Poetry in flames

The Beautiful Ruin A.R.ABDULLAH ​My knuckles bled from holding on To ghosts I thought I had to save. I forced a smile to mock the dawn, While standing waist-deep in the grave. I screamed at heaven, cursed the night, And fought the choking, rising tide— But you cannot outrun the blight When all the rot is locked inside. ​So let it break. Just let it break. Rip off the skin, un-tile the floor. There is no monster left to wake When you can’t suffer anymore. I dragged my fingernails through dirt, I swallowed ashes, drank the brine, And cradled my own jagged hurt Until its heartbeat matched with mine. ​I used to think that peace was light, A golden sun, a painless breath. But peace is kissing your own night, And finding life inside the death. ​It’s in the raw, unholy howl, The weeping till the throat is dry, The throwing in of every towel, The absolute refusal to lie. For when the wreckage finally clears, And you are stripped down to the bone, You wash your face in your own tears... And realize you are finally home.

شلونهم

aching lonesomeness A.R.ABDULLAH I sleep beside the ache at night, its breathing slow, its hands like knives, and every dream I hold too tight arrives half-dead, then leaves alive. I used to think that happiness was something loud and golden-skinned, a summer porch, a lover’s dress, a song that let the daylight in. But happiness is stranger now, a quiet cup, a smaller flame, the trembling way the trees bow down and still survive the winter rain. Because the saddest people know how sacred tiny mercies are: the warmth of tea, the falling snow, the faint persistence of a star. And God, the nights were monstrous long. I spoke to ceilings like a child. My body felt completely wrong, my own reflection running wild. I walked through crowds like smoke and glass, invisible and over-seen, while everyone kept moving past the wound I hid beneath my teeth. Some evenings loneliness would crawl directly underneath my skin; I’d hear my mother through the wall and nearly let the darkness win. I have cried oceans in my bed so silently my bones went numb. There are still ghosts inside my head that speak in voices I become. But grief, I learned, is not the end. It is a tunnel, not a grave. A broken heart can still extend its shaking hands toward being saved. And slowly slowly, light returns. Not all at once. It never does. It flickers first. It aches. It burns. It asks the dying soul to trust. One morning, after years of hurt, the sky looked softer than before. The world had not repaired itself, I’d simply opened one more door. And there I was: still cracked, still bruised, still carrying the lonely years, but laughing softly at the moon with dried constellations of tears. So if your chest feels caved with stone, if every breath becomes a war, remember: seeds must die alone before they ever reach the storm. The heart is not a fragile thing. It breaks and breaks, and still survives. And sadness is the suffering through which the soul learns how to shine.

😔

عيدكم مباركك شباببب 🙏😋

I miss our late night talks guys

شلونه الاسم

Cathedral of Salt A.R.ABDULLAH Oh mother, I drank the dusk like sacrament, Like every bruise was heaven-sent, I kissed the blade, I blessed the bruise, Made choirs from the things I’d lose. Oh mother, The saddest songs became my skin, Thin little psalms I slept within, Like every trembling minor chord Could lead me trembling to the Lord. I learned to kneel before despair, Comb rusted halos through my hair, And called the ache a faithful friend Because it never seemed to end. Oh mother, I built cathedrals out of salt, From every grief, from every fault, And lit black candles in my ribs To worship all the hurt I hid. The lonely nights sang sweet and low, Like frozen rivers under snow, And every silence in the room Began to sound like sacred truth. I feared the morning like a thief, Because the light undressed my grief, And if the sorrow left my bones What would remain beneath the poems? Oh mother, What if I loved the wound too much? The way it sharpened every touch, The way the suffering made me feel Too deep to break, too strange to heal. I watched the happy people dance With ordinary innocence, And envied how their hands could hold A life not carved from blackened gold. Meanwhile I turned my blood to ink, Let every beautiful thing sink, Romanticized the empty bed, The cracked piano in my chest. Oh mother, I think the devil comes disguised As poetry in grieving eyes, Whispering: “Stay ruined, stay torn, Your pain is where your art is born.” So I kept feeding storms for years, Milk and honey mixed with tears, Until my heart became a room Of wilted roses, smoke, perfume. But rivers do not worship rain. They carry oceans just the same. And maybe depth is not the knife, Maybe depth is staying soft through life. Oh mother, If peace should reach me in my sleep, If someday sorrow loosens me, Promise me this before it goes: Tell me I was more than wounds. More than sad songs, winter rooms, More than all the ghosts I fed To keep some beauty in my head. Tell me a soul can still burn bright Without devouring its own light. Tell me the heart need not stay torn To prove that something holy mourned.

Late night chat if u guys interestedd