An Ode to my Writer’s block

Blank page.

Staring. 

Words. 

Backspace.

Torn hair.

I take up a pen,

Perhaps a little feel to the method,

Will get the ink rolling.

Blank page,

Random scribbling. 

There’s this little person in my head,

He drinks from his cup of anxiety 

When he wants to stay up at night.

His midnight snack is almost always 

Two servings of depression. 

Insomnia is just another word for creative hour. 

Happiness, 

That’s something I’ve been feeling lately,

It’s a weird feeling,

Really. 

I don’t understand it,

I dance when I walk down the street,

And for once

I am smiling while having a conversation with someone.

Happiness, 

Is just another word, 

For the door,

To the house of that little person in my head.

No, scratch that, 

It’s not a door, 

It’s a wall. 

Happiness is the wall that keeps the creativity away. 

When I’m saying I am happy, 

I’m also saying that I haven’t written in a while,

And if I haven’t written in a while, 

I haven’t received my weekly dose of validation. 

Without my weekly dose of validation, 

I don’t know if I matter enough.

I feel like,

Everyone around me 

Is always in motion, 

I feel like,

They are more noticeable than me, 

I feel like, 

If I stopped moving,

If I just stood still,

I’d fade into the crowd and be forgotten. 

My happiness, 

Is a cloud in my head, 

It rains on creativity’s paper,

But it does not refill the inkwell of passion.

If you made a venn diagram,

For the number of people with mental illnesses,

And the number of creative geniuses around you, 

They most certainly overlap,

To the point where it blends into one. 

I think what I’m saying is,

Being happy takes away from me,

More than it gives. 

I think what I’m trying to say is,

My mental disabilities are what make me unique,

And the countless times I’ve been told to grow a pair,

Or change my tampon,

Has made me into something I am not. 

See what I’m saying is,

I think my happiness makes me,

Average.

Turbulence

In the belly of this huge beast, 

I look out, 

The heavens spread across as far as the eye can see, 

The clouds streaming along in ridges, 

The sun setting in the background, 

The metal engine roaring louder than the music blaring into my ears. 

I'm traveling alone, 

A book in hand, 

Little to worry about, 

Little to lose. 

All of a sudden, 

My flight bumps up and down, 

The bumping does not stop, 

The metal cage rattling, 

For a brief moment, 

I tell myself, 

Fuck, 

Well, 

If I'm going to meet my maker today, 

At least I'm dressed well for the occasion, 

First impressions matter. 

The old dude next to me, 

Grasps on to the seat in front of him, 

I notice him mumbling a prayer, 

The seatbelt sign is switched on all of a sudden, 

And I say again, 

Fuck, 

This time a little louder, 

The bearded dude stares a bit, 

Probably judging me for my profane language. 

But then I go quiet, 

He goes back to his prayers, 

This time his hand crossed.

I noticed him before the flight took off, 

He was showing pictures of his little daughter, 

To the man next to him, 

He then sends a selfie to his wife, 

And when she doesn't respond, 

He calls her, 

Tells her that he loves her and to pray for his safe return. 

It all seemed, 

Very sweet, 

His brows now crunched, 

His face tense, 

While I sit here writing a poem about how

I am ready to meet my maker, 

I wonder how it feels, 

To fear losing your life,

Not because you're afraid of death, 

But because you're afraid of what you will leave behind here. 

1971

The liberation war of 1971,

Is like an old band-aid,

The wound under which is yet to heal.

Whenever I ask my mother about it, 

I can see the expression on her face visibly change,

Her pale face,

Usually painted with a smile-

Shifting into a red

Mostly of rage,

And somewhat of her inability to have done something about it.

In some corner of this country in a remote village

A man teaches a class of fifth graders,

His orange beard swaying their interest more than his lecture does.

The children shudder at the sound off metal and the thudding of bodies,

Falling to the floor,

Sounds they had never heard before. 

The kind man, 

Father of seven,

Looks into the unsure eyes of the boy staring at him,

Looking,

For some reassurance, 

The boy finds the hollow of his own eyes reflected right back at him.

In a quiet corner of the city,

The nurse whispers,

It’s a girl. 

Her cries muffled by the cloth stuck to her mouth. 

In that dimly lit cabin, 

In the dark abandoned hallways of the hospital,

The newborn with her mother hidden under the hospital bed,

Her brothers standing guard,

But for what?

They cannot fend themselves from the monsters strutting about,

Clad in green-

AK-47 in hand

Shooting into crowds of civilians,

Raping and killing women,

Snatching little children from their mother’s arms,

Like tearing cacti off of the soft arms that tuck you in at night.

Somewhere in the middle of the city,

A small boy

Not old enough to know any fear other than his angry mother telling him to finish his supper

Hides in his closet behind his father’s coats

His eyes peering through the crack in the closet,

Not wanting to watch but also

Unable to tear his eyes away from what is happening in front him,

Tears held back by a thin sheet of the fear,

Radiating from his chest all through his body,

Witnesses the boogeymen undress his mother

As they drop her to the floor,

His father’s soulless body next to hers,

As they muffle her whimpers

Until they can only be heard in his head. 

This cycle spread across the entire country, 

A plague of the will for dominance that rules the hearts of men-

We stand today on our own feet with pride,

Yet the scars on our feet 

From the thorns that we had walked on,

Have not yet healed. 

Born from the blood smeared on the lush fields of green,

Under blue skies of white patches.

Never has a blue sky been more deceiving.

Morning Tea

I am sipping my morning tea

In the streets of Dhaka

Where the thoughts 

Of the young and old come blending

Like two rivers crashing into each other

Before one wins and flows with the strength of two

The people around me are sipping their tea and reading the paper.

The headline reads 

The boy who cried rape

The man next to me,

Probably in his early twenties

Probably aware of everything wrong with this world

But probably too ignorant to care,

Remarks 

Why is he complaining?

He probably liked it

In saying so 

The others around him agreed. 

I sit there in silence 

Sipping my tea. 

I have no opinion to share.

See,

These people were quick to say

That the boy probably liked it 

When his maid clutched his arms,

They believe

The boy had no problem getting on top of the maid,

They focus on the fact that

The boy got to see a naked girl.

And that they’d love to be the one who isn’t doing all the forceful work

For a change. 

But they disregard the fact that,

I was only four years old.

The disregard the fact that 

I did not know what was going on,

They do not pay heed to the fact that I was too young to know what consent was.

They do not care that I did not know

That this was not normal. 

I am 18 years old now,

I now know what consent is,

But I did not consent to these nightmares,

I did not consent to the guilt I feel every time I have an erection.

I am 18 years old

And I still remember my rapist’s face,

I remember her forceful grip 

And her angry face.

I remember that she did it more than once.

I do not get to complain

4 year old me probably liked it.

I do not get to complain,

I do not get therapy sessions 

Or counseling 

Neither do  I get to forget,

I only get to know

That I probably liked it.