you spend what you make to make what you spend, and you do it today to do it all over again

Or will you bloom into a new life with me? 

Memory is a winding range Of coniferous mountain pine Catching the fiery light

Like wild leopard's skin, I spread out my hair The dark night uncurls with his roaring fleet; I pounce on his chest, bare foot, like Kali–

The fact of the matter was this: the poem had been written, the call had been answered, and as lofty as it sounds—at that moment there I was, as Frank O'Hara put aptly—"the center of all beauty! / writing these poems!/ Imagine!".

We grasp on and we hold tight.

try my best to paint the place blue Pouring all the sorrow after you With no colour left in my palette, As though the canvas breathes its last

Spirit breaks at home along with love mingled with innocence.

Dissipated, my thoughts wander finally taking refuge in sleep.

I am a god when I am asleep, I am found to be inside the shimmer of water as it fights against the brilliance of the screams that emanate from the sky

Martyrs and-slash-or heroes they call us Is it worth all the fuss? While they celebrate We ache to recuperate

The sun goes down every day when it’s meant to be

Kazi Nazrul Islam’s work remains just as relevant and beautiful 123 years after his birth.

It's time to take care of ourselves, both mind and soul, To live a life that is complete and whole.

The curtain rises, silence engulfs the theatre,

You stand where you always have

The blue model of clay vices that sits in a house of glass

She impales the bodies of chickens she prepares for a feast— My mother holds taut the fat clinging to the meat, By the sleight of her hand, separates it, And hurls it into the bin by the kitchen sink.

A dream of me in a sea of green.

I pen misery with dark black ink that I draw from a hole inside of my chest