Sorry I was away for so long but as an apology, lemme show you what I’ve been working behind the scenes: Poetry in Motion

Let free what was kept stale by growth!
Thy vivid vision dreamed doth scare
Thy self-preserv’d maturity,
But purity of young should last

Unchanged onto the years it yearns.

The sunflower, proud and tall, stuck out its chest to the sunlight that sparkled its blessings below. The sunflower looked down, seeing a small sprout covered partly by the shadow of a rock. The growing flower shed tears in frustration. 
“Cry not, cry not!”
“Oh, but why not, why not? This pain of being trapped by the roots that give me life – why not, why not?”
“You grow behind the shadows, yes, and can only grow with the sun that offers you but half of the light offered to me. But pain is what will make you outgrow me, if you let it. Don’t be rooted by the ground; you can fly! You can fly from the ground if you use the shadow and the light to do so.”
“Ah, pain, pain!”
“It will pass, it will pass! Grow, grow! Grow, grow! Grow, grow!”
Seven days, seven nights, and only an inch grew from the sprout. Yet:
“Grow, grow!” roared the sunflower. “It will pass, it will pass! Grow, grow!”
Seven days, seven nights, seventy tears, seven-hundred lashes of pain on the sprout’s heart. But still, he grew inch by inch, week by week. A rain a week, two inches a rain. Three inches a week. The wind, in its motherliness, chipped slowly the rock – a two-thirds of the light covered the young flower now. Seven moons, seven weeks, seven days, seven nights, and soon the flower was seven feet tall, blooming with its radiance in variant color. But still, the sprout shed tears, as what lay in crumbled pieces of rotten beauty was the proud sunflower, so gallant and brotherly.

Where do you feel most at ease? Like a turtle with his home upon his back, do you retreat in fear inside? And pray you, where shall you flee if where you called sanctum was plagued by rotting hands that clawed by inch upon your bod in bed? If you should be in bed at night, besieged by darkness, how will you scream when rotting hands clutch your body, inching like an Eden snake over your skin? Sweat-soaked shivers, cold fingertips, choking motions, monster in your home. RUN, RUN, RUN! Monster in your home. Scream… Scream… No one has aid… the dusk deafens… scream, silence… monster in your home.

Social links:

Instagram (I post here daily about three times with poetry, prose, and videos like above): @MrAbdullahX

Twitter: @MrAbdullahX

I plan to post the sum of all the poetry I release on Instagram on here, but if you wish to receive the full effect of what I write, please check out my account and follow me for posts. Thanks for sticking around! I’m coming back in full effect soon but right now, baby steps. Much love!


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