Words

Muhammad Nadeem

Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed

Red Smith--

Have you ever read something that worked as a stitch on an open wound? The words that feel like the ointment on the painful limb or plaster on a broken bone? Words you read and feel stress-free or give relief to a grieving heart? Words that tranquilize you like a child’s first smile? Words that soothe the roiling soul? Words working like a mason rebuilding a broken wall? Have you ever read any words that made you laugh, smile and wonder? Words that smell like the blooming crimson roses? Words you read again and again to absorb the ecstasy?

Some words, poems, phrases, sentences that could make you happy and give you peace.

I failed. My words can’t soothe anyone’s soul. They don’t work miracles.

I write what destroys the beautiful castle of peaceful dreams. My words work as bleach in the baby’s eyes. Like nails in the ankles. Like acid on the silky skin. My words poison the peace in the sinless heart. My words work as a sharp blade on a virgin’s throat. My words cause darkness in the summer sky. My words are burnt souls in the shining full-moon. My words now burn down to ashes, the worlds I once made for you. These words cancer the pages they are written on. My words are chronic tumors in the perfect lungs. My words corrupt the beats of an innocent heart. My words are the epitaph on the tombstone of love. My words are bullets to a hungry stomach. They are the sobs and sighs of a loving and kind childless mother. My words are dedicated to nobody now.

Words don’t happily come to me. They don’t peacefully run through my veins. They don’t come as easily as they used to.

Every alphabet chokes me to death. They give me violent nightmares. They give migraines to my soul. They fire the peace inside me. They now need tears to grow.

I bleed words. I scream them on silent innocent papers. I mercilessly crave them with the blunt knife on the fresh sink. These aren’t just the words. They are the insane chaos left inside. They are the dreadful dead cries of sanity. They are the mutilated voices of simple dreams.

My words are only what’s left of me. Who will dare to read? Who will have the courage to scratch these blood clots I honor the pages with?