Tulip

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Tulips grow out of my skin
with roots tangling around this body I once called prison.
To this day, whenever I despise my beating heart,
I remind myself that flowers grow within the cracks of my skin,
inbetween dark and hollow spots,
where once was nothing but grief.
I remind myself that bleeding is healing
and that the tears I cried have been the cleaning rain for my soul.
I remind myself that tulips do not grow
without the cold breeze of winter;
and so do I.
For I have been growing out of pain,
and I will survive each winter to bloom again.

Jehona Thaqi© you will not destroy me

Why I write

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I have often asked myself why I write at such a young age, where most of my friends like to do other things, to ‘live’ in the perception of media and today’s society. Where did the idea of writing start and why have I chosen to write poetry?
While I was in high school and my passion for foreign languages started to  grow, I used to keep a notebook in my bag, for everytime I felt like something beautiful happened I wrote it down. I had never heard of Edgar Allan Poe, Fitzgerald, Jane Austen and other important writers before, but I fell in love with their words the more we read their books and stories in class. My notebook slowly transformed itself into a place where I quoted the most mesmerizing parts of books, where I tried to write my own stories in different styles and  where I wrote my first poems.

The greatest inspirations have been those writers who were able to capture my heart and my mind, who stimulated my brain, who made me feel something. So instead of going to parties I stayed at home, exercising myself, trying to express my emotions in a way where the reader gets hypnotized. F. Scott Fitzgerald remains my personal favorite, he draws me into his books like no other writer. I wish I had lived in his time so I could tell him how wonderful his writings are.

My English teacher, whom I thank more than anyone else, made me understand that writing is not about using difficult words or about trying to sound sophisticated. Writing is an act of expressing yourself, it is putting your life into art. Even though I am still miles away from calling myself a “writer” or a “poet”, I have decided to take this path and try my best. It may be that only a few people take the time to read the stories I tell, but it calms my heart to know that those few people enjoy reading it. Not only that, for me writing is a way of handling sorrow and sadness. No matter how difficult a situation might seem for me, I try to get influenced by it in a positive way, I try to get inspired to write a new poem, a new shortstory.

Inspiration can be found in every corner and every stage of our lives. Even if your heart feels numb and your thoughts are a labyrinth of which you can not escape, writing might be the healing process. No matter if people make fun of me, if they call me names, if they think that my words are worth nothing, I will continue until I have reached the point of self-satisfaction.

May that moment never come.

Jehona Thaqi ©

19. Sept. 2015

Rest

Trigger warning: The poem you are about to read contains disturbing content and may trigger an anxiety response, especially in those who have a history of trauma.

I glare at the mirror,
tired eyes and pale lips,
and as my hair falls upon my cheeks –
I can feel the wind dancing through the window and caressing my fingers.

I close the window,
my reflection staring at me in anger,
and as my hair falls upon my cheeks –
I can feel the light shining through my body and invading my privacy.

I turn off the lights,
slowly,
and as my hair falls upon my cheeks –
I can feel my tears drowning within my eyes.

I take the scissors,
and as my hair falls upon my cheeks –
I start to cut it.

Inch after inch;
my hair falls to the ground –
in order to forget the weight upon my shoulders,
and to unsee these images of never-ending abuse.

I turn on the lights,
slowly,
and I open the window.

I glare at the mirror,
tired eyes and pale lips –
my trembling hands touching the remaining strands of hair upon my head;
maybe now, I can rest.

Jehona Thaqi©

Where did our love go

Where did our love go,
that once twittered like a bird within my ribs,
within this broken cage that found healing in your arms.

Where did our love go,
that grew underneath our skins,
with roots tangling around our bones
and branches that entwined into an artwork while we held each other.

Let me tell you where our love went,
dearest;
it fluttered away – south,
where it found comfort in warmer hands.

The roots died,
and the branches broke –
there was nowhere our little lovebird could build its nest.

Our love –
it went where it belonged to;
far from us.

Jehona Thaqi©

To my son

Baby boy,
Mother is sorry for being tired.

You smash your toys against the ground – 
giggling to the sound it makes; 
your eyes wide open
and looking at me with the greatest smile I have ever witnessed; 
yet your Mother is too tired to laugh with you.

Instead my eyes fill with tears,
holding in all of the emotional roller-coaster a mother has to live through,
while piles of clothes are waiting to be washed
and I justify myself to friends that I am unable to see,
for when my baby boy falls asleep,
so does his Mother.

You look at me with those big, big eyes,
Mama, you say and smile.
As if to say it is okay, to be tired.

Jehona Thaqi©

Fear not

Fear not,
for I have not forgotten your promises,
and the words you have placed so softly within my mind,
the words that still echo through my hollow heart –
over and over again.

Fear not,
for I have not forgotten your stories
of how the knight will save the damsel in distress;
the stories that gave me hope
through these years of pain.

Fear not,
for I have stopped crying,
and each time they invade my body
I think of you.

Maybe one day you will save me.

Si jehonë ende i ndëgjoj fjalët e tua në zemrën time.

Jehona Thaqi©