Words Have Power

Stay Blossoming

My poetry is not necessarily

Remarkably great

I write because it’s an odd pleasant struggle

To unscramble my far-fetched thoughts

Into words

And somehow, allowing complete strangers relate.

I’m often asked,  why did you get into poetry?

It’s a really long story, none to do for glory

Simply, when I write a poem

The thrill is the same as finishing a painting

The canvas being the frustrated bottled feelings,

The ink bringing colour to my never-ending musings.

Poetry is a lifestyle

A means of essential clarity

Turning vague inklings of what I fancy or fear I feel

Into words acknowledging the situation as valid and real

When my mind has wars being fought inside it

Writing becomes my personal armor of sanity and mental uplift

Because as soon as I can make sense of the battles raging inside,

Then immediately all conflicts within cease and I’m fine.

Words are power,

Even if no one but yourself ever hears or reads them.

If you can put honest words to your values and truth,

Then no one and nothing can ever make you doubt your worth.

Words have power,

Even if no one but yourself ever hears or reads them.

I now write poetry to describe beauty

But my journey started with slaughtering the ugly

Notions and stereotypes people had, and still have, about me

Now I’ve written enough poetry and claimed my own truth

To no longer let anything get under my skin

Trust me,

Even if no one but yourself ever hears or reads them,

Words do have power alright

So spill out your thoughts, and write.



And Allah knows Best.


(February 2019)

Dear Diary: My Writing Has Died

I have no desire to write anymore.

Actually, that is a little extreme, so allow me to rephrase that: I have lots of desire to write, but I simply seem to have nothing worthy to write about. There are tons of things I’m learning everyday but I am lacking the elegant ways of expressing them. Besides creating fragmented poetry pieces here & there, I think this is the longest writer’s block I have experienced in quite a while.

“there are days

where i feel infertile

like no more poems will come

like all the words there were

to be weaved by me

have been weaved

and i am unable

to create anything.”

(Rupi Kaur)

Isn’t it interesting that the younger & less knowledgeable me had an ocean of things to say, and keen enough to make the time to share it with the whole virtual world? Yet now, when I actually have the time to write, it’s no longer an option; I toss the pen aside, thinking Who am I, anyways, to write on these things, and what do I REALLY have to say that is both of value & which I’m actively applying to myself simultaneously?

You see, my criteria for what I can, would and should share with hearts external to my own has changed over time, becoming more constricted. In person, I might speak spontaneously sometimes, so I try to measure & weigh my words prior as much as possible when I can (such as in writing).The fact is, as human beings, we do more talking than walking… more preaching than acting… more judging than understanding… and I am no different. I am trying to rise above that.

I suppose the older I get and with the “more wisdom” I acquire, the more I realize that life is a strict teacher with the ultimate lesson to not have too many assumptions about the way the world works, and especially on the way people are. When a shareable idea flickers across my mind, I hesitate; I’m probably wrong, I think; the inclination to write decreases; and eventually I decide my words are of very little necessity or use to anyone.

Sketching pad

But I’ve come to realize something lately. There is a void in me. I take on new hobbies & interests and still I feel incomplete. This feeling is only absent when I… wait for it… express myself through writing.

Writing academic essays & educational blog posts for professional development purposes is not the same as sorting through jumbled thoughts & trying to understand myself. They are both useful and beneficial, yes, but in different ways and for different purposes.

When I say my writing has flattened, I am talking about the kind that involves heart-felt sentences I put out there, allowing myself to be vulnerable to the scrutiny of strangers (and most frighteningly, people I know) while experiencing a sheer bliss feeling of realizing how many others are experiencing the same thing through the feedback. Sharing one’s writing is a bold act, an act of community, and I have allowed myself to stumble away from it.

When my writing habit died, so did a little part of myself.

It’s like suddenly losing a bunch of teeth and much of what passes through your lips becomes pronounced wrong – likewise, without the exercise of writing, my thoughts remain constricted in my mind & create tension in my heart, muddling my concentration, because I’m not quite sure what is going on inside of me.

“i write because

i don’t know

how i feel

until i read it.” 

(Rupi Kaur)

Out of the many Ramadan goals I have set for myself this blessed month, one of them is to write again… regularly. I will reflect on certain Quranic passages as sources of inspiration to get started. (InshaAllah… stay tuned!)

For all future posts, I intend to weigh my words beforehand, but nonetheless that does not guarantee that every post will provide unique insights to every reader; and that’s perfectly okay. I will not pretend to believe that I am your golden chest of treasured words.

But they are my words, which tell my story… and they are coming back to life. Fasting is reviving my soul, and writing shall revive my spirit.


And Allah (God) knows best.

A Storyteller’s Writer’s Block

*Dedicated to Noor, Rwan, Rania and Trisha.
page to birds
Looking back at my old short stories written before I hit the second decade of my existence, I admit that there was some ignorance there; I lacked more knowledge and wisdom than I do now (not that I have much of it now, but I suppose a degree more). However, the more undeniable thing was that I had a much higher degree of free-spirited imagination then, than I do now. I somehow intuitively understood that it was the subtle small random details that made a story fun to read, even though those random little details had nothing substantial to add to the main plot itself.
It’s like life really. You can sum up someone’s life by the birthplace, family background, education acquired, and time of death, but it is really the small unaccounted things that happened in between that made the life worth living. 
branched face
Now going back to my stories, I can see the differences between my storyteller thought process then and now: 
Back then, the facts (such as current world events, historical dates and popular cultural customs) weren’t always correct due to my limited knowledge. I didn’t stress too much on them. Yet my characters were much more alive simply because they were dynamic and reacted to humorous situations similar to how a typical person (or, more often than not, how a non-typical person) would. But that’s the catch— those “hilarious situations” are what really made the stories enjoyable to read, despite the general plot lacking intense depth.
But now? I put more energy in keeping the ‘big picture’ in mind and much less emphasis on tiny details between the lines. Nowadays, my stories require more effort to write because I FIRST make sure I have all the facts straight, as if this was to be preserved in the pages of historical narrative… THEN I make sure my characters have concrete, consistent personalities similar to how actual people are… THEN I make sure the incidents to follow are realistic such that the characters will respond precisely as I or the reader would respond. 
However, I seem to have lost that spontaneous touch of imagination, in which I allow events in my story to unfold very unnaturally, very bizarrely, and completely randomly. These days, I keep trying to write stories that mimic real life, which I am finding to be a futile attempt. It is this maybe, perhaps, why the energy has been sapped from me lately. I’m trying too hard to make a false story appear real.
definition wb
It was exactly because I allowed myself to dream of a different world, a different reality that didn’t always have to be predictable, that writing used to flow so easily and quickly to me. The plot didn’t necessarily take place in a world I wanted to live in; merely one that made it amusing to be a spectator of. I would seriously love to run into my 18-year old self and ask her, “how did you do it?” How did I permit myself to occasionally get the facts wrong without being too hard on myself, but made it obligatory on myself, with pleasure, to constantly introduce irrational but interestingly comical situations that kept the story alive? It was because of the unpredictability that allowed for sudden unexpected bursts of laughter from the reader, that prompted me to keep writing more and more.
I know age “matures” you, and 5 years of university is bound to drill some common reasonable sense in you, especially when one spends half of it in math and physics classes. Presently, when I plan for a plot, I try to make sure logic is incorporated every step of the way. In doing so, however, the story becomes little more fascinating than a newspaper.
It’s been 3 years since I wrote something just for the fun of it, and just for the sake of painting ridiculous smiles on my beloved family and close friends’ faces.
I think it’s about time to unbury and find my inner, dusted, but hopefully still active-in-imagination crazy author of a self – and get writing again.
rough gyspy