The Creatively Frustrated

Sweet odors of love Combine, Mingling souls as one, Entangled intensely so, Existence was left behind. Reality barely intertwined. Alarmed, they all warned, 'You'll be consumed,' They said. Rebelling, ecstasy Heightened. 'I'll risk it all,' I said, And I indulged. Going deep within, Crossed the boundaries of The conscious mind. 'Believe,' I said. Empty eyes stared. But there it was, Among the depths, My beloved. My nirvana...

Traffic Noise Carbon dioxide Swirling black clouds Hovering over building tops Pour acid drops Drops-Of a different kind Then rush down our spine With a curse Escaping parched lips They fall into the puddle Of unresolved conflicts Rebellious KESC Blames WAPDA for it's inabilities While darting eyes Search for an oasis Between environmental And self imposed heat A sight for sore eyes Pakistan studies:"With moderate temperature, Karachi is a coastal city"

Global warming seemed like an issue Before she came And absorbed those ultra violet rays With pampers, new and improved Now available at cheaper rates Israels expansionist plans Were worth a discussion but now a days, It's mother care's sale That steals her attention Litters of urine Passed out by her baby Measure more Than the magnitude of water problems Our world is facing "to be or not to be" Is no Shakespearean dilemma my friend It's now a decision Of being or not being Exclusively breast fed Colors of stool Intrigue her more Than change of seasons Or shades of red She is a mother, alright With responsibilities towards her child But is motherhood A mere reduction of her existence To puke, poop and piss?

Turmoil and confusion Is in my heart, in my soul, Is this all an illusion? My fantasies gaping hole? Oh how I’m torn apart With the guilt that is within me How long will we last Against my deceiving heart’s decree!? This is not me but the devil Who lures me to lust, My heart longs a sin, a betrayal Of their forgotten trust. Half a decade gone and lost, Words spoken but not said, Lies, deceit, deception And false love declared. (P.S: A poem that i wrote waaay back!)

I narrate a story, Of a girl who bathes in glory. Paving her way through the dunes, She loves things that are in tune. Breaking out every day, She feels a need to sing An unsung song, Lyrics in a jumble and alphabets flown, On the top of her lungs, As the globe around her hums, She gathers herself, insight and wisdom, Sketching the roots from which they stem. Straining her eyes, she wonders why The flora seems so dry, And the objects so shrunken, A delusion and no more, she refutes it to be heaven. A slight tilt of the chin, Is the closest that she comes to being grim. A cursory glance, Tip-toed; in a trance. There’s a grace about her, as she moves Poised, fitting all the grooves. She is made for the ball, they say Within her own circle, she likes to sway. Why then, her eyes radiate No more, as they did before? The lights have moved out, the stars glow No more, as they did before. Soul searching, she goes out for, In the outlook is, all that she ador...

Rows and rows of memories, Stacked together and tucked away, A few neatly, the rest in haste, Its just a thing of past anyway! An idle mind browses through, The young leading to the old, ‘Handle with care.’ Said one dusty volume, And my curiosity was easily sold. The pages yellowed and cracking, It started with a steady hand, Curving and looping the letters linked, ‘Once upon a time,” the writer began. Living and dying with the words, Time lost all grip and slipped a decade, Gliding and slithering as if in a ballet, Enslaving. The scripture danced. Just before the final chapter, Just before the terminus, As untouched as a virgin The leaflets were empty, vacous! Page after page they were turned, Longing to find an end, Old and yellow, the blank parchments, Have no ‘Happy ever after’ to be told. Rows and rows of memories, Stacked together and tucked away, A few neatly, the rest in haste, Conclude what you want, say what you may. (P.S: It still feels a bit incomplete. Cant figure ...

They follow No matter how fast you row There is always something to lose Even when you choose to gain Sailing away in that boat That rocks with every wave Sinking is not an option, You have to keep it afloat And then comes a wave again With it crawls; a thought How does it feel to be To be the one who navigates To have the map in your hands Leading the world on your own path Writing down that very song That takes their breath away To take on a new journey And pick out your favorite notes And hum that very tune, That captures their souls Amidst the ruins.

It’s funny how we don’t look like us upside down. I saw a friend’s picture on facebook and that is what I thought and all the other times I lay down and look at my friends from that angle. We look like a different us. And the other day when it rained and I went out to look for objects to photograph, I saw a flower that fell in an upturned way. With the pretty side down and the stem projecting in the air, standing tall. And I stared at how unusual it looked. Not like itself. Different, you know? Weird how life is making me look at things upside down when I want to straighten it out so bad. Then my friend goes on and says. I look like me, backways, sideways, upside down, downside up and everything. She emphasized on the ME. And I give it a moment and think, that’s right. We do look different, but its still us. But didn’t I already say that? A different us..

Sanity marches, out of the secure confines. Decides to flee, like a freed bee Weary of the webs, it keeps on twisting the threads Peeks through the tiny holes, as the time rolls She glances within, her fingers are gripping Disintegrated. She thinks to herself, The bits and pieces, Explosions inside, deafening sounds are muted outside. Stunned. Eyes the insanity and grunts. I bet you want to dethrone, I bet with all my bones Battles the exteriors, leans towards the wreck Lost are the words, and screams, muted again. The bits and pieces, awed. A contact with the dust relives the dismay Gathers the fragments, to search for the fits Tries to assemble, make sense out of the zilch. Blurred is the periphery, the focus perpetual Alas! The bits and pieces. No way.

It was raining hard. So hard that the visibility had lessened to 50% normal. Our car zoomed past puddles, making waves and spraying water on already drenched people on foot and into rolled down car windows. Sorry, we muttered. With my camera ready I was looking forward to shooting some heart wrenching scenes of Thatta camp cities on the first day of Eid. ‘Damn this rain! It will ruin everything.’ Two hours down the road we reached HANDS Thatta office. Inside the meeting room we were briefed about the situation there, how the organization was managing the catastrophe, the donations, the rations given, the victims; almost everything was discussed. I was impatient. I wanted to shoot. The teams had been working tirelessly they said and at times for 24 hours at a stretch. There were 300 camp cities across Sindh, they added, giving shelter, food and health care to 65000 people. I was awed,  my impatience gone. What have I been doing? The rain had turned the earth into jello. Slip...