Beautiful Chaos

There exists

a hunger

inside me,

A hunger that only grows

the more my body tumbles

in the center of the gym.

So I try

to satisfy

this emptiness,

by tossing my body about like a rag doll.

I hold a handstand,

toes pointed,

and quadriceps flexed.

I take a chance on myself.

Can I hold this pose with a single arm?

I lift my left hand off the floor,

and tease gravity.

My back begins to arch,

and my feet come in contact

with the earth.

But I want to be airborne,

a weightless body that is closer to the sun,

than to this universe.

Weightless,

and greater,

than trivial matters,

that beg for my attention.

But I use my body as a tool,

to shift my thoughts.

So I run,

A hesitant attempt to gain momentum.

I throw my body,

in a carefree roundoff,

pushing the ground away from me,

as my hands meet the floor.

Pause.

I am airborne.

I am here.

I am free.

My thoughts have shifted from trivial matters about the past,

to this very moment,

that my body

is suspended.

This body,

that I deeply love and respect.

But soon enough,

my feet meet the floor again,

with a disingenuous greeting.

My ankles absorb the impact.

But still, I crave.

So I tumble about this empty space,

hungry…

My body twists in a haphazard single-arm handstand,

twists in a roundoff.

My legs catch my body as I fall from handstand,

to bridge,

catch my body as I dive into a cartwheel.

My ribs blossom, as I open my body into a beautiful arch,

open my body into a standing split.

I tumble,

harder,

and faster.

Round-off,

handstand,

dive cartwheel,

forearm stand,

front walkover.

Can you feel the energy in the room?

Can you feel the emptiness that falls upon me…

as my feet become grounded,

after only a split second of suspension?

Can you feel this hunger,

even as you,

dear gym member,

applaud me from several feet away?

Can you see purpose in all this movement,

as I try to find myself in this self-made chaos,

in this beautiful disorder?

My tumbling reluctantly evolves into a dance,

as I open the palms of my hands,

open my body into an arch.

Confident,

yet hesitant.

Certain,

yet so unsure of myself.

Let go,

of this weight.

Let your mind and body become suspended.

Let go of the fear of falling.

My back hits the ground as I collapse out of bridge pose.

My ankles take the impact of my falls.

My forearms chafe with the carpeted floor.

But in this chaos,

there was control.

In this frenzy,

there was sanity…

Just a voice pleading,

am I full yet?

 

 

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Stillness

Stillness feels like riding the hills of Fairfax city

After I’ve observed the break of dawn on my drive to school.

Stillness is the taste of the morning breeze,

The feeling of it kissing my skin,

as I turn the corner onto Roberts Road.

Stillness is the blanket of humidor that drove out the winter chill

In preparation for spring.

Stillness is the sound of rain,

Pattering against the mud of my backyard in the night,

Drops of water coalescing with dirt.

Stillness is the deep breath upon performing a controlled power-press

With a 60lb. bar,

The strength emerging in the crease of my triceps.

Stillness is talking to you on a Saturday night,

The sound of your exhale and the silence.

The seconds walking past us without hurry.

Stillness is the engagement of eye contact,

Waiting for a witty remark to further spur the conversation.

But the silence never bothered me

Because it is in that silence that I learned how to be perfectly still

Even among the rush of Fairfax city-life.

The stillness is the break of dawn,

Your brown eyes and the sunset.

It is the morning breeze and the humidity,

Showering the town in rain

So that the trees will glow healthy in the morning.

Let me rise for another Spring day,

When the vibrato of the winter hum

Has diminished,

And the birds tweet to the song of the new season.

To the Weary College Student

To the stressed-out college student,

It is during meager study breaks that you give yourself a pep talk,

A “just keep going” kind of pep talk,

A “hey, I know you haven’t slept well, but you got this” kind of pep talk.

It is during every minute of free time that you snatch the opportunity to study,

Before work, after work, before bedtime.

It is during the classes leading up to the exam that you gaze at the professor,

Counting the hours before you can sleep.

When every study hour has passed, and you wake up on exam day,

I challenge you to carry an infectious optimism from your bedroom to the very campus of your university,

Because you were willing to sit on the edge of your limits for long enough to make it to this moment,

Prepared.

Before you open the exam packet, imagine.

Imagine a positive reaction to the test results,

Imagine yourself celebrating the week’s accomplishments with friends.

I’ve learned that we are more terrified of the possibility of achieving our greatest ambitions than failing.

Could we be as capable as we envision ourselves to be?

As I approach the conclusion of the midterms week,

I would like to honor the bags underneath my eyes,

The tireless pep talks,

The study sessions and “just a little bit more” moments.

I have not only epitomized the stereotypical image of the weary college student

but also achieved my midterm goals while being just that.

Let me wear my sweat pants as a symbol of relentless effort.

We achieve academic success only if we’re willing to crawl to the edge of our limits,

And gaze at the gray possibilities.

Unread

Writer’s Note: “Unread” is my most recent poem and extended metaphor. I am proud to say that this piece is among my most compelling works, as it subtly questions whether we can define ourselves by where we come from. You may have noticed patterns in my writing style. Painful subjects are only discussed through metaphor. I challenge you to read between the lines. All the best, and thank you so much for reading. -Naima

Unread

I am a book, sitting on a dusty shelf.

Countless passersby take a glimpse of my spine,

In awe at my compelling title,

But not intrigued enough to open the first chapter.

Few have read the first chapter,

Fewer having read up to the final page.

But it is the last few pages that I crave for others to read.

Lay me out in this quiet library,

And read in between the lines.

Although sometimes,

I’m not quite sure I want to be read.

I’ll just let you look at my cover until I’m ready to be opened.

My analytical mind craves to build a connection with a true intellectual.

Ask questions.

Assess the world around us.

Be passionate about something.

Be passionate about anything.

And let me share these aspects of myself with you.

I’m tired of small talk and, “how’s it goin’?”

Let us wrap our minds around a truly compelling subject,

And look beyond the title and the author name.

Hi, I’m Naima,

But I doubt you will remember my name.

But you will have something to remember.

The tone of my passages,

Dank with nervous excitement.

The image of myself, the author, on the back cover,

My eyes give away my curiosity,

My inquisitive nature.

Why do you ask so many questions?

Well, why don’t you?

You will remember the run-on sentences that leave little room for pauses.

 

 

So, go on.

Ignite a discussion

That doesn’t veer into nothingness and half-hearted summaries.

But if I can give you a preview of my story,

I would like to tell you that I am not where I come from.

Quite frankly,

You’ve caught me at a time when I’m shattering intergenerational absurdities,

And breaking the confines of cultural expectations.

I strive to rise above adversity,

Above the weight of dark memory.

But if I do tell you where I come from,

I won’t specify a location.

I am from

A bottomless thirst for knowledge,

A successful academic background.

I am from

A never-ending pursuit of quality health,

Weight-lifting by day to build physical strength,

Meditation by night to maintain a stable mind.

I am from

An infectious optimism,

An almost-English politeness.

I don’t belong in this library,

For my personality is much louder than this white-noise,

Or the aggressive hushhh.

Perhaps you should take me off the shelves,

And tell the librarian that my story caught your attention.

I can promise that I will broaden your perspective on people like me,

People who don’t characterize the places that they come from.

I can promise that I will inspire you to dig deeper,

To question and to analyze.

I only ask you for one favor.

Don’t bring me back to this library.

Take me to somewhere

Where I can thrive,

Express these words still unread

On my dusty pages.

Take me to somewhere safe.

A place that I can call home.

And when you reach the final chapter,

Please pass on my story.

I cannot thank you enough for completing the final page.

Don’t tuck these words beneath your pillow.

Vocalize them.

Perhaps I will learn to do the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Familiarity

Familiarity is the jacket I wear even if it’s hot outside.

Familiarity is remembering where every pothole is on the streets of my hometown.

Familiarity is the white noise in the background, the golden yellow paint on my bedroom walls, the countless race bibs hung nicely near my calendar.

Familiarity convinces me that there’s no point in getting comfortable in other cities. Why walk around the campus of your university? You’ll be home in no time.

Familiarity is coming home at 9 o’clock on a Wednesday night, the feeling of pajamas against a shivering body,  the aroma of home-cooked food.

Familiarity says your second semester schedule should be more like that of the first,

that you should take the same routes home,

even if it’s less time-efficient.

But I wish I could unzip the jacket of familiarity,

bare my skin, despite the wind.

Give me time to get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Wouldn’t discomfort soon morph itself into familiarity?

What are now unknown road signs are the signals that will soon lead me home.

Reclining on the couches of my university’s campus will eventually feel like hanging out in my bedroom on a Friday night,

Braless and weary from hours spent typing on my laptop.

But I want to feel free to get up at any time,

and handstand against my bed,

hang upside down in the staircase,

run around the house singing Lorde’s “400 Lux.”

I replay the same song over and over in my car,

to give myself the illusion,

that nothing is changing.

I can deal with new changes, I tell myself.

But the subconscious mind can’t keep its mouth shut

if I’ve been at school for eight hours,

and all I can think about is staring up at the same bedroom ceiling before going to sleep,

wearing the same pajamas,

hanging my clothes in the same parts of my closet.

But maybe soon I will peel away this jacket,

this attachment to familiarity,

though I know that I will undoubtedly return to my gym of seven years,

the bright yellow ‘Gold’s Gym’ sign luminescent in my mind’s eye.

I will continue my quest of morphing discomfort into comfort,

linger along the sidewalks of unfamiliar towns.

If I can just get my feet wet,

perhaps I wouldn’t mind if the water were cold.

The body eventually adjusts to the temperature.

Passion

Writer’s Note: This poem is written as advice to those who are hesitant to pursue their passions, whether their hesitance is due to financial restraints, time, or otherwise. I wrote this poem specifically in response to the pressure that I experienced when deciding to pursue a 200-hour yoga teacher training. I am proud to announce that I will begin my training in February, 2017, and would like to thank my lovely neighbor, Laurel, for encouraging me to take this step (Laurel, if you’re reading this, you rock!).

Passion

You are your passions

So let your life become so, too.

Stop worrying about the time.

There is no better time to pursue your dreams

Than now.

Stop thinking so much.

No decision is 100% perfect.

There are risks to take

And sacrifices to make.

But remember,

The greatest risk is not risking.

There is so much to gain.

So don’t pass up the opportunity

Without a second thought.

Your heart jumps excitedly

At the very idea

Of living your passions.

So satisfy your inner voice.

Give in.

Take a chance.

Stop questioning, “What if?”

What if I’m not ready?

Hushhh.

What if you are ready?

What if you begin to live more fully?

What if you find yourself bursting with joy

If you find

that the risk was well worth the investment?

Don’t hold back.

Time may be ticking,

But there is no better time than now.

There is no better time for you to achieve

The fullest

And happiest

Version of yourself.

 

Innocence is a Child

 

Innocence is a child.

She laughs at silly things,

And is easily mesmerized by stories.

She believes

That good exists in all people.

Her energy is limitless,

As she hangs upside-down in staircases,

And handstands up against the wall.

She tip-toes into the kitchen,

To find a late-night dessert.

Her laughter echoes

And her bubbliness is infectious.

Innocence is a child,

And that child is me.

 

I sprint down the stairs,

Strike a handstand on the second step,

And pause.

Feel the heartbeat echo against an old soul,

Which inspires adult-like conduct.

She is the voice of responsibility,

And reason.

Don’t forget to wear your seatbelt.

Make sure to arrive to class on time.

She emanates wisdom,

Serving as every friend’s therapist,

and motivational speaker.

She protests injustice,

And is determined to speak truth to power.

Wisdom is an old soul,

And that old soul is me.

 

 

 

Stop Sign

Writer’s Note: The goal of this poem was to experiment with parallelism to convey that the decision to create a positive mindset is very much a choice. Tomorrow can either be a dead-end or a vast field of possibilities. The thoughts we illicit in our minds is the determining-factor of our moods and sometimes even major life-decisions.

Stop Sign

A stop sign

A dead end

A “no U-turn” signal.

An empty tank of gas.

Driving on a single-lane road in the wrong direction.

 

A starting line.

An endless cross-country course.

Sun-lit dewy grass.

Tireless legs.

Running on a vast cross-country course on the right path.

 

A full-tank of gas.

A heart bursting with energy.

A green light.

Positive thoughts that illuminate even the corners of darkness.

 

Wake up.

 

Your heart continues to beat,

And the tank is half-full.

 

All you have to do

Is choose your state-of-mind.

The outcome of your days

Will fall in place.

 

Tomorrow is no dead-end.

Rather, it is a step closer

To reaching your ambitions.

 

 

 

 

 

Stronger than Mental Illness

brain

The heart speaks louder than the shaking voices of victims who didn’t know how to handle mental illness.

But even as your heart hammers against your chest,

Don’t be afraid to speak.

Surround yourself with supportive people.

Paint the town in wise words you’ve learned from your situation.

Sing the song of your triumph after the storm has passed.

Let the liberation of self-expression run through the flesh,

The very blood stream that connects to a healthy heart.

A beat that was once an unsettled qualm,

Is now a beautiful, steady rhythm

That feeds an honest self-awareness.

I repeat

Your health is a priority.

Repeat

Your health is a priority

Even before grades and schoolwork,

Nagging tasks and unfinished papers.

You are free to prioritize yourself,

Polish the best version of your personality.

You are not your disorder,

You are a living triumph,

A beautiful song that continues to play

Even after the drumbeat of your heart has grown weary.

You will wake up to another day

When you will expand your lungs to fill them with oxygen.

Tell me,

How amazing is this freedom?

The space

Between this inhale

And the next exhale

Is the greatest liberation I know.

The mind

And the heart

Are no longer weighed down by shackles.

Rather, they have grown stronger from having carried them for so long.

So parade in this wonderful freedom.

Beautiful green and blue veins ignite euphoria,

A liveliness once unknown.

Red blood traveling through the temples,

And eventually to the mind.

Tears of joy collect along your eyelid,

Tipping over the edge slowly.

You are free.

A living triumph,

A walking warrior,

Liberation personified.

healthy

 

 

Heartbeat

Keep beating

Inside my chest.

A steady rhythm when I’m running,

A gentle beat when I’m meditating.

Stay healthy

As you pump blood to green and blue veins.

That remind me

I am awake,

Breathing,

Living.

Whatever you do,

Protect yourself

From fear.

Just be the same soft, gentle beat

I feel during meditation.

Let this serenity forever be with me.

Can I perpetuate this calm,

This honest self-awareness?

Pose