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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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©

Ribeira

I wonder how many names you had to forget
in order to remember your own,
dear friend;
for you were a masterpiece to this world,
as colorful and historic as the buildings of Porto’s ribeira;
yet broken, for I could see the cracks upon walls
and dying lightbulbs underneath blank ceilings.

I wonder how many heartbreaks you had to live through
in order to love yourself first,
for you thought your heart could hold all of them,
like within this part of the city;
too many temporary visitors dancing through its streets, leaving nothing but footprints behind
and too few lovers who stay to renovate the abandoned homes.

I believe
that your heart is more than a port of desire;
dear friend.

Jehona Thaqi©

An open letter

I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking  in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.

Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn gray and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.

Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.

Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.

Jehona Thaqi©

If I could

I would put my arms around you if I could;
hold onto the body that held me in silence,
run my fingers across the spine that carried much more than its own weight,
put my cheeks at the edge of the shoulders that have endured rain on sunny days,
wrap my hands around the hardened knuckles and stiff fingers;
but I can not.

You sit across the room,
I glare at your soft features and glowing skin;
your face a mirror of your soul, beautiful and tired,
with wrinkles across your forehead and dark circles underneath your eyes;
I see a young man tired of fighting alone, yet too proud to tell me so –
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the room grows bigger each time I move towards you,
unable to reach your soft skin and tired soul.

You look at me with big eyes and a vivid smile,
a smile as soft and tender as described in Fitzgerald’s novel,
and you too, like Gatsby, will sooner or later diminish into nothingness
if you do not let me take your pain;
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the more I run towards you,
the further you seem to be.

I will put my arms around you, dear,
so open up your soul,
for I have love within my broken heart
which can heal both of us.

Jehona Thaqi© I am here