Blood Music 

I knew a man with laughing eyes 

Who thought the world could sing 

And in keeping with his philosophy 

He did everything 

He could, to make even the mute cry 

The seeing would go blind, not to see 

The songs people sang to for him 

Scarred their voices permanently

I knew that man with laughing eyes 

Too well, oh 

Too well 

And if only I could sing again 

Oh, the tales I would tell

But I left him, to his bone music 

Not far but far enough behind 

And ran into another man, headlong 

Who’d been waiting for me some time 

And he didn’t mind, my grave like eyes 

And the blood music in my head 

He’d learnt from a girl with laughing eyes 

That it’s better to have ones that are dead 

Now this man with dead eyes holds my hand 

And my lifeless ones sparkle too 

And it doesn’t matter, that we don’t sing out loud 

Because we have hearts that do 

© yusra 

18.06.2017 

Hiraeth 

Hiraeth. A welsh word for a lost home that can never be returned to. 

I’m curious, though, why the feeling is present strongly enough in the welsh, for them to have a word for it. I know precious little about them- maybe one of you could explain why?

Or maybe, they just recognized something so many people ache for, and cannot precisely name. 

A lost home. Homes lost in people. Homes lost on people. Loss. 
Still finding, 

Yusra ❤️

Women Like Me 

Women like me,

Make men realize 

That their dreams don’t belong 

Only in their eyes 

That their shoulders are broad enough

For the weight of the world 

And the reduction of all their principle 

Lies in just their word 

That the sky is theirs 

And all this earth 

We make men keenly aware 

Of every inch of their self worth 

We are not statues, but pillars 

We are not decoration

We are not conquest, but glory 

We require dedication 

And we pay you back in blood 

In all of our love 

Women like me are made from your rib

But we hold your spine up. 
And if you can’t appreciate a woman

Who could wither your universe to bits 

If you insist on looking at greatness 

And lingering on the span of its tits 

Then I have already moved past you 

It’s not worth my time, you won’t see 

That I want you on your knees, and 

I’ll nurture you on mine, simultaneously

if you really deserved

A woman like me 
©Yusra

05.06.2017 

Silent acquiescence? I think not, darling…. ❤️

Day 20- Ashes In My Veins 


Bit of a happy coincidence today. It’s 4/20, plus the poem I started in my head, synced up nicely with the prompt for today, ‘ashes in my veins’, and the 4/20 mentions. 
And another post for Messages off a cigarette. It’s been a while. 🙂
Hugs and muffins, 

Yusra ❤️pp
Keep it 

Day Sixteen- Weighted Breaths

Day sixteen – Weighted Breaths, for th and prompt, ‘balloons shaped like anchors’. 

We’re in the second half already! How time flies!

How’s your April going?

Noms, 

Yusra ❤️

Day Eleven- Terms And Conditions Apply 

Terms and Conditions Apply 

What I carry behind me 

Ghosts and dead beautiful things 

Pieces of lives unlived 

Nothing that could forgotten be 

Is what I carry behind me

Where I must go from here 

Is not a place, but a person

Better to become, lesser to become 

Simultaneously more

That in myself to instill and revere 

Is not a place, but a person

Where I must go from here 

Clumsy 

Inarticulate 

Handcuffed yet

Obstinate 

I drag my past with rabid glee

It is not of anything else 

But myself that 

I must become free 

©Yusra 

11.04.2017 

For the prompt, #yourefreeyourefreeyourefree. Day Eleven of NaPoWriMo! What have you all been up to? 🙂

Spread the cookie love,

Yusra ❤️

Day Ten- Three, Two, One… 

I’d like to think that I’ve outgrown this phase of my life. You know, when you’re young, and incidents like this haunt you for days. Getting older has helped me become remarkably thick skinned. Sometimes, some things manage to pierce through, though.
I like to think that I’m unafraid. That I’m stronger, ballsier, in-fucking-destructible. Maybe I am, sometimes. Other times, I am not. When I stay up at night, after all the lights are off, and then sit on my bed in the dark and comb my hair, I am not. In that moment I am back to being a scared sixteen year old, who’s father cut her long hair off because it might attract boys. I forget to look in the mirror while getting dressed sometimes. Because somewhere, I’m still that girl who never had a full length mirror in the house, because she wasn’t supposed to think about her appearance. 

I’m still that girl who wakes up in the middle of the night at the slightest nudge of the bedroom door, because I haven’t outgrown my fear of the people who live behind it. 
I may be a lot of things, but more than anything else, I am caged. Im struggling to redefine myself, to reprogram myself, to lose the conditioning I was given every day of my life. Some days, I like to think that I’ve walked far away enough. But fact remains that at the end of the day I have to turn back, and head back to my charade of a home. 
And that is the true meaning of being trapped.