Tag Archives: anxiety

What is anxiety?

It’s when you’re drowning and you can’t seem to float
you’re trying to speak but the words are clogged in your throat.

Your lips tremble and a tear rolls down your cheek
you’re supposed to be strong but every fiber in you seems weak.

Your thoughts are racing at a speed you can’t count
butterflies sink in your stomach and you’re drowning in self-doubt.

Your heart thrashes, and it splits in half
everything becomes dark and you lose your path.

Every dream you saw is about to crumble
your legs wobble and you know you’ll stumble.

It’s like you’re about to die and you can’t seem to breathe
the world starts to spin and you’re tightly clenching your teeth.

You know you’re not okay but no one holds your hand
you’re sinking and no one seems to understand.

You’re chocking on your words and a headache threatens to spill
you can’t find motivation and you start losing your will.

A dark cloud hovers over your head
it tells you everything would be better if you were dead.

But you remind yourself, everything will get better
there’s no point of sitting here to grieve

you’re brave and strong all you need to do is believe.
I know times are rough and it seems like there is nothing you can do
but giving into depression and anxiety
won’t help you make it through

you’re a fighter and sometimes fighters need help
you can’t conquer the battle field all by yourself.
It’s okay take your time I promise you it’ll all get well
you can’t get to heaven if you don’t go through a little hell

Poetry book: Curing My Venom

My doubts

This imperfect body of yours
is nothing more
than just a host for your soul
there is an unseen beauty
dripping from within
so take the brush of self-love
and paint it all over your skin
because you are the comfort of heaven
and the ease of Eden
in you lies a garden of solace
you may not be the pretty
you’ve always craved to be
because darling
you are the vastness of the sea
look into the windows of yourself
and not in the mirrors of doubt.

Beneath the Shadows of Eden

I doubt myself a lot. I have doubts in everything I do, and I wrote this to comfort myself. If I had the paint of self-love I would drench myself in it. But self-love isn’t something that will come to you like an impulsive thought. It’s something that has to be developed over time. Something that requires patience and time. Self-love isn’t just buying yourself expensive, materialistic things, it’s learning to keep your heart content with whatever life throws at you. I would be lying if I say I have mastered the art of self-love. I am nowhere near that stage. But I’m trying and sometimes trying is all that matters.

Poetry book: Curing My Venom

Crying on bathroom floors

All that pain you’ve kept
beneath those hidden faces
and all those tears you’ve cried
on bathroom floors and pillow cases
all those aches, wounds and insecurities
you’ve been carrying for a while
give them all to me
so I could see you smile.

I know you’re aching
and you won’t ever break
but the world is so cruel, my love
how long will you take?
Release yourself
from all this pain you’ve been through
life will always go on
maybe you should learn to live a little too.

Live, my child

Do you ever sit on a bathroom floor and cry your heart out because it seems as if your world is crashing down and there is nothing you can do. You feel so empty that you don’t understand the point of anything. You press your knees against your chest and cover them with your arms trying to make yourself as small as possible. I’m trying not to be negative, but I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve done that.

I’ve cried because of anger, anguish, pain, and because those around me wouldn’t understand or maybe I was bad at explaining. Or maybe it was both.

But no matter what sometimes I feel like my bathroom tiles and my pillow cases have soaked more tears than any shoulders could have.

I wrote that poem because I was tired of carrying weight and for a tiny split second, I wanted someone to say, “Hey I’ve got you. It’s okay.” But I guess… maybe everyone else is busy crying on bathroom floors too. I know how it’s like to live in a constant state of anxiety, a constant state of panic and even if it is for a split second I would gladly take away someone’s pain from them. But remember crying does not mean you’re weak or you’re a failure. It just means you’re alive. Think of it like this: when a baby is born the first thing the doctors do is make sure the baby cries, because that’s an indication that the baby is alive and is normal.

Poetry book: Curing My Venom

Do you still want me?

I despise myself
what about you
I’m very hard to love
maybe you should leave me too.

I am not special
so please don’t praise me like that
or else I’ll fall in love
with myself all over again.

How do you not see these scars
and this imperfect flesh?
Why would anyone love me
when I’m an ugly mess?

I am not a beauty nor a queen
but a broken, ugly creature.
It’s okay if you don’t want me
I wouldn’t want myself either.

Do you still want me?

I wrote this when I was going through a tough time in life. It was one of those moments where I didn’t understand why anyone would want to be around me because I sure as hell knew that if I had a choice I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me. You know that odd feeling where you feel like you aren’t the owner of your kingdom, where your body and mind aren’t tuned. That’s what I felt. At one point I hated myself and looking into the mirror made me question God. If He is perfect why would he create such a flaw? I feel like I’ve done so much damage to my own self that now I have to heal myself piece by piece and that’s hard. Very hard…

Poetry book: Curing My Venom

Making ends meet

We’re six people, and we live in a two apartment bedroom. My dad drives a taxi and he works twelve hours each day to make ends meet. I work part time and I’m looking for a full time job. My older brother temporarily drives an Uber and he’s saving money to pay for a certification he needs. My younger brother and sister are in college and my mom is a house wife, who has diabetes, blood pressure and depression.

But we’re all blessed. We have our moments which end in tears and days of anger and anguish but at the end things turn out fine. We yell our throats out, throw fists, disagree and fight, and hurt each other. But at the end Alhamdulillah- we make it in one piece. Sometimes broken, sometimes tattered, but still we make it. We always do.

Coming to Pakistan we’re no longer the middle class or people trying to make ends meet. We become the elite. The upper class. Mostly because we have American passports which is messed up on it’s own and it’s a another story. But also because here people are deprived of basic human rights. Little children as young as seven are forced to work in people’s houses because they need to survive. It makes me sick and there’s nothing much I can do right now.

But I can narrate stories of women who’ve sat next to my mother and cried tears of blood.

From “my ten-year-old son died because we didn’t have enough money to pay for his medical examinations” to “my seven-year-old daughter works in people’s houses because we don’t have enough money to feed her.”

Stories about diseases that could be prevented with simple medication. Physical and mental abuse and how women have to deal with them with smiles because that’s what they’re taught. It’s okay if your husband hits you. It’s not a big deal. At least he has a roof over your head and he puts food on the table.

I’m not saying Pakistan is all bad. It has its issues like America does. But the people in Pakistan are loving and hospitable. They give when they barely have enough to eat.

One thing I’ve learned is that every person, regardless of nationality, religion and skin color has a story to tell. We’re all closed books with filled chapters reeking of tales aching to be told.

A woman whose husband married his brothers wife and kicked his own wife out with her two children.

A mother whose son left her on the streets.

Two innocent men of the same family being killed because of a political feud.

A woman bought from northern Pakistan to be sold as a bride.

A ten year old boy working as a dishwasher in a resturant.

I know all these people. They walk around me with smiles as bright as the sun trying to hide pain… but it drips from their bodies like sweat.

It’s so easy to judge, to throw hate, pass nasty comments, compare and envy… but its complicated to understand and comprehend.

Not everyone has a perfect life. What may seem like a bed of roses from far could be a mat littered with thorns.