kaayafaye-blog

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When I saw people talk about their dreams, I felt so inadequate because I had no dream. They would talk about being a famous celebrity, have swanky houses, run a billion-dollar business; and me? Well I just wanted to laugh, to feel safe, and have enough to buy that expensive lipstick or phone without feeling guilty about it later. When asked, I would think about how I could be a business person, or a famous poet, or a sought-for content writer. But honestly, deep down in me, there was no zest for achieving these superlative dreams. I would just close my eyes and watch myself sitting in the veranda of a small house by this seashore. I would just watch myself run with a puppy on the beach while in the background the sun set. No one in the place would know me except my closest neighbours. We would spend the festivals together by exchanging gifts, dishes, or say smiles? Not even in a single dream was I wearing a pant-suit or a 60K bodycon dress. I was in comfortable casuals. And then, last week, I realised it. This is my dream. To be happy, in a serene place, with people who love me, near a seashore that would always inspire me to write beautiful poems. Just because it isn’t about being filthy rich or insanely famous does not mean it isn’t a dream. Do not let the simplicity of your vision confuse you. Do not, even for a day, think you are dreamless. Dreams can mean different things for different people. When someone says dream “big”, you get to decide what “big” means to you. Is it money, is it love, is it happiness, is it a sense of safety, is it freedom? Whatever it may be; however simple it may sound; it is your dream. Go after it and achieve it. Don’t let anyone tell you how small your vision is. As long as it means something important to you, it is important. #kaayafaye #dream #ihaveadream #peptalk https://www.instagram.com/p/B3RXszTnaZs/?igshid=zu2gttf04kjb

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When I decide to chase my dreams, When I muster the courage to swim upstream, May my mind never get in the way of my heart. When I attempt to do my best, And force quieten the critic in me to rest, May my mind never get in the way of my heart. When I rejoice in the efforts I make, Doing what I have always wanted - to create, to write, to dance, to paint; May my mind never get in the way of my heart. When I set my foot off the comfort zone, And nervously take a step into an exciting unknown, May my mind never get in the way of my heart. When I dare to believe in myself, To be hopeful about tomorrow And feel worthy of love and wealth, May my mind never get in the way of my heart. #kaayafaye #englishpoetry #poemsaboutlife #positivethoughts #followyourheart #daretodream #believeinyourself #you'reworthy #poetryquotes #positivequotes #positivethoughts #iwish #dream #ihaveadream #peptalk https://www.instagram.com/p/B3ZYuLPn-8s/?igshid=rt5cdxk4t8s9

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But isn't it true? In the grand scheme of things, you're nobody. No one knows you, know one knows who you are, from where you belong - you could be anyone! You could do what you want to do. Remember how people play the game "What would you do if you were invisible?" and many answer they would dance like crazy, they would get out of the house more often, they would play, they would run like a child, they would be superheros helping others, they would do all the things they are afraid to do in front of people. But who are these people that stare at you when you wear that dark lipstick and walk nonchalantly? Who are these people who care too much about what color goes with your complexion? Who are these people that gawk when you eat half a burger in one bite just to win a bet? They don't even know you. You are a nobody to them. You might as well do what you want. You might as well speak your mind. You might as well wear whatever color or shade you like. When you get tired of pleasing them. When you get tired of making sense of those stares. When you stop finding the proof of your being in others and truly embrace the boon of being a nobody, you achieve freedom to be yourself. You are a speck of dust. That speck of dust might as well sparkle. #kaayafaye #peptalk #iamnobody #believeinyou #beyou #beyourself https://www.instagram.com/p/B3bUZ6LHM4C/?igshid=bbx716p4fdhg

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When I wake up each morning, My ears ache for earphones, My eyes crave for the latest posts. But I am determined. I do not want to fill the silence, With songs playing on the speakers, Or a thousand posts on Instagram. I want to stand on the balcony And breathe the fresh air, Listen to the neighbor's bike start, A nearby temple's bell ring, The cry of a pet cat two buildings away, The chirping of the birds, That sit on the tree outside my balcony. When the thoughts come pouring into my head, I do not wish to silence them. I want to let them flow ceaselessly, And observe them unbiased. When the morning comes again, I do not want to fill the silence, But embrace it Without resistance. #kaayafaye #poetry #englishpoetry #silencepoems #igpoems #igpoets https://www.instagram.com/p/B3mTsd4ngnq/?igshid=n1vnzlj82usq

[kaayafaye-blog]

Closing my eyes. #kaayafaye #poetryquotes #poetry #shortquotes #quotes #eyesquotes #igpoems #igpoets #igers #igdaily https://www.instagram.com/p/B3pIi4qH5ov/?igshid=5uakmn3hww29

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Illusions

I ignited the furnace That was me. And a final luminous glow was born Of the dying fire. It burnt strongest at the broken cracks, The dry wounds Where the fire couldn’t reach at first But the damp patches were now parched. I was as if a Phoenix Trying to set itself on fire To arise anew from the ashes Better, stronger, and ever so magnificent. Only, the fire wouldn’t alight Just the petty sparks Leaving him half burnt, rest weak And completely exhausted. I was as if an Oak tree That had lived a hundred years Its roots spanning under the Earth Spreading, crawling underneath Were bearing the weight Of a hollow trunk Infected with its own dust Yet perceived as strongest and invincible. Photo by Hasin Farhan on Unsplash Read the full article

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The Streetwalker

As I rummaged around the town, I saw colourful walls and domed buildings along the steep ground. Air was making waves in the that rimmed the coast of this town in Greece. I walked under the clean blue sky that resembled the walls I saw in the narrow streets. I was lost in the beauty of the place and was walking while humming an unknown catchy tune I heard the previous night. Suddenly, I was caught in my way, stood silent, and stared at the splinter of a house in sight. It was perfectly erect at the corners but rumbling at the centre. I wondered what it housed, whom it made home for, and so on before I entered. The ceiling had caught rust while the walls were full of fungus and dents. They made an ugly background for a stunning painting in one of the room that was a little torn, its corners crumbled and the edges bent. It must have been an house of a wealthy minister with the coldest heart or a proud priest who taught orthodox lessons. I was pondering the possibilities when an old passer-by with his back bowed crookedly shouted what I was doing in the house of an infamous . Frightened at first and observant later, I asked him if the painting was in fact the herself. He snorted at me first but then nodded before limping away, leaving me alone in her half-broken shell. The colours in the painting had faded away, but its beauty was undeniable even with the cobwebs and dust. It portrayed the courtesan’s barely veiled body and exposed curves - a stunning personification of lust. With long hair, brilliant eyes, red lips, and a sultry expression playing on her face, she looked like Aphrodite or . There was beauty, there was licentiousness that would have made any man . She, the muse for the painting and the mistress of the house, had the face of a nymph or a siren who tempted men like prey for food. Only she looked beautiful and full of grace even when she was bare and candidly lewd. Even after leaving that crumbling house, I couldn’t quite stop thinking about her, and looked for someone who could tell me more. I walked through the narrow, blue streets, and finally stopped in front of five old men who I thought could recite her lore. They sat talking to each other on steep stairs when I stepped closure for a word. They stopped the inaudible mumbling and turned around once I was heard. Their eyes widened and expressions changed into a look of wonder then anger then sorrow as if they were recalling the past in the mind. I looked at them hopefully until they resigned and asked me to sit; leaving me excited about everything I was about to find. "She was beautiful...." started a man as the other cut him mid-sentence, "She was a goddess of sex.", he exhaled with a dreamy look on his face. "She was every man’s last wish before death." said the third "Mine wasn’t fulfilled." he grimaced. She walked as if no one was watching; as if she could be all naked amid a mass and still wouldn’t care. Her bold moves, broad mind, and voluptuous curves and her complexion so fair. Men gathered to see her bosoms bounce when she nonchalantly walked on the streets of this town. Her long, slim arms swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, gently brushing her perfectly round bottoms like a lover tracing his fingers from over her silky gown. They offered to walk her home or at least till the next block. They picked her bags and bought her jewellery studded with the most expensive rocks. She crimsoned at the softest touch and smiled at the smallest act of love. She always wore the brightest tint of red on her lips and a pendant in shape of a white dove. Freedom she enjoyed and freedom she loved the most; even when she was lying on the wrinkled bedsheet under a giant and heavy man. Her ribs were almost void of a heart and so it never came in the way of her occupation right from when it began. The courtesan was born the day she turned sixteen and her father ran away with a girl just two years older than her. There was no want of pity in her eyes; she was surprisingly cheerful about her choice of being a streetwalker. People saw her growing up from being a juvenile girl to this irresistible coquette with breasts of a Greek goddess and waist of a French maiden. Men fought for her, lied for her, some even killed for her, while their women suffered in that mayhem. Men were often caught by their wives moving in their sleep, whispering her name, with their hands hidden under layers of the robe. They jumped on being caught wet handed, baring their wives’ off trust, love, and hope. Her eyes were so bright a tint of green; they almost reflected the envy of all those women who lost their lovers and husbands in her bed. Some of them still spit at the sight of her painting as they walk past her broken house, years after she’s been dead. Dead or alive, no one knows, no one has seen her ever since she suddenly disappeared one night. One might think she found her heart finally or lost herself to a rejected man’s broken pride. All the town’s ended when the harlot went missing. They found her house half in splinters (and no one cared why) with only her room and her painting secure, leaving enough of her to keep all wantons wanting. When the story was over, I couldn’t resist but ask the old men for her name. None knew, and no one cared for who she was despite her infinite fame. A streetwalker, a harlot, a scarlet woman. An of beauty and pleasure who could have easily been Aphrodite taking her revenge against the easy, prude, and indebted human. Read the full article

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Desperate Poet

I am sorry for the rushed tone of my words That I wrote when I was on fire. A thousand words were trying to escape my mouth As the neighbor played sweet tunes on his lyre. But my unattended candles had turned the house into a pyre. So, I wrote in hurry because I was on fire. Oh but do not put the poem down And do not judge me for being a liar But only feel the gentle warmth of my words When I talk of my love, my sorrow, my desire And all intense emotions that the instrument had inspired That I inked here while I was on fire. Do not lose your focus thinking about me I was in my most expensive and fancy silk attire Waiting for my man who was returning after months So, I wore my prettiest pendant studded with a sapphire There was a bottle of vintage Courvoisier That spill and I ran to the desk for pen and paper before catching on fire. Read it heartily and do not pity me The stingy burns and unbearable pain were required They always said that a poet needs sadness and tragedy Without any hint of mockery or satire Recite, recite this poem aloud and admire I wrote it while I was on fire. Bask in my achievement and happiness Marvel at how well everything conspired To give me the chance of writing my greatest poem Before the house and I, both expired But do not yet reach for the phone and of my health inquire Read the verses again that I wrote while I was on fire. Do not exclaim me mad or maybe just a little For madness is another rudiment of poetry I acquired What a beautiful day it was to be alive Then it showed a shadowy speck and then was lost entire But I realized the greatest dream before the flames aspired Read and reread this fine piece I wrote while I was on fire. Read the full article

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Picasso's Minotaur

There is Picasso’s Minotaur in my body He is strangled in chains made of fear I can hear him growl and thunder I can feel him shivering with cravings Of power and lust. He has long horns that are now bent With all the thudding and banging Against high guarded walls That I made from the pieces Of my shaken and shattered confidence. His eyes are raging red They are wet with blood From when he almost poked them With the thorns of my bitterness When I grew envious of everyone. His hands bleed with all the tugging And pulling and struggling Against the chains, I tied him in When I had no courage To be who I was. I have Picasso’s Minotaur Tied and twisted inside of me. Filled with rage and an unceasing desire Of everything, I won’t let him have Of everything, I don’t have in me. His scraped fingers and broken nails Ferocious expressions Outrageously burning body And flaring nostrils tell me He is about to escape. And when he does My eyes would dance with power My hands would sway in the air My feet would dance I will finally be free. Read the full article

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Love Is Here to Stay

The forest was full Birds chirped as they Flew from the ground Into the never-ending sky. Nature was full of life, Of beauty, of joy; As if it were to say Love was here to stay.   The moon shone brightest That night; when I stood At the terrace and looked At the sky; with hopes And a smile; I saw the clouds dance With their silver shining lines As if they were to say Love was here to stay.   The breeze was calming It blew just enough To play with my hair While my mind quietened It let my heart sing and hum. In that moment of pure gaiety My heart knew nothing of dismay Lover was here to stay.   The tide was low and rested As if the ocean was asleep. The shore was silent Listening to the rustling of the trees. Which rustled in hushed tones So as to not disturb birds. But I heard what’d say Love was here to stay.   Photo by Altınay Dinç on Unsplash Read the full article

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Love, Sex, and Water

Last day when the sun went down And I was left with just your thoughts Sailing somewhere inside my mind Making their way down to the heart I never was ready for the storm That they made when they Slipped down the waist.Motionless I sat Grasping each emotion that passed In every second of every minute I could hear you breathe near my ear And the breath, like a stuffed candle's last smoke Touched me softly but intensely And I couldn't help but let go.Control was an alien word And you, even with your absence, Were everywhere over me. My skin craved for the traces Your fingers never made. My heart pounded So loud I think I scared my neighbors.My feet clamped into each other And my toes rubbed so hard I was afraid the heat would light up a fire The warmth, the burning down of the house was okay But the neighbours would come and disturb Nothing, absolutely nothing needed to get in the way Of my body and your thoughts.My throat was dry With the heavy breathing The sweat made my heart felt needy In that moment Of half crumbled sheets, Tightly clenched fists And me; filled with desire All that I wanted was Love, sex, and water. Read the full article

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Pitter Patter

Every time it rains, The earthy scent of the water drop, After it touches the soil of the land, Makes my senses crave for something more That works like a healing stone Or a magical cosmic pendant. The pitter-patter brings me back to present To the wonderful moment of “now” And sings to me about the beauty of everything. The ever-repeated lore that never gets boring; The balland that dances to the goodness in the world. Rain, how transparent, how mystic! When it touches me, a young girl in me comes alive. Opening her arm to the cold breeze To the drenching rain To happiness, to life. Rain cheers me up like a new toy would do to a kid Except, neither of us grow old. Read the full article

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Sailing Up the River

Life's like a river It flows through mountains and woodlots Quenching droughts and creating wroughts It's serene and sacred It's raging and wild Leaving all bemused and beguiled Life is like a river That damages more when reigned Like a broken dam, ruining lives in disdain Until you reach the grandness of sea Life's like a river That flows through vast and small Through mounts and woodlots Through plains and deserts It carries the weight of all It encounters The mud, sand, and gravel The dead leaves, branches, and bones Unobstructed it flows Quiet then ferocious Life, just like river, is unpredictable. Manoeuver it and it defends Control it and it rebels Like a child, it vents at your chiding Clashes and gushes, looks frightening It mingles with the thuds of the sky Reflects the serenity of trees. It flows with the calming breeze. Life's like a river And I want to soak all in To give it back some when it dries When the only thing blue is my heart Or the sky. I wish to fall off it's brook And sail high in the tides Get drowned, get drained through the ride Feel it's calmness when it flows And energy when it collides (With a taller tide). Life's like a river A maddening adventure, A reviving retreat Rolling mile by mile Until it dissolves in the grandiose of the sea. Read the full article

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Oeuvre

It was only a week ago when The hollow burden of being alive Started nipping at my heart And like every other restless man I chose to listen to its mindless harp.   My life was a painted canvas, I wish it was empty so I could repaint it But it was painted and badly. Awful color choices made the worst palette And the design looked ghastly.   “What an oeuvre!”, I was horrified. If I were an artist and critic at the same time I would tear the canvas in concrete abomination. Wash it under a tap And blot it beyond recognition. But, it wasn’t a canvas after all Instead, my life. Disgusting, nasty piece of art, a farce Mine, nonetheless, whatever it may be A friend or a pain in my arse.   Tediously I blotched every color Every aspect of my life Reimagined every corner, every edge Of the canvas, but all made it Look as useless as unmowed sedge.   “Huh!”, I snorted “What a piece of trash!” I said as life felt like a never-ending DIY project. With parts missing and equipment damaged A pile of shit I wanted to reject.   So, casually I showed my back to the canvas And walked away from it. I whistled my favorite song Sauntered through my favorite streets Smiled, waved, jumped, danced all along.   What freedom I felt Now that my life was left behind In some isolated studio far away in the town. My heart felt as light as a circus That got rid of a depressing clown.   I spent the day having fun Until, I reached home and there it was My canvas, my life, my oeuvre, my art “You forgot it at ours” smiled my friend Ripping my happiness every bit apart.   I looked into the painting, it looked back into me And I barged out of the house Into a stationery across the street. I bought the finest, fanciest brush And the costliest paint for it to eat.   “There, I have repainted it with fresh colors” I felt satisfied as I sniffed the scent of wet paint. The smell was weird and I could have passed out, But, like a valour I stood with my hands on the waist Eyes closed, and chest puffed like a stout.   When I opened my eyes to have a final look I was deeply satisfied with what was before me. A paper, my life, sweeped in all shades. Dark, monochromatic, pitch black A piece of art that I made.   “Now, now, now.” I gleed. As I cleaned the brushes and capped color bottles. An empty canvas like a blank day With lots in the past but always a choice To repaint or replay.   I stretched my arms and sighed deeply Drowsy and tired, I crashed on the bed. My heart still harped but not so loud I switched off the lights and closed my eyes Sleep engulfed and I dreamt of grasslands, unmowed.     Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash. Read the full article

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22/4/19

Heels clicking louder than The *tchk* of your disapproval. Ambitions rising higher Than the smoke from a vain man's vape. I talk, I walk, I dress Bolder than the pusillanimity Hidden behind your threats of rape. To women who shake their heads At a girl wearing jeans and a crop top, To women with showing stomachs And frowning face, Your dissent approves of men Who shamelessly gawk and rape. To girls who name each other Slut To girls who casually call other Whore, Do you know her Who lives in a dingy house And Who barters her open vagina For the fees of her child? To men who whistle for sex To men who rape when not given consent To men who bare a woman's body with their eyes To men who slander a woman for their own gain To men bathed in their own sense of superiority To men who make every sane mind sick Suck a dick. Read the full article

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Our Lady

She burns into rubles. In ruins fall years Of words, music, life. Black and grey, She bends under her own weight. Her broken spine Let go of itself And all memories Of history, Of our great grandparents, Of all that has been. The sky engulfs itself In murk, As she takes away With her A part of you, A part of me. Read the full article

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Phases

When you compared me to the Moon When you said It shines in my eyes You were right. It does. And why not? I have phases, just like the Moon. There are days when I am invisible I am there, but eclipsed. Hid behind the clouds of my own thoughts, Shy and small, I refuse to come out. There are days, When I am torn Between wanting to be alone And wanting a company. Then once in a while, I shine. Every pore of my body Every inch of my flesh Radiates. I become more than whole, I become a poem for the night owl, A fantasy of a dreamer. I make wolves howl I make lover’s cry. And then just like that, I reduce to a night lamp, To a firefly, To a whiff. You are right, I am the Moon. Read the full article