Air of Neglect

She was tired. And she wondered, why? Privileged beyond dreams and loved beyond words. Then why this fragility, like a paper doll – one blow and she would drift away. Neither the will to drown nor the strength to surface. She was stuck. Somewhere in between. But no one saw it. No one saw the struggle, the indecisiveness, or how draining it was. All about her was misunderstood: her silence, her words, her ink spilled on pages – the shaky parts and the smudged ones.

She would run, but she had nowhere to go. She had a universe in her head – one that didn’t exist in reality. She understood that. Maybe that’s why she was in so much pain. She wasn’t from here. She was too human for this world, too real to be satisfied by luxury. She craved simplicity: the smell of books, the pouring rain, the feel of grass between her toes, the chill of a late winter night, the laugh of a crackling fire, or the warm embrace of love. She was torn between who she was and who everyone wanted her to be. She couldn’t be that. It was wearing her down. She wanted to block it all out. Even her own reflection.

She thought maybe she needed an escape, from her own head. And so she wrote. Wrote for the world to see. She dared to put her soul on paper, much like the first time one dares to take off their clothes in front of someone. There is some trust in that. But that only made her feel exposed. She felt utterly naked. The eyes of those that suddenly owned her, pierced through her like a thousand needles. Here too, she was being examined and scrutinized. Not for her writing, but her intentions: like labeling the act of true love as harlotry. She realized too soon – her escape was another hell.

Sometimes, she wanted to fight. Fight with every ounce of force that was left in her. Alas! Who would she fight? How could she fight with all who were her own? There was no choice. Only one battle: with herself. A constant tug-of-war, which she was losing. Badly.

She no longer had the desire to be heard, loved, accepted, or understood. Or anything else. All she wanted now was to sleep. An empty, dreamless sleep. Because she was tired. Too tired. And still, she wondered why?

© Sam Azura Mirza



It’s not just
the miles.

It’s the worlds
between us.

© Azura 2016

Restless Nights

the dark stillness.
the rhythmic sound of raindrops.
the soft chill of a slight breeze.
the heady smell of saundhi mitti*.
the occasional flash of lightening.

the memories of you.

© Azura 2016

*transliteration: damp soil (also petrichor: the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil.)


Given their history,
he knew what he was asking of her
was near impossible.

Given their history,
he knew that he had to try.

© Azura 2016


Hello lovely people! Making a comeback after a very long hiatus. Had an accident, took a few months to recover and then a few weeks to get back into life and routine, etc. For those of you that stayed through the period of utter silence, thank you from all my heart. Will definitely be posting on the regular here on out.

I changed the blog web address – it is now, so please take note of that. Also, made a few changes to layout and gave the blog a new title: Sin of Silent Cries.

Hope you are all doing great and living well.

Much love. Sam (Azura).

When There Was Life In Living

I wandered back today –

to the swings
on which
we left behind
our laughter

to the trees
under whose shade
we left behind
our childhood

to the summer breeze
in which
we left behind
our innocence

to the moments
within whose passing
we left behind

– back to when you and I were really alive.

© Azura 2015

2:45 a.m. Psychosis

Is it prettier because it rhymes,
Make it less of a crime?

Is it easier not to shun
And just hand me the gun,

So I can blow out my brain
To end all the pain,

Useless thoughts and endless nights
Put an end to all these fights?

Does it give you satisfaction
That I don’t call it depression,

Instead use ornamental words
So poetically well-versed?

Is it redundant and cliché
If I say everything is dark and gray?

Am I not original enough
If I say I don’t want to wake up,

Or there seems to be nothing beside
This hollowness I feel inside?

Is it easier to call me lazy
Than to admit I’m going crazy?

And do I sound profound and deep
If I say I drowning in needless sleep?

Tell me! Is there really a good way to say
I feel like my bones are being squeezed away,

And the same things that make me laugh
Also make me cry, break me in half?

Are you uncomfortable because I think of dying,
wanting to live but tired of trying?

I don’t really know what I’m trying to convey
Or how I even want to end this dismay.

Listen here to what the truth really is
For there is absolutely no poetry in any of this:

There is just the constant ache, the withdrawal from everything, and
the haunting knowledge that this time, I can’t be saved. I’m caving in.

© Azura 2015