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Samah Khan

My fears...

I am not afraid of dying,
But ' twould be no falsehood to say I am afraid of death;
This is my life, this is the irony, the satire-
I can be nude and plain in the concluding embrace of death,
Yet I cannot don the funeral attire.

I am not afraid of committing sin,
Yet, I am afraid of forgiving those who err (and then admit) -
I condemn hypocrisy and all that lies within,
But yet I fear I am a hypocrite.

I am not afraid of the flags in a funeral procession,
As long as they drag behind a coffin within which it is I who is sheathed;
But if I were the driver of the hearse of another,
The flags would signal the toll of one's victory and the silence of another's defeat.

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The Fear Of Fear

Fear is not what I am afraid of.
True, it is a frightful thing to fear;
But the fear of fearing fear is overwhelming
Especially when its form becomes sheer

Fear is like losing a tree of shade on a bristling day
Or losing your breath when you fall below the sea;
I fear this fear of fearing these fears
And it is this fear that is part and parcel of me.

Fear is like loving without being loved back,
Fear is like leaving without being left;
And the fear of loving and leaving and being loved and being left
Is opposed by the fear of not fearing anything
And being an empty vase, noisy and bereft

I fear not death nor do I fear life,
But I fear the fear of both as my peers;
If I could release one fear from my fears
It would be the fear of fearing these fears.

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The audacity to hope

I once had dared to hope
For things I now abhor
I had once impudently nursed the hope
Where I had never dared to hope before

I had hoped for sunshine and smiles
And a reprieve from the incessant rain
But the calm before the storm tricked me and transfixed me
And now I daren’t hope for them again

I had hoped for a shelter from the tempest
A haven for my sustenance alone
And perhaps a gallant man, to forever hold my hand
But all I have now is a heart of stone

I had hoped for something to melt the boulder
That lay heavily in my chest to seethe
Some fanciful turn of fate or magical golden gate
But hope for wretched is akin to the sin of greed

[...] Read more

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Dearly Beloved (write To Me)

Write me a poem, dearly beloved,
Write of your love, your fidelity, your proclivity
For doing what is right for me, not what is right;
Speak to me of what you feel
Not sugared words served on pity tarts
Write me a poem, dearly beloved,
If you cannot, then contend to break my heart.

Write me a prose, dearly beloved,
Then narrate it on an elevated stand
To the heavens and the sea and whatever lies betwixt
The shadows of both so that all can hear;
Speak only truth for I cannot stomach lies of such art
Write me a prose, dearly beloved,
If you cannot, then contend to break my heart.

Write me a sonnet, dearly beloved
And sing it by the edge of the fast flowing stream
Sing to me as if you sang to all the forest
And called forth its life from the concealing leaves of jade

[...] Read more

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Pain is a plenty harried thing

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too is in plentiful pain.
Pain too prays for reprieve from the Lord,
It too wishes for a merciful end;
Pain has pained itself with the painful realization,
That it is the root of the cause of the source of all pain;
That is why pain is a plenty harried thing,
For it too is in plentiful pain.

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too hopes that the morrow starts at leisure
And that maybe it could rise (one day) from within itself
And become its prodigal brother: Pleasure.
We blame pain, we hate pain but we all go seeking it,
Pain doesn’t stalk us, we stalk pain;
If it wasn’t for us, Pain would yet be an unknown hermit,
For it too is in plentiful pain.

Pain is a plenty harried thing,
It too gazes into the stars and watches the days go by without reform;

[...] Read more

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