Radiated mind

Published: July 8, 2012
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To awaken the poet that almost died, Words wither away and sentences snarl imperfection.

I painfully limp towards a pile of poetry buried in dust,

Devouring words and lines

Like the bittersweet intoxication of a spinal tap;

To feed a brain long dormant

For three months in a hospital bed.

 

To awaken the poet that almost died,

Words wither away and sentences snarl imperfection.

Nocturnal witching hours are spent in pursuit of creativity,

Hopelessly.

I had the word! And now it’s gone,

In the fuzzy, indistinct chatter of air-conditioning vents.

 

Claustrophobia.

A plastic mask clasped me during cranial radiation,

Like an implacable pillow in the hands of a killer.

A tight white prison

For technicolor sensibilities,

Banning any muses from melting through.

 

My mind is nothing without my art.

And to escape from the eternal facade,

I present to you this plea for a poem.

An excuse, a ruin.

Read more by Bassam here

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Bassam F. Sidiki

A Pakistani-American poet and writer who will enroll at Georgetown in the fall of 2012 to pursue undergraduate studies in literature and pre-medical. He explores cultural identity, nostalgia, cancer and spirituality in his work. He tweets @Bassidiki.

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