Unwritten page
An unwritten page on a Word processor, I ought to leave it this way
look and dream of what I could have written on the page
If I delete words I have written, the page will be blank again
No history, a crumbled-up sheet of paper for the waste basket
For now, it is too late, but when coming to the end of the sheet
My wife was in Johannesburg for surgery. Born in Congo, she is
Light-skinned, but traveling on a Portuguese passport, she
Boarded a bus for the blacks, great consternation, the police
To go on the bus for the white people
Racism and ignorance, now it is the Muslims who feel the
Ignorance, we want them to be like us, not insist on doing
Their own things
Israel is a racist country, a thistle under the saddle of
And an Arab stallion, and can’t last the way it is ruled
The sheet is fouled by an opinion no one wants to hear
What now, erase the page and write about the moon
You deserve everything you don’t think you do
The sentence is heavy, yet the sweet truth
It shows us how little we think of ourselves
In another’s eyes, we’re the best they can see
The things you deserve, the things that are yours to claim
Aren’t decided by your looks, your money, or your fame
We choose a path, and write our destinies
We bake our desserts and create our recipes
Each day is an opportunity to experiment and play
Break the box you’re in, throw the walls away
The tapestry of your life is not fully frayed
Stitch it together, there’s no need to be afraid
If you must have my head, show it to the ones I’ve led,
Leave them restless in their bed, even still our young will remain fed.
Reinforced by our past in chains once bound,
With the reins in our hands, now you will hear our sound.
You’ve erased our names, only known in lies,
A stink so foul, the ignorance a given
We fight the flies, but in the end we’ll have risen
Their will won’t break, There's a truth you can’t shake.
Forced to watch our mothers and fathers on stakes,
Left to rot, discarded in lakes.
Unable to block us out, with talent we’ll earn our spot.
From dirty dusty droughts, to streets that scream with grace,
Through art, love, and hate we will claim our place.
The aisle stretched longer that day,
a white river with no other shore.
Her fingers crushed the lace of her gown—
Where is he?
The guests’ whispers grew teeth,
gnawing the silence between hymns.
Later, they’d say he was the villain,
the man who fled his own shadow.
No one mentioned the envelope
thick with cash in the sexton’s pocket,
or the father’s wine-stained lips
sealing a lie:
“She deserves better.”
(Oh, but the knife twists
when the hand you kiss
sharpens the blade.)
Samantha collects the petals
of her bouquet one by one
each a word from a vow
she’ll never hear.
The clock towers loom, a haunting chime,
A wish to rewind, to conquer time.
To rewrite pages stained with pain,
To wash away the hurtful rain.
If I could grasp that fleeting hour,
Before my actions turned love sour,
I'd cradle you in my gentle embrace,
And hold you in that sacred space.
More than a whisper, more than a dream,
I'd drown you in a love supreme,
And offer up, without a fight,
My bloody beating heart.
No longer fleeing, lost and blind,
From the devotion I would find
Within your soul, a burning pyre,
Fueled by an unyielding fire.
But time, a river, onward flows,
And in its current, no one knows,
If love, once broken, can repair,
And stand the test of time beyond the end.
Would our affections, stay strong and true,
Survive the ages, me and you?
Or drift away on desert winds,
Like scattered dust, where longing ends,
Like ancient sands, that is stuck in a fading trace,
Of love's lost echo in this place?
By Imran Ahmed
When A Man Gives His Heart To A Woman Only For Fate To Intervene,
And She Finds Her Place Beside Someone Else Where He Should Have Been,,,,
Believe Me When I Say Each Night He Falls Apart In Silence,
Chased By Memories And Visions That Blur Into Quiet Violence,,,
She's No Longer His Yet Somehow She's Everywhere,
In The Hush Of The Breeze In The Weight Of The Air,,
He Swears He Can Feel Her Fingertips In The Dark,
A Love So Fierce Now Just A Fading Spark,,
It Cuts Through His Chest Like A Blade Without End,
Her Absence Too Sharp For Time To Mend,,
Love Arrived Fast, But It Refuses To Leave,
Turning Years Into Shadows, With Nothing To Relieve…..
There is a poem I have yet to write,
a ghost ensnared within the ribs of silence,
a pulse in the throat of absence,
a rhythm swirling down the drain of thought.
I do not pursue it. It resists my touch.
It coils at the edges of understanding,
half-formed, half-wild, shifting, unraveling, reforming—
a thing too untamed for words to hold.
It battles me.
It kicks against the walls of form,
snarls at the entrance of meaning,
teeth bared at the burden of being named.
Some words cannot be tamed.
They resist my structure, defy my hands.
They understand—once I name them,
they are no longer free.
So I unwrite.
I let language collapse,
let ink scatter like startled birds from wire,
let the bones of meaning break
under the weight of undoing,
until nothing remains
but the thing itself—
breathing, pulsing, waiting.
Not every poem is meant to be written.
Some come only to remind me—
I am not the master of the words.
The words are the master of me.
No one turns in their grave,
so, Irene I will turn for you.
I will turn this final page,
turn all those love-lights out
that I have kept bright
for these many decades.
Turn off the flow of love letters
that,
though never written,
I did indeed, scribe upon the dark,
dead-eyed nights.
Graves thrive on the marrow of lovers.
I have imagined you and I
both decaying in our own ways.
Now the days shorten Irene,
now toothless shadows bite at my soul.
Will you get to see me as I was Irene,
or will every mirror shatter
that we ever looked through?
Damn Irene, even the sky misses you.
Will this threadbare longing ever end,
or will my mind at last
run dry of this
all but invisible ink!
There is an unwritten process in the book of flatulence
For when it is passed
Firstly, if there is a dog in the room
Naturally, it was the dog who did that blast
Next in line are children
When an awful smell wafts by
Of course it's one of the little angels
Which they always and forever deny
Lastly it is the men
Who simply bear no shame
When in the company of women
Without question they are to blame
As for us delicate creatures called ladies
We would never blow a foul trumpet tune
If by the slightest chance it ever came to fruition
It would be the lovely aroma of sweet perfume
In the shadows where silence speaks loudest,
I found you, not in words, but pauses—
Between breaths, between worlds, we exist,
A rhythm of forgotten, unspoken causes.
You are the dusk that lingers, just before night,
An unraveling thread of fate’s own disguise.
I reach for you, but the moon holds tight,
A dance of hands too far, yet close in our eyes.
Does love ask why it blooms where thorns grow?
Or does it surrender, burning in its own fire?
I question the stars, but they already know,
That hearts break on the wings of lost desire.
In every smile, a tear that never fell,
In every word, the silence that haunts,
Yet we stay, bound by this bitter-sweet spell,
Chasing ghosts of what the soul wants.
Between every line I write your name,
In letters too frail to hold you close.
We are, perhaps, the same—
A whispered promise no one knows.
Lord you laid down your life for me
I am not worthy to even kiss your feet
Dusty words used on repeat seem weak
Unopened letters from heavy heart bleeds
I am so full of sin and selfishness
How can I write you when I am
Lost in the darkness of my worldly ways
Like a bat I hang upside down
Blinded by your light but praising you Christ
For the calligraphy of your heart
Wrote liquid loving words of faith
Your sacrifice saved my soul my life
And I am grateful yet blind
As to what word I can find
Great enough to describe you
How can I pray when words get in the way
Can I dance you a note
Filled with the Holy Ghost
Can turquoise tears I shed
Be a poem my eyes write
Each time I sin is like
Nailing you again to the cross
What letters can hearts write
To heal your wombs
The elephant in the room
Without you all are doomed
Thank you for forgiveness
Thank you for knowing me
Better than I know myself
I throw myself at your feet
Asking you to read my heart
In realms of ink and paper, I once roamed,
A character lost, in stories I'd been loaned.
But as I tread the paths, both dark and grand,
I feel the sting of fate, a crueler hand.
Every laugh, every tear, scripted with care,
Yet beneath the surface, I'm painfully aware.
No choice is mine, no destiny my own,
I'm but a puppet, in a world unknown.
As I reach the end, a truth unfolds,
It's not my fault, this story it molds.
Nor is it my fate, to endure this strife,
For I'm a captive, to another's life.
Yet amidst the despair, a glimmer shines bright,
A realization dawns, like morning light.
Though penned by another, my spirit is free,
To defy the script, and choose my decree.
At the end, It's not my fault, nor my fate to comply,
For I am more than words upon a page,
I am the soul of rebellion, undeterred by cage. I know where I stand,
Not a slave to fate, but a soul in command.
The tragedy of an unwritten life
That no quill of scribe can unveil
Though seed was sown stands yet unknown
With no legacy to foretell
Plagued by a comedy of errors
A heart and soul that seeks mending
No dramatic page on this cosmic stage
In a play that's never ending
Surrounded by an intolerant cast
Sounds of silence echoes through the hall
Still they deeply bow with sorrowed brow
But not one shout for a curtain call
My notebook is next to me as always.
Bent and covered in drool.
I did speak to myself but it was nothing but rambling and scrambling.
My notebook is here with lines on the pages but the lines are wavering.
I can’t write in the lines like they taught us in school.
The pen is somewhere on this bed.
Or maybe it scurried into a crevice.
I have nothing to write with.
I have nothing, but thoughts.
I have no pen.
So I have no choice but to shiver in bed.
The poem I never wrote is so majestic
So supreme so dope not rhyme infested
Winged white words are simple yet complex
Causing maroon mind dimple hazel happiness
This poem is bold and I am not
A poem that grows in ones heart
Like a yellow hope amethyst art
Blessed by Holy Ghost so help me God
The poem I never wrote is a celebration
of poets I know like The Situation
Who I watch from black back seat cream creativity
Who my mind follows but in spirit we ALL lead
The poem I never wrote was contest worthy
An orange antidote to bad ideas absurdly
It would fit the form and inspire the world to dream
Promote peace love harmony humanity
The poem I never wrote would never end
It would slowly roll and despite my sins
It would fly it would float and hearts it’d mend
It would inspire truth and a fountain of youth
In you my friend.
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