Finish line

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I have turned page after page
impatiently looking for an end,
as if the magic happening inbetween
the first and the last page
did not matter at all.

I tried to run as fast as I could,
saw the finish line more than once,
like a fatamorgana, so close,
yet so unreal.

Eventually I stopped.
I looked around, saw this gray world
giving birth to colourful explosions.
Sometimes, I realized,
it is not about who reaches the end first,
but who enjoys every inch of this almost endless run.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dust

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I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
with stories hidden underneath the veil of this evening’s dust.

I cleared my eyes,
as the colours seemed fading from the surface of everything
I looked at.
Maybe, I thought, it is the dust layered upon my eyes.

People stared at me,
as if they had never seen someone weep,
as if I was guilty for feeling sorrow.

I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
and hungry souls, wondering how to feed their stomach with gossip and heavy words.

These streets are so full
of unkown faces,
but empty hearts.

Jehona Thaqi © I will still cry my heart out if I need to

A play of words

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I used to hide
within

a paragraph
or two.

In between letters,
words,
books,
bookshelves,
somewhere only people
with the intention of caressing every
page of mine would put their hands on.

I didn’t want to become

a paragraph
or two.

I have always been much more.
An unfinished story,
with the capacity of becoming a whole

library

formed of

a paragraph
or two.

Jehona Thaqi©

Light

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With light comes truth, they said,
deeply moved by a metaphor
stained with dark shadows.

I have found the truth in darkness,
just before the dawn arrives and
the dew starts falling drop after drop
onto this earth.
In darkness I learned how to
use my tongue properly,
how to see through the walls in front of people’s hearts,
how to distinguish the truth in their statements and
how to touch their souls without leaving fingerprints.
It wasn’t the light which made me see,
rather the comfort of darkness in which the heart finds rest.

With light comes truth, they said.
With light come shadows, I say,
looking for raw souls inbetween the last sunrays and the first twittering of birds in the mornings.

Jehona Thaqi©

Hope

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Somewhere inbetween her soft voice
and angelic laughter,
within her blushing cheeks, as tender and sweet as strawberries freshly plucked out of grandmother’s garden,
in the depth of her eyes in which men got lost like desperate love-letters adressed to the wrong person.
There, within that magical and bruised heart, she had handed out too often,
there lied that childish hope
of eternal love.
She clinged to it through every heart-break,
through tears, shatters and scars,
and yet she smiled,
because she knew that
her heart was soft enough to love again,
and strong enough to fall again.

Jehona Thaqi © if only men knew how strong women are

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 ©