Sameness Of Days

I have to say it annoys me when people get too personal with their poetry. Perhaps unreasonably, it feels almost as if they’re forcing the burden of their emotion on you, like that person who you meet once and they tell you every tragedy in their life. It becomes, for me, unrelatable- but that isn’t the entire point, is it?? Just one of my pet peeves. Which is why I don’t like posting poems that are too personal to me.(I guess I’m very private, and if I start complaining it means I’m really really worked up. No one in family knows or ever knew that at one point in time I was suicidally depressive, and that’s how confiding I am.) There is something very freeing about anonymity. This is about depression.

Sameness Of Days

into another and
into another and
into another and
sameness of days
grimy grey bright hot
whimpering medley
sameness of days and
into another…..
sameness of work and
sameness of leisure
words swim before my eyes
under fingers
no pleasure
and into another and
waiting for someone
white hot rose
to break the momentum
of unfelt blows
and into another and
into another and


Calling Home

on the back stoop

bright hot sunshine warms my head

golden breeze whips my skirt

I sit dreaming

Dreams of a hotter place than this


In my head, all the way across the sea-

stuccoed houses, brighter skies,

dark haired children, darker eyes.

I squint

At blue and clouded sky . I see another sky-

Darker. Stars are out- adornments of the heavens, bright

Pinpricks on an indigo sky.

The adhan echoes through the night

Silver as the stars-

My heart sings-

Over lands, across the sea,

Call to the faithful, calling me,

Home, they say

Is where your heart is.

I find my heart in Yemen.

stuccoed houses ,brighter skies,

dark haired children, darker eyes.

Brighter, and yet darker. I sit quiet, try to see-

Yemen’s stars are calling me.


In face of my apprehension of the outside world because of Islamophobia
after the recent events. I’d come to America in a more stable period ( Or maybe it was me, and something changed)  and was surprised to see the dirt come to the surface as soon as something jarred it free. Add this to the fact that I was in a period of intense curiosity and discovery but I wasn’t ready for the ugly reality-of how the way I lived my life could connect to something that I felt utterly separate from,and feared, how that could impact my world.Maybe then you can understand, maybe, how it felt to hear of Donald Trump’s
popularity rates and the rise of a lot of intensely ugly Islamophobia.
Do you talk and make a fuss? Defend yourself to the point of exhaustion to deaf

like an unexpected
dizzying slap
a fracture
of stability
i thought was tight
a measure
of ability
to stay upright.
the opening
of a world
left too long shut
the jerking of my orbit
the cracking of a nut.
stand up?
talk fast?
leave well enough alone?
the shatter of a window
a sharp hurled stone….

In This Hijab

I wonder sometimes, as I walk down the street in my hijab, what people are thinking; I can imagine, but none of it turns out pleasant. I know sometimes I am seen as backwards, oppressed under my hijab, subservient to ridiculous rules. Sometimes I am given quiet pitying smiles as if to say- I’m not scared of you, poor thing, and I can only smile back as if to say-at least someone’s sensible here, honey. I still know that no one bothers to see me. As a person with a life and dreams just like every girl. After everything-a woman, like all the others.


Looking at me-
Who do you see
dressed in folds
of flowing cloth
dark as Arab eyes?

Do you see me?
a Muslim girl
with dreams so fierce
and hopes
and loves
and tears
and passions
a woman,underneath?

a girl who
loves to dream stars
hear the wind calling
whispers to flowers
writes to become herself
weeps like you
from tired eyes-

Do you see me?

Dressed in hijab, as dark as midnight skies?