Asiya Naqvi

SHE

SHE is dressed for the first time 
With showy and glittering clothes.

SHE is supposed to be out.
Out!!!

Out from the locked walls of wooden sheets,

Out, out for a public display.

The public which “discards” nudity!

 
Everything should be covered. 
Reality with artificiality, honesty with lie, 
Lie with cheat and cheat with betrayal.

I used every art to adorn her.

No “raw” flesh should be left uncovered,
Every “rawness” should b cooked to maturity.

With the heat of thesaurus,
Every wrinkle should be concealed.
With the rouge of INTELLECT, 

Now she knows the art of concealing (of art).

SHE is dressed every day,

SHE is cooked every day.

Pen’s Murder

What happens

when your pen becomes defiant 
and it is your brain

which conspires? 

Thus shouts your "hand" with all its fingers raised, 
"My lord! No hand of mine behind It." 

Your pen accuses you for its lost identity.

A yell opened the court. 

"O lord! Save my soul.” 

Grant my ownership to the "heart" that beats 
Release me from the "hand" that murders 
Each and every moment I die, 
a word, a thought, a rhyme strikes.

It is the suicidal brain that shuts its door 
with four blunt words banged unto me 
"I'M NO POET ANYMORE."