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

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She believed she could see stardust in a full-moon’s night. She believed that her eyes were made of sparkles and glitter and that the galaxy lies within them.

Sometimes life is a mess.
It breaks you in places that take an eternity to heal
and it makes you suffocate in pain.

Nontheless, life is a precious gift.
Just look at it in all it’s glory, look at the mesmerizing sky – endless;
and listen to the waves of the sea.

Sometimes we forget.
We forget the cold morning breeze, and the first sip of coffee.
We forget the children laughing and the birds humming.
We forget that there is more to remember than pain.

Just look at it. Look at the beautiful human beings sitting across you.
Look at their smile that light up this world.
Look at the moon and how it shines upon endless sleeping children.
Remember that you were one of them. A child that once slept under the moonlight
and everything was alright if mother was right besides you.

Tell me when was the last time you called your mother?
When was the last time you heared her cracking voice
and you saw her honest eyes?

When was the last time you talked to a stranger?
Tell me, when was the last time you let yourself be vulnerable –
unafraid to be broken again?

Why do you keep protecting what is not in your hands?
Live. Dance across the endless fields of flowers
and forget that there is pain within your fragile heart.

There will always be pain.
You see; life’s a mess sometimes.
But so are we.

Sometimes you need to live.

Jehona Thaqi

Honey

I have waited four years now,
to write this letter to you, 
honey –
the thought of you lingers in my mind; still
and the sweetness of your words lies upon my tongue.

First, forgive me,
for I have always made everything about me,
as if my silenced heart was everything
that needed to be fixed.

Second, I hope you are well,
for I have not seen you in years,
only sometimes –
when my eyes wandered towards you
dancing around your friends
and your careless smile filled me with warmth.

Third, be safe,
for I know your pure soul and lovely character –
there are too many harsh and selfish people,
just like me –
that could tear you to pieces.

Fourth, I will not write again.
This is the last time I crawl into your life,
the last time you hear my name rushing through your body,
but this time,
honey –
I will not do any harm.

I am only here to tell you
that you are the purest love of all,
and despite the distance that lies between our hearts,
I bear your name within my mind
for as long as I live.

I am here to tell you
that I have not forgotten
the words I said
and the broken pieces of our love.

I am here to tell you
that I still taste the sweetness of your words,
it tastes like you;
honey.

Jehona Thaqi©

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

Oblivious

I was oblivious of life;
for too many heart-breaks had marked my body,
and I speak of the heart-breaks of a woman; a warrior,
who protected her soul with silence
but whose silence has been broken by understanding
that a woman’s tongue will not be tied to the dreams of men.

I was oblivious of happiness,
for too many tears had drowned my laughter,
the tears of a losing warrior,
but war will not be over unless this soul flees my body,
and even then, when I rest underneath the earth,
I will leave the tomb as dust 
and remind you of the power a woman carries within;
a woman who has been opressed
but never silenced.

I was oblivious of my strength,
the strenght of a woman;
I was a prisoner to my fears,
but today I will destroy the chains tied among my soul,
I will be free,
and concious of everything I have.

Jehona Thaqi©

Too much

I talked too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my existence was bound to my words
and to the little spaces
between breathing and speaking.

I laughed too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if I was a puppet of happiness
and I danced to the rythm
of everyone’s well-being.

I cried too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my tears were the only proof of a crying heart,
and the way I grasped for air
was my way to say sorry.

But sometimes,
silence became the only language
I knew how to speak.
Sometimes, when you were far,
I forgot that there were words to say,
and stories to laugh at,
and songs to cry to.

Sometimes my heart ached
for you to call
and say that something was wrong.

Jehona Thaqi ©

To my husband

I write
whenever I am miserable
and my heart cries in silence
for the empty seats of love within me,
when my mind is heavy
with unsaid words 
and negativity towards itself
– then my hand starts writing 
the most beautiful and tragical poems
I could ever think of.

But today I am writing 
out of happiness and love,
with no empty seats left
– a crowd that has come to witness 
the most magical moment of all.

Today I am breathing
– in and out,
slowly inhaling the sweet scent of your skin;
and exhaling in utter calmness
all problems that we have learned to forget with the passing of time.

Today I am content
with everything there is
and with everything there has ever been.

Jehona Thaqi© thank you, husband


Falling silence

Did you count the times you left me

weeping and sobbing into the cussions,

grabing your arms in order to hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

while my body ached and you could hear

the bones cracking, eyes closing,

silence falling.

Did you count the times you left me

helplessly calling your name,

asking you to turn back and hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

while your body walked straight out of the room,

feet clicking, doors closing,

silence falling.

Did you count the times you left me

speechless, stuck inbetween thoughts and reality,

I stared at you in order to hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

my eyes burning in agony of losing

what was never really mine;

tell me, did you count the times

you left me

bluntly and silent,

you left me

broken and helpless,

you left me

filled with love and sadness

and full of empty hopes.

You left me and I could hear the silence fall upon my ribs,

so unbearably loud

it made me breathe heavily;

so tell me,

did you count the times

you left;

for I have counted all the times

you came back.

Jehona Thaqi©

Ashes

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My skin smells of smoke
reminding me of how they lit my dreams to flames
and let them burn to ashes.

They have dragged my soul through mud
drenching every inch of it with pain,
while their evil laughter echoed throughout my body.

I hear their voices in dreams of mine,
talking quietly to me upon how I was never enough,
comparing me to rotten flowers in mid october.

Back then, when they lit my dreams to flames,
I was too small to comprehend their satanic words,
but today I can still smell the scent of my burned skin.

You see, the ashes have been the fertilizer for the flower I have become,
it made me grow in depth, with heavy roots and vivid leaves.
But there are days where I feel like drowning,
nights in which I can still hear their sad voices,
moments of despair and fear.

It is in moments like these
in which I float in the darkest of my memories
like a lost pearl in the wide and bobbing sea.

But I am still shining.

Jehona Thaqi ©