Poetry by Farah Lawal Harris

Posts tagged “free

Writer’s Wish

i wish i could write for days,
then write some more.
only stop to eat words
and drink metaphors.
bathe in poetry,
lather with lines laden with alliteration
and life-giving meaning,
rinse with prose
(because as a writer, i’m supposed to be well-rounded),
and lay down in free-verse
and have words be my lullabies.

i wish i could take the time to be dumbfounded by life,
pause for a few moments to enjoy what i like,
stop running and just
free myself and others.
or maybe just myself.
and others could read and listen if they like,
but if they don’t,
i’ll still write,
laugh a little,
cry when truth is revealed,

Thought Terrorism

i do not want to be alone
with my own
they imprison me,
rape my day-to-day and invade
the wall of normalcy
that i build around me;
they kick the backs of my eyes
until tears start to form;
they tap dance in my throat
and tie knots too difficult to loosen
with my little tense fingers;
they hijack my trains of current thoughts
just when i am speaking midsentence, smiling
and talking on the surface
about surface topics
like my weekend.

what if i escaped them?
closed my eyes and locked
them out of my
brain so that i could
sleep soundly at night
and wake up feeling relaxed
and go about my days calmly;
so i could spend a day liesurely
without having a list of what i should be doing
appear before me;
so that i could smile and mean it,
live each moment honestly
and be free from what once controlled me.

How Big Poems Are

is there room for honesty?
maybe in a poem.
in poems,
apartments don’t exist
and clutter has a chance to breathe.
normally compartmentalized minds
finally get time to spread out,
lay down and just be.

maybe poems have room for honesty,
living rooms for me to confess my shyness and sexuality,
dining rooms for verbal gluttony
and plush couches for me to sit and talk
about what’s bothering me.

poems have room for honesty–
bedrooms for me to whisper my innermost thoughts
when i can’t sleep
and basements that coax out
the parts of me nobody sees.

since poems have room for honesty,
will you pack a suitcase
and come stay with me?
there is space for all of our
and not only that–
there is a kitchen where you and i
can cook new possibilities.

poems have room
and hopefully one day
the rest of the world will catch on,
receive one another with open arms,
tearing their clothes of judgment
til we are all naked and free–
til we all have room
for honesty.


what if the heaven i am waiting for is already here?

what if i lived in today and yesterday wasn’t even near?

what if i loved freely?

what if i quit being unhappy?

what if poems became reality
and inner thoughts spoke clearly?

what if i truly honored me?
where or who
would i be?

Ignorant Bliss

i was swept away,
not knowing that such feelings could exist;
not knowing that there is even a difference
between knowing and feeling,
between love and that feeling
that sears the inside of my hips
and burns and sticks
to the bottom of the pot of my desires.

i never knew about fire.
my gas stove at home only has hues of blue
and sometimes orange
but my lust is red.
come join me in my bed.
let’s learn about the things we did not know
i hope this time lasts forever
or until the point when Never no longer matters
and Maybe grows up because she’s having a baby
and If turns into a kiss and decides to be definitive
for once in her life.

sweep me away from this life
and into a land where
love makes sense.
i see its definition in the distance:
not Webster’s but life’s encyclopedia-thesaurus-dictionary experience
viewed in first person.
we are in motion–
picture it with me:
you and me.

let our union open up our blind eyes to see
the mystery of love
through our own history;
the misery of love
through our own synergy.
sing with me,
dance with me,
melt with me,
exchange heart beats until we are both free,
never forgetting,
and loving.


i know the rules,
but i don’t care.
i have memorized the stipulations of life,
studied them to find out why they apply
but at the end of the day,
i just want things my way.

is that wrong?
what does your reply matter anyway?
i hate to be rude or hurt feelings
but i’ve finally reached a point
where i can decipher my feelings from fact,
can tell the difference between myself
and how i’ve been told i should act
and i only have enough energy to pretend on stage.

truth hurts others
but to me, it is freeing.
come smile at the sunshine with me,
who smiles for the self that was too scared
to even look out the window,
let alone step outside
to stare at the sky.

Healthy Bulimia

fresh acid burning in the back of my throat,
darkening my teeth
and freeing that stabbing feeling
in the pit of my stomach,
i purge all that is negative
out of me.
i used to look at bitterness and anger and self loathing
and pain and pity
and say desperately, “feed me”
but i’ve found new food today.
tears of joy and peace as toxins release
and when i breathe,
i am a new person.

the world is so different now.

i didn’t know i was viewing life through dirty eyeglasses,
mistaking danger for greener pastures.
now i see what i was missing.
i am emptying,
slowly but surely
and in the future,
i see me happy
and dancing like no one is looking,
living like everyone is looking,
and free
to not care either way.