soliloquy i used to be

“winds caustic whisper 
a malleable soul times three
not the monologue
(earth used to be)”
soliloquyimage credit:

                                                                                                                      image credit:

whispers of the accursed one overcome you in ways subliminal,

Death times three: out of earth, in the grave and after The Day or Regret.

Your body lifeless, vulnerable – malleable to One Omnipresent.

“In front of such a one is Hell, and he is given, for drink, boiling fetid water. Death will come to him from every side, yet he will not die; and in front of him will be a chastisement unrelenting” (14:16-17) 


self-love affair

Last night my physical and mental engaged in a cold war. The cycle of knowing my purpose but failing to engrave it into my daily life has become obsolete. Luminescent ideas spark my body throughout, escaped from the brain they sit idle in the bones- f l i c k e r i n g – a second away from dimming. Action – they need turbulence. Our mouths move yet our bodies remain.

At a desperate attempt to feel useful, 21:00 pm on the clock, I grab my Queen ~ Your Highness Sewing Machine , empowered to create.

Queen ~ Your Highness Sewing Machine

Threads, needles and swords out; the combat begins. The aim was to make a lovely black textured Burqa for Praying. Idea = fresh. Actual process = dull. 23:00 pm on the clock I lay numb on the couch, my Queen let me down, “technical difficulties” she tried to explain.

Defeated, as if the now malfunctioning sewing machine has a vile vendetta against me and only me. The cold war swells up, tensions tighten – my bombarded brain still yearns for a release. I refuse to give up. 02:30 am on the clock, I decide to bake. My very first love.

Tins, whisks and swords out; the combat begins. Realizing that at this moment, my temporary happiness relies on whether or not I achieve this one thing – just this one time.


Cinnamon Bun with choco/coffee glaze

Cinnamon Bun with choco/coffee glaze

22:xx pm

“Thunder nags causing the earth to shiver.
Toes tingling, feet pulsating, circuits of exhilaration surge throughout the legs. You hasten out to the heavens praying- not by words but through joy:
worship in the form of hope
devotion depicted by high spirits.
Above, the electric sky leaks tucked giftlets of Compassion. Let it rain.”
~ zaheedah

letter to my (in)existent friends

The writer lives consumed in a bubble of her thoughts and induced happiness – detached. Often described as elusive and aloof by the alleged real world. The writer hath profound feelings but untraceable emotion. She-is-cold-and-callous.

Oh dear old friend thou shall not let this daunt you, do not flee; for her love for ye runs deep in this material world, her love for ye cannot be bleached out. She sketches peculiar images on her hand-made canvas, most sculptures she builds on her lonesome. 

But oh dear old friend do not let this deceit you, yes she might be able to live without you, yet she’s still grateful for your existence – in fact – just the subliminal act of you breathing and donating DNA fueled Carbon Dioxide particles into the air – trace and cling onto her solitude body ensuring hope, illustrating how you are not mere Carbon Copies you are simply her lovies. 

The writer behaves like a mute disabled robot in the Cyber world, broken fingers incapable of typing at least a text. The writer behaves like a deaf and blind human in the real world, incapable of hearing or seeing your crys of attention. But this dear old friend still thinks of ye from dawn to sunrise, dusk to twilight and sunrise once more