Poetry For the Soul

I have always believed I was a terrible writer while at school, English was never my strongest subject. I’m also not a native English speaker; I was born and raised for a few years in Pakistan and came here, to London, when I was six and a half years old. I can speak a few different languages including Urdu and Punjabi. I could speak a bit of English before I came here but I improved it by reading books. It’s my favorite downtime activity as it allows you to escape from the world around you and jump into another full of adventure.

I have suffered from mental health issues for many years and I was always drawn to bad habits to help myself, in particular, self-harm. Since 2016, I have been trying to move away from harming myself to things which are more positive, like reading, exercising or meditating. Last year in May, I got into creative writing. I was having another depressive episode – I suffer from bipolar disorder – and I was trying not to engage in self-harm so I started writing my feelings down in a messy form of poetry. I started writing words, they didn’t always make sense but I kept writing until I felt better. That night I had written 4 different pieces and during the day, I had managed to write another few.

I mostly talk about my personal experiences with mental health and sexual assault as they are a huge part of me and who I am: I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t gone through those moments in life. There are a few pieces of someone I used to have a crush on, and it tells the story of how I felt when things didn’t go well but it was an experience nonetheless. Some are also about a lover from the future – I know that sounds weird. I’ve never been in a relationship but there’s a fierce love I crave – that might just be because things didn’t go too well with the guy I used to like when I was young and naive. I later learned that I deserved better than that and a person who would love me for me and appreciate my efforts as a person.

Most of my poems are emotional because that is the state I wrote them in. I found that writing my experiences down in a format of a poem was helpful as I could share them with people and it would be easier for me than having to speak to them about it. Poetry is a big thing for me now even though I don’t write too often, simply because it helps me get through tough times and stops me from backtracking to those old toxic habits that I have spent years getting rid of. I would definitely recommend creative writing to others, especially if you are struggling. You’ll eventually be able to create your own style of writing and at the same time, you are getting rid of some of those emotions which are weighing you down. I’m not a great writer so I write for myself even though I share some of them with others. It’s interesting to hear what people think the poems are because they can mean different things to different people.

Here is some of my work which I am fairly happy with:

Broken lovers III

My love for him
Left even the sun jealous.
For how could someone
Be full of so much love?
An emotion so pure
Fulfilling.

He was a storm
My body desired.
He left bruises
Where no one could see.
And I craved it even more.

He was the shadows
That danced with the fears
That left us awake at night
Terrified.

He was one of the many devils
That whispered things
That your insecurities already screamed at you.
Yet I yearned for more.

What did the Gods have in mind
When they imagined my destiny.
For how could they let such a beautiful creation
Be so consumed with the works of the devil himself.

We are all lost

We were all lost
On the clouds
We dreamt up.
Blew them up
With our own lips
Till there was no air left in us.

We were lost
In the dreams
Where there was love between us
And no wars being fought.

We were lost
In the addictions
Of the things that had
Consumed our souls
Long before we knew anything of ourselves.

And now we are found.
Woken to the terrible realities
Of the broken world around us
That not even sweet, heavenly hymns could heal.

Salted wounds 

I’ve got wounds
Left so deep
Not even salt wants to greet.

Things falling apart – published

When there’s nowhere to turn
And no one can hear you.
When your heart bleeds
And there’s no way to heal the wound.
When everything around you crumbles
And falls
Do you stay and collapse under everything,
Or do you run and never come back?

I love you – published

He told me he loved me.
I knew he was lying.
Because how could he love someone so damaged like me?

Leave. – published

I want to leave,
Pack my bags and leave.
I don’t belong in this town.
I belong in the wild, big world.

I feel trapped,
In this town that I’ve grown up in.
I feel suffocated,
The same people around me.
It gets boring,
Lonely even.

I want to leave,
Pack my bags and leave.
For a place far away.
Where my soul will finally be at peace.

I feel like a burden,
On the people around me.
Who can I turn to,
In my times of need.
Where can I go when I feel like my world is falling apart?

I want to leave,
Pack my bags and leave.
For my soul doesn’t belong in this place
Where I currently reside.
I want to leave,
For a place far away.
To be free.
To fill my lungs with fresh air.
To be free.
To finally belong.
I want to leave,
For my soul is displeased.
I want to leave,
For my soul is in agony.
I want to leave,
For my soul is tearing apart.

I want to leave,
Pack my bags and leave.
For my soul doesn’t belong here.

Everyday

Every day becomes a battle
One that goes on and on.
I don’t think
That I’ll ever escape.

In my dream

He makes me feel good
But I still feel guilty.
He loves me
But I’m scared to give him my heart.

In my dream
He makes me feel beautiful
Wild
Free
But I’m scared to let myself go.

In my dream
He makes me happy
Smile
Laugh
But I’m scared he will leave.

Some Days

Some days I wonder
How I’ve come so far.
When my nights seemed
never-ending
And mornings
miles apart.

Some days I wonder
How I’m still breathing.
When I’d lose my breath.
I’d feel like I’m drowning
Even without the water.

Some days I wonder
How I’m still alive.
Though I’ve cut my wrists
legs
and other places.
And bled many nights.

Alone at 3 AM
4 AM
Or 5.
It would be my nightly ritual.
Torturing by my mind.
Nights were always painful
And the days more miserable.
Lonely wasn’t as cruel
but numbness was sinful.

If only you knew – published

If only you knew
How much she loves you.
Other men don’t mean anything
When her eyes are always on you.

strong>What makes me angry? Version 1 – published

You ask me
What makes me angry
Do you really want an answer to this?

A lot makes me angry,
leaving goosebumps on my skin,
Raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

So what makes me angry?
As a woman,
I’m looked down upon,
As an immigrant,
I am hated.
As a Muslim,
I am labeled a terrorist.

So what makes me angry?
My mental health labels me as crazy.
My gender makes me less than men
My voice is silenced
And my culture sees me as a burden.

So you still ask what makes me angry.

Black history month

Taken from their homes
Ripped apart from their families
And shipped to a land alien to them.
Many died on the journey
And their bodies dumped into the ocean.
How tragic and short a life for them.
But no remorse.
Sold as slaves to the highest bidders
Only to do the work that required the most labour.
Working for hours in the fields

Picking
Planting
Cotton, vegetation and the like.

Men beaten
Women raped
Children also kept as slaves.

But their troubles still continue.
We’re in the 21st century
Yet they are still considered as second class citizens.
Shot by the very people that are meant to protect them.
Oh, how we still live in a hate-ridden society.

I share these on my blog ad my Instagram though some of those haven’t been published yet.

By
Adeela Ejaz is studying first-year Politics and International Relations
Blog: Dailywithdils.co.uk
IG: Daily with Dils
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