Lost wars

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The blisters upon her soft skin,
from all the lost wars within herself,
made her understand that lost wars can be victorious.
Let me tell you this,
despite her failures, she was magic.

She believed that 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.

So why did it matter that she was merely a girl
within a world so cruel.
As long as she believed;
there was nothing to break her permanently.

Jehona Thaqi©

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This is no poem

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“I am more than how you choose to see me. And I am not reducing this whole body of mine to a scale from one to ten. You can give me a mark on how I spell my words, but you can not correct my tongue. For I am standing up for the soul that is being born each day, in billion shades of wonderful. I am still trying to find myself and you will not define the time I stop.”

The words that burst out of my mouth.
Things school never taught me.
Thoughts that haunt me.

This is no poem.
Yet for me it is more than that.

Jehona Thaqi©

Words unsaid

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She regerets it now;
having left everything unsaid.
Her heart cracks by the mere thought
of how her world could have become if she had said
‘stay’.

He watched the city disappear
in the dust of what seemed to be the last memory of happiness.
If only she had said something.
If only he had been stronger than his pride.

And both at other sides of this world
but the same amount of suffering,
watched their worlds turn gray.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Melancholy

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Oh, these streets
filled with melancholy sadness,
humming the sound of
broken souls.
Oh, within these streets,
where the skies explode
and the people turn grey,
here I have found myself.
Oh, within these streets
did my heart find rest,
did my eyes find a place
worth crying for.
And if tomorrow nothing matters anymore,
here will I stay until the days turn to dust.

Jehona Thaqi©

Sleeping city

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“Rising sun above the deep blue and calm ocean,
burning clouds above the sleeping city.
The city is still sleeping
but the world is wide awake.”

I wrote this while sitting at the beach of Barcelona, inbetween five and six o’clock in the morning, in late July last year. My notebook was resting upon my thighs, my pen clutched against my fingers and my eyes stared blankely. It was a tremendously sad period of my young life, and that very moment, which I tried to capture with a photograph, made my heart weight less than a feather. I felt free, as if I was starting to understand a new way of living.

I restarted the poem above several times, I crossed out words, made new sentences, but nothing came close to what was happening in front of my eyes. The mixture of those vivid colours and reflections on both the ocean and the clouds were magical. The massive bulidings against the soft and calm water were dancing together,  I relished that moment, as I was extremely happy of having found purpose.

The city was still sleeping. Selfish as I am, it made me think of myself. It made me understand that the absence of happiness in my life does not mean that it isn’t there, that it is non existing. Maybe I was just asleep, sadness being my cussion. Maybe I was asleep at the wrong time, in the wrong place. You see, things will pass. And happiness will always be around, somewhere, at some time.

What a wonderful morning it was, and how much it has affected my days. But still, words will never be enough.

Jehona Thaqi©

Tranquil hours

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Tranquil hours coverd in warm clothes
tasteful coffee and great stories.

Reading expands the horizon of our minds,
that is what my father told me
when I was too small to comprehend the word horizon,
when the meaning was too far from my world.

Today I caught my father reading a book,
the one he has read at least ten times,
the one that makes him be so still and peaceful.
I asked him if the story did not bore him now,
after so many times going through the same pages.

His horizon must be infinte,
I thought, while touching all the books within our little home,
wondering if he still remembers these stories,
or if they have faded just like the letters inside.

Tranquil hours, filled with warmth that touches my heart.
I have read Fitzgerald again, today.
My father smiled, a victorious smile,
stories will never bore you, if they are written well,
each time you read them, you will fall in love with new words.

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”

And I read it again,
and again,
and again.

Jehona Thaqi ©

To my friend A. I.

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My friend and I were sitting on the veranda of a coffeehouse in a small alley of our town. We did not talk much that evening, instead we enjoyed every sip of our coffees. Suddenly she lowered her head and asked, with a solid voice but shaking hands, if I believed in love. If I believed that mankind was predestined to love. Or if we learn to love, just as we learn to speak. I had never asked myself if love was a magical thing or if it was something we had been taught to do by history.

I smiled, still thinking of an answer and asking myself if it really did matter. Would it change anything if it was one or the other? What would the point be of knowing where love came from? I leaned back and stared at the sky, how it slowly changed its colour from blue to pink to almost black. It was a cold November night, but a lovely and quiet atmosphere made my body feel safe.

“Maybe I am too naïve, but I think that love comes naturally.”, I said, still watching the skies, refusing to look at her deep brown eyes, “Love has always been with us. It might has changed over the years, with all the movies and books that make us homesick for warm bodies and soft beating hearts. But it must have been here all the time. How else could you explain us falling in love with views and flowers, scents and feelings?”.

She nodded, watching me with an utmost sadness. Even though I avoided looking at her I knew how she felt. Love could be cruel, maybe not love itself, but the way it makes you vulnerable. The way it sometimes makes you dependent on a certain person who can so easily crush everything you ever needed. “Are there people who can not love?”, she asked, with the same voice.

Her voice was one of these rare things you come across in your life if you are lucky enough. It made you go soft inside, even though it was not too feminine, but mellow and tragically lovely to listen to. I knew that her heart was aching at the very moment, but her voice continued being the same solid voice you could listen to all day. No stuttering, no broken words, but a melody as warm as the sound of spring.

“No”, I said, laughing ironically. “We sometimes love too little, or too much. We love the wrong things, seldomly the right. But we all do love. We are all different, so love has to come in different shapes and colours.”. She nodded again, as if my words did not matter at all, as if every other answer would have been the same. I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry, maybe because of all the different light bulbes of this small coffeehouse. How do you explain love to someone who’s heart has been torn by too many people? The lights shone green and yellow and red, I was tired and cold, and tremendously sorry for not being good with words.

She smiled, as if she had read my mind and wanted to say that it is okay. I knew it was not okay. I knew that heartbreak leaves footprints upon the walls of your soul, even love is unable to cover up. But maybe this is the beautiful part. Our broken pieces transform each of us into art. And when we get old, may those days come, we will look back and say we did it. With the right, or the wrong dose of love.

Jehona Thaqi© I would heal you if I could

Inspirational writing

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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 handeling 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 ©