Prose poetry/ Stream of consciousness
The rainy night journal
my road to self
the way i fell off from the cliff, if still am falling and waiting for reaching the ground to perform my funeral. to lay down in my own grave soil, a place which is mine, only mine, mine, just mine.
i can sleep there, with pride, i can own something of this world with trust. where my teachers wont scream at me, where the boys won’t yell at me, where the girls will not haunt me, where my mama won't come to fix me, where papa won't look at me with disgust, where everyone would not be allowed to come and see me, touch me or even have a glance of me. a soil with insects loyal to my flesh, where only MY MAALIK will come to see me, and hold me, to tell me that “OO my servant, there is Noone here except me the one who loves you the moment he created you”.
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and i will hug my maalik that day when dug deep inside my grave.
the soil of the grave is the only possession I will have……………………………………………………………………………………
so let me kiss this ground every time I stumble upon it, for the ground misses me and craves me, and wants me in it, in a way that there is left no remaining flesh of mine, and I become the part of it , for i am a soil, a soil that wants to hug the soil of its grave, to give life to flowers over it……the flowers that will eventually mend the broken souls of the world………for if I can’t have the flowers, I could always become one……..
