Mia Needs To Vent...

Okay so I"m back... Needed to vent maybe, this place has always been comforting.

So a few days back someone I liked, respected, maybe even loved cut me down real bad. I'll recover but I lost all respect for that person. Here's the answer to what you accused me of.... 

I've been accused of being contradictory,

Of being confused about my own identity.

I ask you, critic of my soul,

Does the bubbling water boil itself?

Does the branch sway of it’s own accord?

Is life supposed to be static?

The Earth unmoving in its orbit?

The answer hides in obvious sight.

Compassion makes me believe.

Naivety makes me second-guess.

Hope keeps the optimism lighted.

Despair brings out the pessimism.

I may be unsure in what I do

But I still remain the pursuer of truth.

I’m half done yet.

Not yet complete.

Please reserve you judgment

Till I’m ready.

Commitment

He slipped the ring onto her finger; it didn't fit. He tried all the fingers of her left and then moved on to the right, only to go back to the left ring finger. It was loose, but he left it there.

"You're a skeleton, you know.", he chuckled.

"Uh huh?"

"Yeah, I need to fatten you up", and he sealed the commitment with a kiss.

Haiku - Beauty

Beauty is old age.
For beauty is in wisdom,
which never dies young.

Surface Tension

Negativity hangs
like a cloud
enshrouding body
and soul.
Needing
just a ray
to break
the surface tension.

A New Life

The flame sways and dies.
A match struck to give it life.
It smiles brightly now.

Published!

My poem got published in the weekly In-newspaper magazine Us ( The News International) for the very first time.

The Art Of Camouflage

By Maryam Mirza

A crevice

in the vast

expanse of land

is my abode.

An insignificant

fissure

in the fathomless

terra firma

is my dwelling.

Search for me, 

if you can.

Impossible

it will be.

For I have mastered

the art of

camouflage. 

Yay me!!!

Equal Intensity

Love and hate.
Equally intense.
Yet polar opposites.
Divided by a fine line
that doesn't take
long to cross.
A single sentence
can pull the trigger
of resentment
causing emotions
to spill over
the other side.

The Angel

Her halo shines and glistens.
But her prayers they go unlistened.
She does His bidding,
abstains from sins.
And hopes someday He'll listen.

Mia Goes Solo

New blog on the block...

Que Sera Sera: Life of Desi Burger.

Random rants, ramblings, musings, anything and everything under the sun =P

But this doesn't mean I'll stop writing on Fantasy Front. I'm still there

Ciao

Alive Still

Alive still.
Heart beating blood
he stumbles
on the ledge
breathing dirt
and musty grass
and a scent
he had long forgotten
the scent of hope
of life
of freedom
away from the stronghold
of tyrrany
but it is a road
with daunting tasks
so little done
so much to do

Her Little Life

Sunlight slashed through the blinds sending a bar code of rays onto her pale, slumberous face. They caressed her, tickled her awake, till he eyes were fully open, reflecting the golden flecks. The white cotton sheets, the satin of her fantasies, rustled as she freed herself of them. The bed creaked with relief as she stood to support her own weight; it wouldn’t be long before it gave way, hopefully she wouldn’t be in it when it did. She dreamed of making it big one day, becoming larger than life. But that would have to wait, right now the leaky faucet beckoned.

Ramblings - I Hate Maths

I bury myself deep into my mathematics textbook, allowing calculus and analytic geometry to wreak havoc in my brain, in the hope that it’ll help me absorb some theorems. I have no idea why I let my mom talk me into taking mathematics in college. It makes a weird combination with my other majors; Economics and English Literature. I hate Math, numbers play tricks on me. Words are a lot friendlier; they go with a flow, almost liquid. And at least x doesn’t have a million different possible meanings in English.

The Work Of Art

The brush flew over the pale canvass lazily. The tint darkened with each stroke. The babyish glow turned to a faint blush, delicate and flattering against the pallor. The artist kept on working to get the desired shade. The brush swept and rose, swept and rose for the last time; perfection reached. She looked it into the mirror and smiled at her work of art.

Last Night...

Last night I drove. I drove my car to the end of city limits and myself to the edge of sanity. “Bullet For My Valentine” pouring from the speakers and flooding my brain helped keep out the sadistic thoughts bent on hijacking me. Shrill guitar riffs and heavy drumbeats have a way of doing that. But I was too preoccupied to head bang. Good thing, I always end up with a crick in my neck after doing that.

Hell

This is a really weird poem that I wrote some time ago. It's my take on what Hell will be like... Repetition of what you dread.

The phone rings.
She picks it up.
Shock.
And the receiver falls.
*****
The phone rings.
She hesitates,
picks it up.
Shock.
And the receiver falls.
*****
The phone rings.
She sits tight.
Prays the deja-vu would end.
She picks it up.
Horror.
And the receiver drops.
*****
The phone rings.
She wont pick it up.
She wont.
But she does.
Shock.
Horror.
And the receiver drops.

Drunk

He stumbled, fell and phased out. And the grimace held even in unconsciousness, even though you'd expect the muscles to relax. The alcohol coursed freely in his veins, poisoning blood and his already poisoned existence. The belt in his hand lay like a snake slithering to kill it's own master. His wife regained her senses and ordered herself under control. And then she wiped her bloody lip and dialed 911.

Waiting

She watched her favorite piece of crockery float away from her while she stood on the only visible chunk of land for miles at end. She had always loved water, dreamed of traveling south to the shore to see the beauty that was the ocean. But now she had lost everything to water, her family, her home, her belongings, and her life. Drenched to the bone with only the clothes on her back and an ache in her belly that was unmistakably hunger, she waited to be rescued. Day gave way to night and the sun took over again. And she’s still there, waiting.

The Boston Sunset

The leaves start their gossip,

As the wind passes them.

The mist is unsettled

as the feet swarm the area.

Figures in black,

with downcast eyes,

Keepers of a dark secret.

The stony silence.

The stifled sobs;

The tears mixing with the rain.

The dirt is leveled

and the mourners pay

their last respects

to the Boston sunset.

A Nation On Its Deathbed

Yesterday she turned 63 though she looks much older than that, weak, feeble and frail. Socially ostracized, drowned in debts and flood water and mourning the loss of its off springs to extremists and foreign drone attacks, she is left on the mercy and kindness of others. Tears of blood are shed each passing day as she witnesses her impending doom. She can only be saved if her children unite against the powers bent on destroying her. Only they can bring her back to her former glory. For she is their motherland, Pakistan – the land that once resounded with songs of peace.

Love Drunk

It was love at first sight. Just one look at her was like a kick in the gut, hard and potent. She was flawless, exquisite in her beauty. And then she looked at him with those languorous, chocolate brown, dream filled eyes and he felt giddy with excitement about what would happen next. A smile played at her lips and she pawed into her Chanel quilt bag and took out something, but he was transfixed by those pools of brown to notice anything else. She walked up to him, or rather sashayed, and slipped a note into his fingers;
Michelle 1362-935-11 xoxoxoxo in red-is-the-color-of-sin lipstick. Love drunk, that’s what he was, and the hangover beast that would rear its head in the morning would be a mighty big one