Poetry
Poetry is where I go when everything else falls short. It is how I process what is too big, too tender, or too angry to say any other way. My sadness, my joy, my rage at the world, laid out on a page in the hope that someone somewhere reads it and feels a little less alone.
Living on the streets
I’ve been living on the
street for a while
not out of loss,
but because I left myself at
the door
to be let in.
If I keep walking,
past where you last
recognized me
will there still be room
for the person I’ve
become?
Will you hear me now,
not as an echo of who I
was,
but as the truth I’ve been
hiding
finally whole,
finally home?
le paysage qui m’entoure
On était des inséparables
mais là
c’est devenu un peu
genre
on se connait à peine
comme un jardin où nos moments se sont fanés
comme des fleurs, laissant place à des saison changeantes
les rires foux sont devenu des échos lointains
l‘automne s‘est installé
mais moi, je reste là,
à croire qu‘un jour ça va repartir
comme au premier jour, espérant un printemps
Pourtant, en réalité, les saisons changent et tout s‘évalue
Il y a une beauté dans ce changement, non?
Donc je pause
et je plonge
dans la beauté du paysage qui m‘entoure.
there are dishes to do
the alarm rings.
how can i get up?
there’s so much to do today.
i forgot to do the dishes from last night.
i need to go to the shops.
there’s a bathroom to clean
and a genocide to stop.
there’s laundry to do
and a climate to save.
what if i just snoozed today?
my alarm wakes me gently,
a soft sound from a phone on my bedside table.
somewhere else
people wake to the sound of missiles
or don’t wake at all.
i rub sleep from my eyes
while in rafah
people count the hours between explosions
instead of alarms.
someone got killed in iran today.
i have a deadline.
funny word — deadline.
for me it means emails, drafts,
a timestamp on a document.
not a line where life actually ends.
people die in rafah
and i have to get ready
for yet another interview.
fascists keep getting elected
while i sit in waiting rooms
counting the dull, familiar ache
of endometriosis
wondering how to fight a system
when my own body is already
a battlefield.
the dishes still need doing.
the planet still needs saving.
people are still dying.
so where do i start
in a world where there are dishes to do
and a genocide to stop?
wasted love
wasted love
verschwendete Liebe
immer wieder höre ich Menschen davon reden
doch ich glaube nicht daran.
Jedes zusammen lachen bis die Tränen kamen,
jedes Plakat bemalen für den anstehenden Protest,
jede Tanzparty mit Zahnbürste im Mund
in deinem Zimmer
von zusammen singen auf nem Konzert bis zu zusammen verzweifeln beim Paper schreiben
vom ersten Hallo bis zum letzten goodbye
es möge verlorene Liebe sein
doch verschwendet
war sie nie.
