Grid View
List View
  • hafzikr 3w

    A pasteled evening
    saturating a tired city
    two pitta birds on a parched twig
    another sunset tracing someone's
    peach tree in the backyard
    there lies poetry
    in the pause of a market
    postponed griefs trailing behind
    a fast forward excerpt
    from a poet's shifting muse
    polaroids of urban echoes
    a hectic comma for another verse
    the city sinks mute in the
    backdrop of a visitor's cache.

    | The Visitor


  • hafzikr 3w

    Another earth will take birth
    amid a curled galaxy lap
    neither far from a wave
    nor too closer for a shake
    We'd create attics that smell
    like renaissance
    This time I'd outgrow death
    and fall in love with a decayed lie
    to see how it didn't choke
    in your throat before your
    tongue could chew our lives.

    // And yet, I can't swallow the truth.


  • hafzikr 3w

    The sky is,
    A longing a redemption
    For a rusted soul
    In love with a farewell
    I'm watching the patterns
    To sip in the change
    Tinted clouds caressing beneath
    A rebellion for an amalgamate
    A bohemian fraternise
    I lament for a sunset
    I caught two Fridays ago
    Wind chimes a call to home
    If the horizon is
    A prison of peace
    Ain't the sea longing to paint
    The salt in winds than the kisses of skies?


  • hafzikr 8w

    I force myself to write poems because I'm scared I'll forget how to
    communicate. I feel like I have felt more than the average about some
    moments I've passed. Every time I try to explain, I'm not sure about
    what I'm supposed to say. Chewing a word in my mouth feels like a
    crime. Every corner seems to be a huge space with no escape. I often
    hunch my shoulders and let people walk away from me, I also allow them
    to spit a few words of their choice. Then I convince myself that it's
    not their fault that I'm not capable of defending myself. I don't know
    how to respond during a phone call other than repeating the same
    things I already spoke. I'm nervous to match my face and emotions with
    the words I speak. I know nothing makes sense about anything. I'm a
    liar, a mistake, a piece of fake truth for those who could speak
    languages without words.


  • hafzikr 11w

    Anything I fall in love with wants to escape from me. Tonight, I want to call a taxi. Only to ask the driver if a random passenger ever left any impalpable ornament which could fit anywhere in his only home. I know that my nerves unusually digest all earthly flavors. And everybody knows that. Though, am I allowed to witness mistakes I committed without swallowing my own spit in two sips? 

    It's raining outside. I can hear all the feelings I feel, in a language I can understand myself. I can hear all, my eyes failed to hold. I imagine a world without me. Soon, I get an urge to fit myself into all fragments of it. All these years I've been doing the same with everything I didn't want. I've convinced myself that I loved them, I realize. I've been trying to fit into frames that don't even recognize my shape.

    I believed that certain things in life certainly happen with time. But I understand that life has no calendars, it's just brutally punctual in its own way. Now that I long to feel the ache that's bloating inside me. I crave to feel my thoughts in their only form, to flutter my skeleton or to roll down the cheeks. I want to view myself from someone else's eyes to count all the wrongs I'm carrying, to see what has the power to leave me this sad. I wonder if all memories regret residing in me. But anywhere my story leads, I want all I loved to not feel sorry for me.


  • hafzikr 15w

    My opinions are often heard when it's wrong. I've been escaping from every name I had memorized since I was a child. Some Days, I feel like saturating my clothes with every stranger's cologne, lick the last drop of silence left in a market, run across the paused mind holding my soul in my hands. All I want is to allow myself to feel the void, inhale and capsule it in my heart, tremble the beat with fear I feared of reaching, scratch the numbness wrapped around my veins, and rip open them to have pained by every truth I pretended unheard.This time I want to lie to my best friend, not answer my mother's call, move my lips like mine, and yet be called right.


  • hafzikr 16w

    I lay on the bed, at the corner reserved as mine, and count how many years I owned that space. I've done that before too. Maybe a day, a week, or a year ago. I love how I fall asleep diving into numbers feeling like I'm losing my fabric, the skin, the bones, the soul when the count goes up. I row back to six-year-old me, going to school wrapped in a maroon jacket with a white ice cap hat, waving both hands till I could picture my mother smaller than the nearest wild grass. The half rose sun piercing through the mist, my dad swathing a squared cloth around my nose to block the cold air. Chirping about dew drops fluttering on pink flower petals at Eva aunt's yard, and dad saying "hurry up... the biscuit..." as he bottles his breath to reach my school van. I was bothered by nothing as I had two biscuits pasted with jam and had washed my shoes to be a good girl.

    I thought that the day would go the same. I didn't know that I reached school with tiny scars, tears, and hair that isn't ever like how a good girl does. On the other day, there wasn't any story to repeat, a song to sing despite a new morning being born for me to blow into the air for curly smokes. I didn't know my patches held something more than a kid's fight. Maybe I scoped a moment in its whole. I don't know when I started humming about yesterday. I don't know who allowed this weighing void to build a home in me. The young me has dissolved inside a bitter fragment. I know that I won't get to tell her that maroon is a nice color, tidy shoes aren't a mistake, and eating an extra jam spoon doesn't cause violence. Yet, I'm waiting at every door to ask her what promised to hold today's morning without fearing the next?


  • hafzikr 16w

    I've always found myself in between a grieving sentence or a moaning paragraph, in a bleeding book, or on an aching cover. I often stare at places where I can't picture anything in my eyes. Some Days, I feel tired of forcing my tongue to fathom my own voice draining through the voices in my head. I know that my mother's heart is fueled with grief for witnessing an uneven placement on earth that's not sad for death or not intimidated by how dried blood spills.

    It's been a while since I filled my lungs with air instead of the urge to escape. Every morning I dwell in the thirst of being embraced while thrown away. I slowly sip in my mother tongue before performing 'me' and wonder if it tastes bitter to everyone else. On nights, I feel an intense pain somewhere unnamed, which makes me want to crawl to my mother and tell her that I'm hungry for the sleep I once had.


  • hafzikr 16w

    I'm hiding. Hiding my soul from everything I'll ever feel.


  • hafzikr 16w

    The reason I don't tell you about stars and moon is because I love them. I'm afraid that you'll see the same eyes when I look at you.