amalahmed1008

United States

helloooo

Published Work

Microagression

"Your mama must be a doctor
and your papa must be a doctor
    they probably work work work
They probably never have fun."

"Do they hit you at home?"
"Do they scold you about grades?"
"Do they get mad when you don't have straight A's?"

"Mama and Papa must tell you to sit home and study all day
    they probably yell at you to go pray"
"Mama and Papa probably make you mop the floor
    Isn't that what all Indian girls do?"
"Study and clean and get straight A's"

"You're pretty for an Indian girl"
"You don't act like the other Indian girls, you're pretty cool"

"Does you house smell like curry?
    I've heard Indian homes do"
"You write poetry?
    That's so not you!"

Mama is a doctor
    and a cook
    and a cleaner
    and a mama
and Papa is a doctor
    and a gardner ...

Other Worlds

​5th Grade

We sat on the rug in the center of the classroom, listening to Mrs.B read Maniac Magee in her animated, slow, and calm voice. Every word she said I latched onto, a smile playing across my face. All 24 of us with our legs criss cross apple sauced, our hands neatly fold in our laps, a slight slouch in our backs, eyes staring ahead, almost looking at every word that left her mouth. She flipped the page and said the last words of the chapter, looking up and smiling at us as she began to close the book. “What happens next? One more page please”. But that one more page would be read tomorrow, and we all walked out of the cardboard classroom, our brains buzzing with thoughts about Maniac Magee.
 

Blame the Fun and Games

You see it is funny
To yell at me when I sit in the back of the car
    At every single comment I make
And it is hilarious
    To laugh at me always
And it is a knee slapper to talk
    About how I’m “wack”

And I’ll laugh even more
    When you’re standing with other people
Who are silly
    Who are your friends
And you don’t yell at them about how they’re wack
Or don’t know anything
Or should just shut up.

But the best part of it all
    Is when we are alone
        And everything is different
That is what I find most amusing.
When we are alone and you’d never talk,
    In that tone that has started to make me feel empty inside.
And you’d never laugh or comment or shut me down
    Every time something silly is said.

And you know it’ll all be fun and games ...

Hot Glue

I was a silly, little, arts and crafts project.
Buttons, fabric, lace
    dispersed across a sheet of paper.
I was a silly little arts and crafts project.
    all put together.

    

Microagression

"Your mama must be a doctor
and your papa must be a doctor
    they probably work work work
They probably never have fun."

"Do they hit you at home?"
"Do they scold you about grades?"
"Do they get mad when you don't have straight A's?"

"Mama and Papa must tell you to sit home and study all day
    they probably yell at you to go pray"
"Mama and Papa probably make you mop the floor
    Isn't that what all Indian girls do?"
"Study and clean and get straight A's"

"You're pretty for an Indian girl"
"You don't act like the other Indian girls, you're pretty cool"

"Does you house smell like curry?
    I've heard Indian homes do"
"You write poetry?
    That's so not you!"

Mama is a doctor
    and a cook
    and a cleaner
    and a mama
and Papa is a doctor
    and a gardner ...

Tendrils

1:Of Anxiety
A terrible tendril of anxiety
I couldn't move
Through the daily debacle
I wanted to be unstuck

I couldn't move
Everything was dark
I wanted to be unstuck
Hands quickly quivering

Everything was dark
Pulsing heart
Hands quickly quivering
Fidgety fingers, sweaty palms

Pulsing heart
Through the daily debacle
Fidgety fingers, sweaty palms
A terrible tendril of anxiety

2:Of Comfort
A twinkly tendril of comfort
I sunk in
Forgetting all my frets
Everything was okay

I sunk in
Tiny little hand squeezes
Everything was okay
1,2,3, breathe

Tiny little hand squeezes
Slippery tears slide away
1,2,3 breathe
I smiled

Slippery tears slide away
Forgetting all my frets
I smiled
A twinkly tendril of comfort

3:Of Calm
A tranquil tendril of calm
No words said
Heartbeats heard
Eyes fluttered shut

No words said
Little circles rubbed
Eyes fluttered shut
Not a single thought

Little circles rubbed
The safety of silence
Not a single thought
Everything was okay

The safety...

I Am

I look like a red maraca
   shaking and moving, making a rhythm
I am the soft sound of a
   meep, or a yelp, or the hitch in someone's breath
       ripping the silence where a pin drop sounds too loud
I remember the fear of the black box
   I remember becoming it.
   I remember being it.
I remember quivering hands
   And slippery cheeks
   And lungs gulping for air
                    but I let go.

I am a beanbag
    overused
    slowly losing its form
I am comfort
    
I am the smoky, polluted, heavy air
    Covering the sunset that belongs to 3.073 million
I am the ray of warmth that never fails to pop out
I am red
      blue
      yellow
and everything in between.
I am all of it at once.
 

Captured Feelings


She wanted to take those hours, minutes, seconds of radiating warmth
    to hold on to the feeling of a hand in hers
        Cautiously she shoved it in her bottle.
She wanted to keep those moments of tears being wiped away
    of arms so big and warm, squeezing her till she smiled
        So, cautiously, she shoved it in her bottle.
She lays in bed at night
    Bottle tucked away
    Snuggling up with feelings she wants to stay
And in the dark she’ll hold it tight
While tiny tears trickle
She’ll unscrew the cap a little
So she’ll say goodnight
And close her eyes
Letting captured feelings tickle.

Pickle On My Wall


On my wall
    there is a pickle
    hanging loosely
    from a tiny thumb tack
    right by my mirror
On my wall, there is a pickle
    a small curved ornament
 
Yes.
    a pickle.
    a wondrous green,
    shimmery under soft moonlight,
    swaying with the curtains at night
Yes. a pickle
    tied to a hair tie
 
My pickle 
    once covered in tiny sparkles
    clean and fresh,
    like a penny dipped in vinegar,
    soaked in a cup of glitter
My pickle, once covered in tiny sparkles,
    no longer radiant
 
I try to paint
    over my pickle
    all its cracks,
    mend my pickle,
    fix it
I try to paint over my pickle
    but I don’t think this pickle wants to be fixed.
 
Guess I'm in a Fickle.
 

Beginning

Hours and minutes
Sunset and Sunrise

I hear it
    the rustling of the leaves
the soft sound of the wind
I see it
    through the glass window in front of me
    the trees begin to sway

Past the fence with the simple click of a gate
my poem slips

Into the grass ahead
soft and cold against the hard soles of my feet
With the sky above
    sparkle speckled and bruised dark blue
And the gusty air
that blows the autumn leaves away

Eardrums processing
    the chirping of the wren
Eyes staring up at
    the baby pink tint in the sky

Through the night and into the day
I hear it inside me 
    the words that I have yet to say
the stable sound 
of a once wavering voice. 

And here I find
my new beginning.
 

Hot Glue

I was a silly, little, arts and crafts project.
Buttons, fabric, lace
    dispersed across a sheet of paper.
I was a silly little arts and crafts project.
and you were the hot glue 
    Putting me together.
    Hardening as we touched.

I was a silly little arts and crafts project.
    

We Call This Poetry

It is staring intently at the Red light 
    trying to catch the second, the moment, the pixelated movement
        as it turns Green.
Go. Go. Speed. 

 

Beginning

Hours and minutes
Sunset and Sunrise

I hear it
    the rustling of the leaves
the soft sound of the wind
I see it
    through the glass window in front of me
    the trees begin to sway

Past the fence with the simple click of a gate
my poem slips

Into the grass ahead
soft and cold against the hard soles of my feet
With the sky above
    sparkle speckled and bruised dark blue
And the gusty air
that blows the autumn leaves away

I hear it
the chirping of the wren
I see it
The baby pink tint in the sky

Through the night and into the day
I hear it inside me 
    the words that I have yet to say
the stable sound 
of a once wavering voice. 

And here I find
my new beginning.
 

Where was she

Little did she know
where she was
    and little did they know how to find her

A little lost

Caught up in her head
delirious 

Everything was all jumbled up
for she had no idea how she
got a little lost.

Haven't we all been there 
In a state of lost
jolted by our own thoughts

Kind hearted little girl
left on her own when she got lost



Now haven't we all been there
 

Pickle On My Wall


On my wall
    There is a pickle
    hanging loosely
    from a tiny thumb tack
    right by my mirror
On my wall, there is a pickle
    a small curved ornament
 
Yes.
    a pickle.
    a wondrous green,
    shimmery under soft moonlight,
    swaying with the curtains at night
Yes. A pickle
    tied to a hair tie
 
My pickle 
    once covered in tiny sparkle
    clean and fresh
    a penny dipped in vinegar
    dipped in a cup of glitter
My pickle, once covered in tiny sparkles,
    no longer radiant
 
I try to paint
    over my pickle
    all its cracks,
    mend my pickle,
    fix it
I try to paint over my pickle
    but I don’t think this pickle wants to be fixed.
 
Goodbye Pickle.
 

Beginning

Hours and minutes
Sunset and Sunrise
    What have I gotten?
Sitting here in silence
And then I hear it
    the rustling of the leaves
the soft sound of the wind
And then I see it
    through the glass window in front of me
    the trees begin to sway

I soon walk,
past the fence with the simple click of a gate
and now my poem slips

Into the grass ahead
soft and cold against the hard soles of my feet
With the sky above
    speckled in sparkles
but sometimes a bruised purple
And the gusty air
that blows the autumn leaves away

I hear it
the chirping of the wren
I see it
The baby pink tint in the sky

Through the night and into the day
I hear it inside me 
    the words that I have yet to say
the stable sound 
of a once wavering voice. 

And here...

Six-Word Memoir

Umbrella

My umbrella over someone elses head

Birdcage and Buoy

Balloon

Light as ever
Up in the air
High above the world

I float

Up in the clouds
I see the world beneath me

I'm free

But am I free
Do I never return back to the ground?

Then and there
The pressure builds  
The atmosphere pushes on me

My rubber skin
Stretched to the max

I pop

Into a chasm I now fall
To the bottom I go
For I have popped

Glowstick

Waiting to be broken
A dull stick I am
No light within

What an odd thought,
Being broken before I can glow.
Waiting my turn in this box.

I begin to shake
As the lid above me pops off,
A hand comes down to grab me.

Lifted up
Held in the palms of someone’s hand
I feel a thumb pressing in

Pain shoots up my plastic spine
Everything inside me briefly aches,
But then I am numb.

I break and bend
Crack and twist,
And I’m given a final snap.

Some things like me
Must be broken
Before they glow

Pencil


A sweaty hand grabs onto me,
And they push me down on paper.
Channeling their thoughts
 
You hear me tap against the desk
My imprint left on the thin sheet below.
Silver silk words I sprawled across the page
 
Smudges everywhere
Light or heavy marks
The dust of my eraser all over the sheet
 
Complete
and incomplete thoughts.
Leaving my mark

Used over and over again
Wearing my tip down.
Tiring me out.
 
Pushed hard
Ending your sentence with a
period. 

Clock


Seconds go by
Tick tock I go
Time passes
You hear me loud and clear
 
Watching you procrastinate.
The room so quite
My tick tock
Bothering you
 
3 in the morning
Watching you toss and turn
Unable to sleep,
all you hear is me
 
A discomforting sound.
One that you hate.
I watch you get up,
slowly coming out of bed.
 
3:30 my hands read,
and I see you reach up.
You grab me,
pull me off the wall.
 
Toss me next door.

Coffee


I hold a cup in my hand
Black liquid within
 
Milk and sugar
Make it less bitter
 
I sip on my cup
I slowly awake
My mind is now up
 
A cycle I am in
No sleep
A cup of coffee
Getting me through my day
 
But now my eyes feel heavy
The boost is wearing off
 
I still have work to do
I still have to stay up
 
2 AM reads the clock
As I go make myself another cup

That Sort of Person

Description

It is difficult for her to describe a person so indiscribable. 

Collective Voice

We Are Lost

We're unsure of who we are
And we're unsure of what to say
We stand together
But seperate in our own way
Perplexed and confused

We're stuck and don't know where we're going
We seek independence
We seek to grow
To be on our own

Here we stand on a scale
Vulnerable to tipping over
And that's when we hear it

The bell has rung
We pack our books
And we get up

On to the next class we go.