So I wrote a haiku today

Timid moonlight 

Through traveling clouds

Lead my footsteps home 

—

Probably might not continue writing haïkus but it was a good experience. In restriction we find new eyes. – Hakeem Adam 

Wither

The little garden you grew 

When you fell in love 

With the scent of flowers 

Has grown into a forest

After you left

Maybe

Forgetting to water it

Was better than 

Chopping of its beauties 

So you could carry them 

And keep them for yourself 

Free writing 

The other side

How can I deny 

The shadows,

When in my darkest moments

The teach me that

I can stretech 

And bend

And fold 

Without breaking. 

Soon to be deleted. Thank you. 

Do you ever listen to the poetry?

Do you ever listen to the poetry?
Do you hear the 

War chants 

These lines whisper 

Whilst hugging the shadows?
Do you see the blood 

Clotting at the same

Spot where fragile feelings 

Collide against the

The rock shore of reality?
Do you ever pay attention 

To the flags 

That these words 

Twirls against gale-force winds

On rainy days

And stormy night?
If you did 

You would hear 

That they do not

Call your name

Put simply wish to

Spill out the pain 
So left it flow 

Even if it fills up

No wellls within 

It should make you

Feel whole.

// I might take this down soon. Words and  photo by Hakeem Adam. 

Pardon my paranoia

When we met

In the scalding heat 

Of the barren desert

You came gently 

A cool breeze slowly

Grazing the tiny hairs on my skin
You told me you were

Water 

Here to quench my thirst 
And I took you in

One big gulp after the other

Till you made me heavy 

With satisfaction 
I did not know that

You could be a storm

Raining down pellets 

Or the waves 

Crashing from beyond 

Or a lake 

Sitting at peace

Or a drop in the sand 

Soon to vanish 
So now that my skin is dry

And my heart is fractured 

Into the crocodile bark of a tree
What will you be

For me?

Like rolling stone

And it’s all down hill from here

Jack and Jill rode the hurricane 

Tugged it mane as it twirled it’s skirt

Forgot that it was just passing by

On the way to somewhere quiet 

They lept with it over rolling stones 

They left with it like they had hollow bones 

No their heads are in the skies

The necks begin to feel cold

The ground is a dot all alone 

But the hurricane is on its way 

So it’s all downhill from here

The sky cannot carry you

The ground cannot swallow you

So the strange fruit must hang

By the jaws of a snare

When it was just a boy and a blog

It might have been annoying to some of you at that time but I didn’t really care. I just wanted to write, to the extent that I wasn’t so critical about what I wrote. As long as I got it out of my mind and in a coffin of words I could burry somewhere I was fine. Honestly, the thing I was most exited about was other people actually reading my shit.

Any time I saw the WordPress notification on my phone, either a like or a comment, I got high as the cow jumping over the money. It meant to me, in the most minute way, that I had communicate – exactly what I had set out to do.

Then with the falling of leaves, it all started to dry up and wither. The feelings became fish out of water. I got caught up in the likes and the view. I was more interested in being seen than being heard. I also branched out, which is a perfectly normal symptom of any artistic growth. I went swimming in oceans and lakes and I met all sort of fishes and creatures, saw all sorts of shores and drank all sorts of waters.

Now I don’t even know where my body has washed ashore. Writing is not what it used to be for me. And this is driving me insane, not because I don’t know but because I need it to be cathartic and it just doesn’t seem to be. It’s became obligatory to write which should be good but its also sucked out the serendipity in it.

This is not any promise or radical change. I haven’t written a post in one take for years. So in honor of those days when it was just me and my hunger and passion to write,  satisfying just that – I want to communicate.

Pass

The broken clock hanging, alone

On my wall

Rivaling my heart, has

Forgotten its regular rhythm, of

Non stop dedication, looking

For the next tick,  before

The last is forgotten.

 

How I became Hakeem

The fruit was too bitter and hard
And left mom’s tongue itching for sugar

So she left it to daddy to chew on
And made his teeth slip so carelessly
Like drizzle on a leaf

And daddy shared it with imam
Whose wisdom did not always crack nuts
As it did eggs

Who gave It to The Wise
Who kept it 100 and took away just one

And the fruit was wise.

Memories

Like people do
Ever so mercilessly,
Memories come and go.
But like photographs
Only the best stay
And
Build homes
In the brutal wilderness
That is our subconscious.