In the Womb of God 

Our palms are engraved with the predictions of planetary movements, that makes palmistry possible. Yes we literally have the universe in the palm of our hands. A pair we simply use to caress a love most of us will never find. The Radii Solaris in our iris resemble the perfect sun and that is how it got its name. We are made in the image of Him and everything He has created. We have wondered and wondered and tried and tried to know, see, travel and feel everything and more beyond our skin. Beyond our senses. In search of something we always ended up finding within us and in each other. Moving through the universe at 515000 km/hr we are wed to gravity. Suspended as a Fibonacci circle, a Golden ratio of evolutionary miracle, sprinkled like glitters on an empty space. Tied by love instead of umbilical cord. We are slipping through His fingers but still surrounded by Him. Constantly creating while at the same time being created, every second. Evolving into an incredible species capable of beauty and nightmares. 

Did we believe there was a life beyond our mother’s womb while we slept? Do we believe there’s a life beyond this, now? 


With the moon pouring itself

On the blinds I pulled to hide us in

he leaves swaying like the tips of your fingers

On the depths of my skin

And my heart suddenly aches

With the thought​ of letting you go


Hello guys! I’m working on my first poetry book which is a compilation of my old and new poems. I’d appreciate it very much if you all would give it a read and send me feedbacks. It would really mean a lot!  “A Mouthful of Chaos | Wattys2016” by null on Wattpad

I think it’s so important to take time for yourself. We tend to ignore it a lot. Take time to take care of yourself. Take time with your art. Take time to finish that book. Take time with decorating your cupcakes, your room, your life. Take your time, whether if you’re looking for what to wear or looking for love. Take time, to do the last squat, sip the wine contentedly, to simply sit down and appreciate life. Take time to paint your nails, to breathe, to smile. Take care. Be patient. 

​As Carl Sagan once said, 

I’m a pale blue dot on the shores of cosmic ocean. 
I am embedded somewhere in the corner of the galactic pleats of Hera’s dress, among galaxies greater than all the sand grains inside my mouth. 
I am veiled with a blue scarf that somehow sustains life. My flesh rich with platinum, carbon, titanium. My core manufacturing diamonds. Humans stretched across my chest, colonized and made arts. Then they grew tails of fire, swam through my skin, bubbled through space looking for alikes. 
On a cosmic scale, I’m as good as insignificant. With the moon controlling my waters and politics controlling my sands. But each day life is cultivating love inside me. 
I am where they have named the gods and constellations. I am where they have felt, read, walked and watched. I am where life came alive. I am where they have conquered and created. I am where they have loved and destroyed. 

I am a pale blue dot on the grand cosmic canvas. I am Earth. I am home. I am where all the magic happens. 

Every once in a while I  get tired of telling myself “I will have it too, someday.” I’m pretty sure you do too. You tell yourself everyday that it’s going to get better. You set your goals, you visualize your future reality, you fall back into a spiral of reverie that seems so much sweeter than your present reality. But one day, one very ominous day you snap and you get frustrated about how much more you have to endure. You get tired of waiting for that someday and something. You forget your life is now like I do too. 

But see, life is now. This very moment. And you’re proceeding towards your goal. You’re sometimes crawling towards it and sometimes you’re racing but you’re never stagnant. Except for one moment. You’re only stagnant when you’re looking at someone else’s fairytale instead of yours. 

Teenage thrills

Mostly teenagers are writing poetry
Mostly the lovers who have learned loss
At a very young age
Mostly the children who have witnessed depravity
In the name of fairytale
Like the rose buds kissing the face of a cyclone
So you’d probably read about grief and sex in the newspaper poetry column
How their hearts shattered like glass bottom rocks
How their clothes were ripped, and how they liked it
Even before they knew what was it like to be abused
And how they regret not knowing the difference between violence and love

And you adults would think shallow of us

Are you thinking about how we destroyed ourselves for a teenage thrill
Or are you wonderstruck at how we unfolded the intricate with our toungues
How we romanticised what would’ve killed you and
Called it a poem

I testify that there is no God but Allah

When I’ll meet you, will you remind me of the times I cried myself to sleep, the times I hurt endlessly and begged for death? Will you tell me that you were there kissing my wounds and whispered “I’m here, I will always be here” into my ears even when I couldn’t hear you?

When I’ll meet you, will you remember the times I looked for you among the drapes of clouds, the crowns of mountains and the shards of light and smiled and told you that I love you more than anything?

When I’ll meet you, will you assure me that you remember exactly how I felt the first time I saw a sky covered in stars, or the first time I drove through an abandoned highway or the first time I did anything fierce and beautiful? Will you tell me that you know how I feel without the need of me putting it into words?

When I meet you, will you walk me through my life, through my ups and downs, through my roughs and easy and tell me you’re proud of who I’ve become? Will you tell me that as you shaped my being you smiled as you knew I’ll be someone great and that you love more than my mother, my father, more than anyone in this world because damn the love I have searched all my life isn’t something a mortal could give me. Because wedding vows end when they say “till death do us part”. Because death is what brings me closer to you.

Dear God, when you’ll lift your veil and I will see your face for the first time and you will fill me with your light, will I feel whole again?

His half smile

There’s something about the half smiles.

Half smiles

When there’s a turmoil crashing
At your shores
But you pull it together
As you walk through that door

Half smiles

When you promise her you will be okay
As your insides sprinkle down like sand grains
Inside your bone caged body

Half smiles

When you tell her you will see her soon
But that soon is beyond the length
Of the lifetime you promised together

Half smiles

Between the silences of
Exchanged glances

Half smile

When a dream is about to shatter

Half smile
When you’re hurting and changing and rebirthing

Half smile
As you slowly let it kill you

Bunny girl woke up to a beautiful morning and two fountain pens. They were gifted by her grandmother.
Bunny girl brushed and set out to meet a friend. He had blue teeth, and iron hands and he looked like a guy from the TV.
Sipping on his coffee, he asked her, “What was it like to be eighteen?”
Bunny girl told him it was blissful, confusing and painful at the same time. And she told him about the one who made it bearable. Worthy of living.
Bunny girl came back home at 7 pm.
Lying alone, she thought
The blue toothed friend could’ve been him and the poems she wrote in 6 years could’ve been their children.
Bunny girl took out her fountain pens
And in perfect cursive she wrote a letter of three apologies:
For living, loving and dying.