Dear Dad


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Dear dad,
When it rained really hard,
Or the fires burned down the curtains,
When the game was won,
Or my leg was broken.
When I sang too loud,
Or wailed in distraught.
When I didn’t know if I’d make it,
Even when you yourself were lost.
You held my world in your two hands,
Looked me in the eye,
You made me breathe,
And I closed my eyes.
When I open them again, Jack,
Everything was alright!
I don’t how you do it,
But you made me smile,
And now, you make me cry!

When you peeked through the door to check on me.
When you were burdened with self-doubt,
But stayed strong for me.
So when you left without saying goodbye,
I collapsed; I thought I had more time.
When I stood at your funeral,
And I missed your smile.
I missed how you promised me the world,
When you hugged me with all the love you could offer.
Then is when I believed that love is true,
And there has or never shall be anyone who will be as good as you.
Oh, Dad,
Every single day, we miss you!

Dear Jack,
You were twice the Man there ever existed,
And you didn’t even have to try.
You were as perfect as they get!
Every single day, I’ll miss you!
I’ll miss you, Jack.


-Sabah Batul



A Little Lust For Lonely Nights




Cherry lips, kisses rough.
Edges blue- blossoms and girth.
A kiss for new years.
A hug for Valentines.
A little lust for lonely nights.
Horny days, and
Maybe a few date nights.
A little lust for lonely nights.
A man’s power, with the touch of a dirty saint.
Some late night talks.
A strong jawline, and a rugged face.
I need it bad, I need it tonight!
To get a little low, a lot on the naughty side! So, what I need is-
A little lust for lonely nights.
-Sabah Batul

Death, be mine

Death, be mine,
Kiss my chaste lips.
Drain me of life.
Make me the beauty of sleep.

My friends can hold me a wake.
And mourn the life I never adored.
Share how they miss me,
And talk of the memories we planned to make.
Lie about my Bright future,
And the chances I lost.

Then when they’re done,
And have devoted me a mural,
Ready to bury me under the cross.
Death can come for me,
Take me in his arms.
And dance with me in the ball of yesterday and goodbyes.
Oh death, I beg thee.
Make me yours, and I promise to never take another as love.
Death, be mine,
Kiss my chaste lips.
Drain me of life.
Make me the beauty of sleep.
– Sabah Batul

#death #poetry #kissofdeath #thoughts

What is?


What is torn? What is raw?
What is real? What is not?
What is music? What is loud?
What is drama? What is life?

What is love, or friendship?
What is a dream? What is existence?
What is an exuberant scream?

What is the future?
What are your hopes?
What is jealousy?
What is a real low?

What is the sunrise? What is a good view?
What is feeling content? What is not knowing who are you?

What is wanting to read to escape?
What is feeling at peace when depressed?

What is anticipation?
What are thoughts?
What is over thinking? Or anxiety? or being overwhelmed? What is reflection?
What are doubts?

What is -‘What if’? Or ‘Maybe’? Or ‘But’? Or ‘Why not’?

What is rejection?
What is mature?
What are relationships?
What is feeling secure?

Does any of that make sense?
Or, What is sensible, even?

What is- nostalgia and childhood and happy?
What is the reason for this poem?
Who knows!
I don’t have all the answers yet…

-Sabah Batul
#whatis #reflection #thoughts #sabahonpaper#poetry #poems #writers

Someone Like You


Someone to blame,
Someone to hold,
Someone who sings,
Someone who snores!
Someone who I can speak to when I fall,
When in pain, someone who I always call.
Someone who I won’t disappoint,
Someone who is my anointed knight.
That’s who I look for when days are so blue,
And I really don’t know what I really want to do!
Do I want to cry?
Or dig a hole and climb inside?
Days when,
I don’t know who’s hug would fix me up,
Whose smile would light me up like a bulb?
Days when,
Rejection is more sorrowful and loud than a banshees wails.
Days when,
Dreams are destroyed, or simple tumbled over their designated rails.
So, that’s when I need someone like you.
And I keep looking,
Because I hope you’ll be found and be mine after that.
And all will be alright.
Because I do need Someone like you
And I’ll always do!

-Sabah Batul

#poetry #someonelikeyou #searching #poem #love

Dance With Me?


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I danced to your music,

And I let myself go.

To the rhythm, my hips moved, and my lips with pleasure moaned.

Because no one ever told me

That beauty lies in despair.

No one ever lied and said dancing isn’t for the clumsy,

You are welcoming squeamish stares.

So I danced to your tune,

On a loop, it played on.

I let myself go,

Didn’t tend to the crowd.

So they called me a mess.


But did you believe?

Do you find me to be the chaos in your beats?

Or the muse behind your notes?


Will you love me even though I rarely care?

Will you love me just enough to dance with me?

And take me in your arms?

Because I’ll keep dancing,

And I’ll change my music soon enough.

And you might miss your chance.

Because I am the beauty of today, and I am the dream of the poet.

I am the fantasy, and I am the one you forlornly kiss!

So dance with me…Will you?

-Sabah Batul


This post is written in response to the Daily Prompt, for the word Dance.

Do get back to me with your thoughts!!

And also find me on Instagram – sabah_on_paper  😀

Since I have been home.


Much like that one flicker of a dying a candle,

Much like that one last scream, before you can handle,

Much like a hug before goodbye.

Much like a smile that makes it all alright.

Is the feeling of home, I often miss that.

I miss it in my room,

I miss it when strange walls close in.

I miss it in those ceaseless moments of panic.

I miss it in the last verse of my favourite song.

I miss it, when I am at my worse.

I miss it when there are no pillows to break my fall.

I miss it when my scars get hurt again.

I miss it when I can feel the rain.

And it’s been too long,

Since I have been home.
– Sabah Batul

The boy in the ghaghra.




“Hello, my name is Araj. Am I doing it right? Can..can you hear me clearly?” The agitated 21-year-old asked the reporter. Obviously sharing his life story wasn’t easy for him. I never really understood how he found the courage to do the interview, but here I was listening to it along with my reporter friend and his crew, curious to know what he had to say.

“You’re fine Araj. Why don’t you start by telling us about your childhood?” My friend asked him.
Araj went on for a while, reminiscing the sweet taste of his childhood. A good home, loving parents, food on most nights. All he could ask for.

Then came in the hard questions.
“So when did it all start? And how did you get into it?” My friend asked.
“Umm, I was nine. Nine a tough age, ain’t it? The rules of life still vague, games your entire purpose of living..”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you Ajar, but you are going off topic again.”
I would love to walk you guys through the interview, but Ajar’s sentences were slurred with ominous harsh memories. So I am going to paraphrase.

Ajar was nine years old when he met the man he had heard so much about from the older guys. The Dreamcathcer they called him. He took poor needy kids and gave them a career.
That unfortunate day, a month after his ninth birthday, Ajar met the man with the reputation.

The Dreamcatcher met him with a warm smile, and promises of riches for his family. And God knew Ajar’s family needed the extra money. But his proud dad,and coddling mother would never deliberately ask their youngest for help. ‘Children are to play and grow’, they always said. But if told that ajar was just working to carry bags for old lady’s at the market they would never question it, and be happy he is trying to help.
So Ajar agreed to work for him, but covertly.


For the first day of his job , he wore his finest shirt, and practised his introduction. Had a filling breakfast, whatever his mom could prepare that morning. ‘An earning man needs his energy’, he thought to himself. Packed his lunch and marched proudly to the bus stop to get to work.


His workplace, a huge duplex. With small boys practising dance with their appointed teachers. He was given a few guidelines at his orientation, which he didn’t understand completely. They said he had to learn to do his own make-up. They’ll provide the ghaghra. He works for five hours, and gets 400 a day, the only part he understood clearly. He was then sent into a room with bright flourescent lighting. Given a dress to wear, a girls dress. He tried to question the attire, but was answered with an angry ruthless stare,which he guessed could lead to firing on his first day. So he got dressed, they did his make up. When done, he looked in the mirror and couldn’t recognise his own gender. His groups appointed teacher thought him and the other boys,who looked calm and skilled, a few dance moves. And they were quickly pushed into the spotlight.
There was loud music in the huge room, and brighter lights than the room earlier. And howling men, who seemed to be enjoying the show they were to put. Ajar danced as thought. Even though missing out on most of the steps, he still received a good response from the drunk men. He didn’t quite enjoy this fame though. Something about it made him feel sick. But it was good money, so he danced.

The music stopped and the boys were taken inside. He could hear the men screaming out colors as he was leaving. The other boys discussed that their ghaghra should be the voted color for the day, cause that’s extra money.  Ajar was still clueless. This new workplace was gruelling, and weird he thought. He was asked to wait in a small room for the other half of his assignment they told him. He entered the room, there was a small dirty bed, dim lighting, and a table with a jug full of dark brown liquid which filled the room with its stench. He was finally addressed by an older boy, Ajar had so many questions that he hurled them all out at once. The older boy asked him to calm down. He said, ‘The good men outside are lonely and ailing. They come here for love. And you  give them that love. Do you understand? You can leve if you want. But Ull be paid only 1/4 of what was promised, and shall not return. Will you finish your room assignment?” He stared at Ajar for an answer. Ajar not understanding the graveness of the situation, quickly told him he’ll do his best at all assignments given. The older boy smiled and left.
Ajar waited in his room.

An old man with silver hair, and yellow teeth came  stumbling, and singing,a few minutes later. Ajar greeted him with a smile. The old man told Ajar he needs to do nothing but lie down, he will take care of the rest. Ajar obliged. But the old man came on to him, And he was heavy. Ajar started squealing under him, and resisted the forceful caressing. The older man was quickly infuriated. And said he is going to ask for a different boy if Ajar was to cause any more problems. Ajar out of fear of losing his job, lied down.

The old man did things Ajar couldn’t comprehend. His genitals hurt, his lips were sore, his skin was burning. The old man was strong and harsh with his love. Ajar didn’t understand it, but he felt disgusting. And prayed for it to end soon so that he could go back to his mom. Once the old man was done Ajar was hurting all over,and sobbing with distress. He laid naked as the old man got up, dressed and left. The pain was horrible. His entire body was shivering.

Ajar couldn’t walk straight, or sit for days after the incident. He didn’t return to his appalling job.
That was until his family slept yet another night without dinner. Then he returned again,and he did until he was 14, and wasnt the right age for the lecherous pedophiles.
His parents never knew what was happening with him, they were consumed with their own problems. He simply told them he fell while playing football,when asked. Slowly his body adapted to its sullying every day for that one hour.

“I tell you my story today,because I need my story to be heard. For boys to know better than to get sucked in, and be exploited at such a tender age.
I need them to know it’s not their fault or choice  to be raped every day, or to dance to horny men. I can be their cautionary tale. Save them from the foul the world has to offer at every corner. The world is a horrible place, especially for the poor. It really is.”

Ajar ended his story, with tears in his eyes. I could feel his pain through his clenched fists, and his despairing morose face.

I could see him experience it all over again. I could see horror in his eyes, and hear the disgust in his voice. How tough it must  have been for him to relive it in front of a camera. Knowing he will be heard was his only solace. He had helped.

– Sabah Batul


















My author.



When the sun rests,
and the owls stare.
When stars dance,
and kisses are shared.
He picks up his quill,
and he births art.
This world stands still,
and his world starts.

Time goes back to
when living was at its finest.
Poetry was our honey,
and its taste broke us free!

The wine touches his lips,
He begins to transcend our thoughts,
he teaches us to dream against our odds.
We become one with him.
He makes us swoon for
his living words.
And he has magic in his ink.

He dims his lights.
Takes strolls through woods.
Lurks around inspiration.
He sometimes waits for her.
Her beauty was the essence of something better.
Something of a hope, she was for others.
He understood that.
So he bleed out words.
And we read it, and we understood what love meant.

Now when I read.
I feel his pain,
I feel his passion,
his fire, his lust.
I feel what he felt,
And my turns ashen.
The beats of his heart,
revives mine back.
Engrossed I am.
Because in a dark world,
souls with such beauty as my author.
They drive me mad.
I realize something though,
I frolic and dance.
I might have hope.
Because if he was made,
God must have saved the mould.

#passionate #inspiring #authors
#authors #hope #joy





Shades of dark.



I am in a dark room,
And I won’t leave,
even though I try.
This is my recurrent dream.
I think about it every night.
I am scared to close my eyes, because I don’t want to go back to its darkness.
Time there is slow,
souls there weep and wail.
They are all in despair,
All joy there has turned stale.
They are all in pain.
And whatever I say doesn’t matter, or change my plight.
It’s just a dream I know.
Maybe I shouldn’t fight.
And it shall soon be my past.
But the past clings on to me,
and I stay stagnant.
I simulate nothingness.
I am empty in my dream.
And I ponder,
Unsure if my dream and reality differ much. And I wonder
if I’ll ever move on.
Or enter my future,if I even have one.
But I don’t think I can.
The music in my dream keeps me imprisoned,
and the smokes are shades of dark.
They suffocate me. So listen,
what happens when you die in a dream?
You don’t see light?
Do you wake up?
Or lose your mind.
I don’t know.
Maybe I’ll just be lost.
Lost into space like realm.
Where you don’t matter.
Nothing does.
And time slips away,
And it never comes back.
Time slips from you,
and yourself. And I’ll simply wither away.
-Sabah Batul