Living in a country gives you identity, not kind. Don’t make kind’s of people because of different country. For I’m a Pakistani, and proud to be, but being a Pakistani in the world’s lens is a kind of being terrorist. Well, I’m not. I’m a Muslim, and it’s my base. Kind maybe because of black color or maybe flatter nose then you, but it doesn’t change my existence of being a human. And in the world of human, there is no kind, only equality is there. Every human being have different characteristics and uniqueness, along their unique face, finger print and DNA. I born on the land of Pakistan, and this land and this flag gives me identity, it doesn’t matter that our passport is weak, doesn’t matter that we are not as much progressive as other developed and independent countries. But what I feel the most and ever uniqueness on the land of Pakistan , is the protection of women, they protect their daughters, wife’s, sisters, and mother’s as they are the most precious thing in the world.
Dreams from innocence,
sacrifice for experience..
Dreams from nature,
split for beauty..
Dreams from imagination,
separate for references..
Dreams from senses,
sacrifice for rationality..
I’m being me, so that, you can be you because there’s nobody who is going to be you or who can be you and I do not want you to loose track on what you can be, by trying or pretending to be somebody else.
You can’t wait until life isn’t hard anymore before you decide to be happy. Even the bad days are good days. You know even when it’s tough , I feel like it’s hard. I feel like I can’t do it. And I pick myself up. And the next day it feels OK. And that what’s I’m enjoying the most.
I’ve always believed that, it you’re pursuing your passion, then the journey itself is beautiful. You can’t choose the word difficult, you can’t be negative about it, because it your passion , your dream. And if you see yourself beautiful and unique then you won’t use such negative words for your dream and passion.
You can ask me whatever you want to..
Put the paint on my nails,
just to cover my IQ stains..
Irrespective of colors, and their attitudes,
use the hollowness of my own wounds..
Holding my plastids in their banks,
wrote the consequences over their stamps..
Aesthetics of stories, influence the mechanism of defense,
labelled the organisation by liberty of stamp..
You're my fear, which makes my tears
hypothesis built shears, when it comes to near..
I'm a painter, who draws turns of life, effortless
I'm a painter, who's own painting is colorless...
Today, I sign up in beauty…..
The beauty of Gold over soil,
The beauty of sky hugging the trees,
The beauty of Birds, that extract all my tensions, by flapping their wings, in peaceful air,
The beauty of Sun, when it kisses the soil,
The beauty of Giving Life, with no desires,
We find beauty in such beautiful statues, who is temporary…
Who Inhale or Exhale…
Who broke by words…
Who like you, but not love you…
The beauty is that,
Which lies in the words of William Wordsworth…
The beauty, which lies in taking care of life…
which lies in the relationship of Earth with its beauty…
The beauty, which lies in words, that flow with the streams of water…
The beauty, that we neglect…
The beauty, that we forget…
The beauty, that we deny…
The beauty, that is on Calenders now…
The beauty is called a STATE…
The state which followed by, commas and plosives…
” THE BEAUTY IS A SYMMETRY, ORDER AND DISCIPLINE”.
In hairy lifted characters of skin
responsible shoulders lead hands to manage my pin,
You founded my heart roar from organ
tired fated hand over my covered slogan,
Overyjoyed by listening my first crooked voice
no words for sounds 'cause you became my mike,
Teacher of physics lead me how to fly
first over his hands, then in life's plight,
The trusted feeder, with no prime literature
managed tears realise me, patience of no crux,
Weak just a word of unkown dictionary
your eyes and hands never taught me how to kneel...
Her empty hands,
shows her inner barrness..
Her dry eyes,
reflects her devastated feelings..
Her thick voice,
portrays her neglected harmones..
Her reserved face,
demonstrate her sprained kite..
All of these gestures of that shadow,
realized me the elements of am actual being...
The dreams was in my mind,
had no alphabets and no voice..
The streams in my eyes,
have no hydrogen and no oxide..
The voice stopped in my throat,
have no listner and no mike..
The words in my pen,
have no color and no kind..
The me that was in mine,
had no way and no sight..