Aahna

suggest one of your writings for me to read (or re-read) bhaiyya. i missed it for so long :") 

Here's a wonderful chance to get a free critique/ editorial advice.
          
          https://www.instagram.com/stories/aahna_anaaya/3329076696797561908?igsh=ODdjYjUzY3ZwN3g2

How to cry for help...
          
          There will be a day, or a night,
          when grief feels like fear.
          Don't let it frighten you.
          
          Inhale deep, 
          real deep,
          hold your fist, tight,
          against your trembling heart.
          
          Now stare at a blank wall,
          as long as you can,
          until your eyes brim
          and tears come rushing by.
          
          Exhale,
          let go of those fists,
          let go of everything,
          hold nothing inside.
          
          Now, if you need, cry.
          
          

Any reading recommendation?

@_pretty_pluviophile_ you too rain

Wishing all beautiful writers and readers a very happy new year. May the new world bring good health, luck and words.

In watching bodies of dead children in Gaza 
          
          Dear Maa,
          
          I am sculpted now,
          for eternity.
          Forgive me, it's not a polished stone,
          nor a complete set of limbs.
          You may find an eye missing, or more.
          But such things are decided not by me,
          or the other bodies that lay around me.
          The sculptor bears the chisel, 
          mallet and an eye for what should not be,
          and he hammered out the unwanted me,
          mostly, all of it.
          I hold no remorse though;
          the sculptor wants to be God,
          and even gods, are sometimes wrong.
          
          

Do you promotе your books on Neobook ?

I don't watch the news anymore.
          The world, it seems, is fond of war.
          Last week, a nation bombed another land.
          Some cheered, some walked with flags.
          Breaking News ― the reporter screamed
          as the camera panned on a little girl's hands
          scavenging rubble where her mother fell,
          calling a father she knew was long gone. 
          'So sad,' my neighbour said,
          'Tragic,' another corrected.
          The discussion then shifted to shopping 
          and neighbour's new dog.
          
          I couldn't sleep all night, though.
          Everytime my eyelids dropped, 
          the little girl stood up with open arms,
          
          'Ammi! Abba!' she wailed and called.
          
          Truly a breaking news;
          she'll never have her childhood back.
          
          I don't watch the news anymore.
          I can't.
          

Don't come and go so fast.
          Stay.
          Listen. 
          I am a poem,
          and poem is not read in a hurry.
          It's is a cup of coffee,
          to be sipped slowly,
          to be held over the tongue,
          to let eyelids drop, shut this world,
          to travel to another,
          to hear the sound of a memory,
          to watch all the missed sunsets,
          to inhale the earth after the first rain,
          to fall. In Love. Again. Then again.
          Poetry is a meditation, 
          a journey through grief,
          and joy,
          and everything in between.
          
          Please don't rush.
          Stay.
          Listen.