Ghazals are Really Hard to Write.

Patriotism Revisited.

Perceiving a life with nothing to gain? That hits me hard.

Seeing a future go straight down the drain? That hits me hard.

These are the sights no one ever wants to believe, behold.

Witnessing innocent children in pain? That hits me hard.

All the lies that journalists send to print, ignoring facts,

Like detecting corruption; unjust reign? That hits me hard.

Politicians hiding behind their fancy suits, lying

About care for families of the slain? That hits me hard.

Soldiers firing at anything that moves through their patrol,

They cannot fathom the foreigner’s strain. That hits me hard.

Citizens rallying for them to stay and continue,

Not believing what statistics contain? That hits me hard.

But those of us who fight for what we know is just and fair,

Those of us who hold vi’lence in disdain? That hits me hardly.

Block. [Writer's]

Block. [Writer’s]

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer
Bound and gagged by policemen or one
Living in perfect freedom who has
Nothing more to say?”
One could say that the
Writer bound and gagged is under extreme
Duress. One who says that knows not the plight
Of being one who writes. He does not see
The pain and humiliation of dead
Lines. Does not see the abuse of guidelines.
Not see the formalities of scansion.
See the criticism of friends/enemies.
The distrust of editors, peers, contacts.
Hardship of rhyme, of syllabics, of verse.

Oh to be bound and gagged! For then I would
Have so much to say. Oh to lose this
Perfect freedom, to lose this right to write.
Then, only then, could I write what’s right.

Born Into This.

Born Into This.

Since the beginning I knew that this would
Be the manner which my life progressed.
With my head always up, I understood
That no positive would come from protest.

And so I relied on this slow decline
To keep me from wondering what would come
Next, or how these cruel fates would intertwine,
Couldn’t believe to what I would succumb.

Began to do what’s needed to survive,
Thought about not going on anymore.
Suddenly, a brilliant plan: to revive;
Myself, into one with a grand rapport.

Then I realized my world’s special feature:
There is nothing called ‘hope’ in my future.