispers becomes of our room

what are those amaranth pink eyes signing

rheumy eyes handling the candle

the place looks like a dragon jungle

the school of dreams allowed you

when the dance attracted the audience

mouth wishes about the similar sound

silence is making waves in the ocean

i think a poem about you

it’s never good to write again.

Jaag Gayen Hum

yun tu har koi kashmir ki baat karta haai

magar yaha insaaf kon delata haai

tum band kardou apnay darwazey door sey

jaltey rahey gay yeh insaan aag sey

awaaz kab uthao gay zulim kay liye

sheher jalta dekhnay aayen thay kya

jannat ko chor deya yun he tum nay

ajj apni he zid par khafa kyun ho

kalaam uthatey ho tum tu likhao tu sahe

chalo azaadi tumhara haq he sahe

cheekh o pukar suntey nahin tum shayad

lagta haai dhundlaa par gaya haai aaina shayad

sootey ho tum shaan sey bistaar par

hum soola ayen hain ek aur kashmiri chatai par.

Yeh Shab-o-Roz Ka Tamasha

woh mehdi roz hathon sey mitti jaa rahe thi

teray muskuratey chehrey ki yaad phir aa rahe thi

hum masroof thay waadey nibah nay may

tum wafa kay sabaq parhti jaa rahe thi

saans layna seekh gayen thay sath rehtey rehtey

mout bhi bus ab chal kay aa rahe thi

khud ko nahin hum tumhen jane lagay thay

meri zindagi jaisey tum sey wabasta ho rahe thi

uss shaam jab tumhen khuwab may dekha

zehan may tumhari he tasveer banti jaa rahe thi

tanhai may khaton ko bar bar parh lagay thay hum

teray kalam sey nikalay lafzon ki awaaz aati jaa rahe thi

dil may yaadon ka tufan ubaharta jaa raha tha

aur samandar ki lehrey tera he naam ley rahe thi.

We All Remember The First Touch

remember the day we meet ourselves. the first touch, it felt like honey and cinnamon. the first time, we listened to our bodies. we allowed our hands to draw, mouth to breathe and legs to move. i experience a living crowd in myself. we were going far away. our face holded the smile like a mother holds her baby.
but all it was yesterday.

The Idea Of Change

do you think people need your help or you need their help? or you just need to replace the word help to love? the love will always help, but sometimes help will not help. love is the most beautiful imagination and dream, one have.
it’s the beginning of roses to dead white flowers. it stays with you forever, without emails and drafts. love can heal everything.

The Suffering Poet

you and i were a different idea

but we were always same from inside

i was supposed to be water

and you were the storm

our love never needed a map

it was so moon and blue

the words speak like you

when we together gloom

those dark shades secreting tears

i have heard the rustling of eyes

die with me every morning

the leaves will screech for us.

Did you tell?

do you feel the sky is grey today?

my hands belong to you

and the body is resting on the floor

the soul holds the pressure of nothing

there is a place inside the temple

when you breathe

the walls start contracting

your voice becomes hideous

carrying the old daisy coloured lights

find me behind the windows

standing like a euphonious sound

when you try to walk on me

i will disappear like a shattered dream

come closer to the door

see what it’s telling you

the wind blowing my face

you entre into me like the sun entre’s light

the clouds have created something

chasing the mahogany red smoke above me

my arms opened and stretched

the skin mumbling about the torment
i lefted a mark on the world

the bones have still your name

you were craving for silence

i made one for you.

Little Things Never Get Old

the little things in life, we don’t pay attention to them. what’s wrong in considering that the little things make a big life. it can be anything. enjoying alone in a park, waiting for your car to be serviced, looking at the sky with hope, conversations with god, seeing the kids playing cricket, dancing on the random songs, sitting with birds, counting numbers on the clock, watching people’s footsteps, waiting for a doorbell, buying someone’s favourite cereal at the store, designing your room with posters of rock band, collecting different bookmarks, picking up wrecked flowers, singing with strangers, travelling to the same destination or keeping the old pen with you, while you sleep. little things aren’t weird but they are the most indispensable things you have in your life. they are true and consequential. they invigorate and motivate us to live again. little things will never be old. your soul deserves tenderness.don’t change your colours, paint yourself like you paint the walls in your dream. at some point in your life, maybe in 80’s you will understand the consequence of little things

The Writer Of The Truth

celebrating the writer who changed my life and myself.

Sadaat hassan manto, to me he isn’t just a storyteller or story/play writer. he was the change in the society, the ultimate power for art and stories. manto paints the world like no one ever did. his last seven years marked the writing history of pakistan.

it’s impossible to live in the written words of manto, the truth, depth and the weight is too much to hold. if today, i am writing is because of manto.

he didn’t guzzled the truth but instead he manifested that what words can do. not many people like what he has written, but he will always be lambasted for his writings and that’s the reason why still manto’s stories aren’t forgotten.

my words are nothing, i can’t describe what he was. he was the light that guided the people, he was that kind artist that everybody wants to discover.

he was a hero and still he is.