The poet analyses mental health and magical existence lying between living life fully and depressed
I바카라m a stone바카라s throw from the island called, 바카라good for nothing.바카라
My depression is my caregiver and I바카라m his patient.
My parents don바카라t understxand our relationship and blame him for my rebellion,
바카라Your depression is a shape-shifter who will eat you from the inside out바카라, they say,
Nobody understands us. We바카라re meant for each other like a ribbon & scissors.
He calls me to the 바카라upside-down바카라, speaks to me in an alien tongue,
hisses like a cornered cat and pronounces the f(s) and r(s) in my name
with a breathy voice, making me feel I too matter, I too belong.
They don바카라t believe me when I tell them that he is a shadow,
a silhouette you often think of like a ghost but it isn바카라t;
a trail of blood on the grass without any signs of an injured body;
He is my umbra and I바카라m his moon.
He calls birds 바카라paper planes바카라 that fly using magnetic force,
trees as 바카라pillars바카라 etched by the architect to bridge the gap between sea and breeze,
and the sun as the 바카라glowing pulp of orange바카라 that you can devour to beat the heat.
바카라You바카라re a good poet with an eye for metaphors바카라 I often tell him.
Oftentimes, he makes fun of my feeble attempts to express myself
in a non-native language that kicks me out every time I knock at its door,
and I request him to let me try again.
바카라I will make you a famous writer overnight if you follow these five steps바카라, he retorts.
1) Mention Keats and Shelly as your favourite poets instead of Sylvia or Bukowski.
2) Display fake award nomination letters instead of cut-outs of Sylvia바카라s poems like 바카라Edge바카라 and 바카라Daddy바카라.
3) Don바카라t read at all but call yourself an all-knower wherever you go.
4) Doubt every verse you write and never finish a poem because who바카라s going to read it anyway?
5) Call yourself 바카라idiot바카라 and 바카라dumb바카라 in front of the mirror ten times a day. It works like a charm, trust me.
At times, I wonder how he can be so kind to me.
He is so charming, confident and likeable that he can find almost anyone
in and beyond the cosmos.
(even god would want to have a drink with him, I believe
had he been born earlier, god would have invited him to a late-night party
to get over his breakup with satan.)
On the contrary, who am I?
a walking ball of hair with half-broken glasses, pouched belly and dark circles,
and yet ye chooses to be with me every day. How kind of him!
For some reason, when I begin to think like this,
My bumpy scalp, pale red scars and swollen lips look at me with a wondering sadness,
바카라Mama, you really think papa needs a reason to love you?!바카라
and I wonder, are my kids too smart or I바카라m too dumb?
They taught me about the endless cycle of birth and death
but forgot to tell me of something known as an in-betweener:
a fine thread of life woven from the wool of chaos
to knit the dress of order.
I learnt this bitter truth
when a young diver revived me from the cold, charismatic sea,
and caressed my body with the warmth of love I knew nothing of.
In the very shallow waters, I was
waiting for my bones to deteriorate,
the tears on my cheeks had gotten dry,
the pupils of my eyes had turned to white pearl stones
the strong currents had ripped my body apart.
he looked at me intently, and said a few words like 바카라바카라submerged바카라바카라, 바카라바카라monolith바카라바카라,
I didn바카라t know what they meant,
as much as I understood English, sub meant below, merge meant blend,
and monolith perhaps, a stone of unknown origins.
I don바카라t know how long he kept me there,
and tried to figure out what I was and what I was doing underneath,
but he was curious to see me, perhaps I was his first find.
I tried to close my eyes again,
fearing he would inform other divers and they all would gang up on me
but he looked at every part of my body with curiosity,
touched it, kissed it, held it
perhaps to see whether I was conscious of my existence or his presence.
Each carving on my body fascinated him,
he looked at them with the utmost respect
and when archaeologists and divers came to see me,
they all had a childlike smile on their face,
I was taken out of the water, bathed in freshwater, and inspected
by teachers, youngsters, geeks and the elderly,
they all pronounced me a monument simultaneously.
A homeless man, named Arif eats food from a restaurant's dumpster and grabs whatever he finds: large loaves of bread, half-rotten chunks of bacon and small slices of cheese sandwiches; you name it. 바카라They have a good menu바카라바카라, he often says. He shares his food with his friends too. They all call the dumpster their 바카라God바카라 and bows their head to it/Him. When one restaurant closes its business, they move to find another god and sing another hymn.
It's a poverty-stricken family in Karachi with three daughters and one son.
Daughters offer home tuition, do household chores and study;
Son earns for the family.
At the dining table, daughters pour water into the gravy to increase its viscosity,
and give a leg piece to their brother happily.
He is the only son and breadwinner of a patriarchal family.
One of those daughters is my mom.
She worked hard enough to feed her children
equally.
(Fizza Abbas is a writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. Her work has been nominated for the Best of The Net award and shortlisted for Oxford Brookes International Poetry Competition 2021. She has also authored two books, Ool Jalool (Fahmidan Publishing) and Bakho (Ethel Press). Aside from writing, she also runs a )