Full of fear and hate.
I wish I could rid myself
of my dirty soul.
This dirt is me though...
without it I am not whole.
A missing part, see?
The best flowers grow
in beds full of dirt. So now,
why not also my soul?
I would not survive
without my nitty, gritty,
dirty, little soul.
It nurtures my mind,
feeds the seeds planted deeply
amongst veiny roots
of dying plants past
sprout new beginnings for all.
(Learning from the dirt)
Struggles of eons
not undoing, but redoing
our experiences.
This time done better.
The dirt softened. Promoting
growth. Evolution.
About the Creator
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More stories from Vida Nazir and writers in Poets and other communities.
Blocked No More
Reading and writing were two of my biggest passions growing up. I would get lost in fictional worlds while reading and turn mine into a fictional one too while writing. It would always start out with "This is how my day went today..." and end in some dramatic new twist ending that never happened. I haven't written a story, or a journal entry, or anything in almost 20 years!
By Vida Nazir2 years ago in Confessions
High Rise, Deep Impact
I have witnessed a death that I relive every time I step into an elevator. Although it no longer affects me as deeply—given that it's been 11 years since the incident—it remains a heart- rending memory from my first and last day as a paramedic. My initial call to the scene involved a man who seemed to have fallen down the elevator shaft of a high-rise building. Alternatively, it might have been that the elevator moved upwards while he was working on it. Different scenarios were being considered when I arrived.
By Penelope Henain3 days ago in Writers
Comments (1)
Desperate af! Ugh