Rasha Darra

Edition XXI

Trying - by Rasha Darra (Photo by Tarek Roumie)Photo credit: Tarek Roumie


By Rasha Darra

Chipped my fingernails until they were raw and bleeding
Pushed myself until nothing was left
Gave my all when no one was trying
And still I am stuck as I am

I am a river forever bleeding
The sound of my flow resounding in my ears only
Lost and unheard I remain,
Forgotten in the abyss of I tried and I failed

Yet my voice will not be drowned any longer
The swish-swosh of my flow will be heard so clearly
no one would be able to drown out the sound
I am unfinished, still untried in the habit of leaving

Giving up is not in my nature,
Although I am so close to going over the edge
perrr perr perrr, my voice will ripple stronger by the second and,
I will shine brighter.

Edition XXIII

Reflections - by Rasha Darra (Photo by Suzan Zorba)Photo credit: Suzan Zorba


By Rasha Darra

light rays hit and reflect,
body, person, object.
light rays hit and reflect,
transforming eyesight into judgments.
doubts crisscross and settle,
thoughts are overthought.
actions taken too far,
bodies abused, objects broken.
and yet light rays hit and reflect, 
unaware, undaunted, unflinching.

Edition XXV

Color - by Rasha Darra (Photo by Rasha Darra)Photo credit: Rasha Darra


By Rasha Darra

Indecisiveness is not a color that suits me,
I pour water on myself again and again,
Yet, it remains.
I try again to shake it off me, this time rubbing my hands to wash it away
Using soap, oil, alcohol,
Nothing works.

Indecisiveness is not a color that suits me,
Or so I think,
I am not always right.
Again, I try; more determined, more stubborn
Still it sticks to me,
Like a dead fly swatted; stuck and unflinching.

Indecisiveness is not a color that suits me,
This time I scream it,
I want it to go away,

After trials and trials of me in denial,
I conclude,
Indecisiveness is not a color at all
It simply is, if you let it be.
And is not, if you pay it no heed.

Edition XXVII


Photo credit: Rasha Darra


By Rasha Darra

Is that really a wilted rose?
Stuck in its own dose,
with no one to help it form and
no one to save it from its own
life that teeters on the brink of salvation,
playing a desperate line between here and
the unknown.

It falls but is unheard in that deep hole
that lies between truth and falsifications.
Will it ever come back to its past form
of vigor and innocent observation?

Could it ever shift from an end to a means of beginning?
That wilted rose I ask again,
“will you ever come back to me?”
I whisper through the broken petals laid down at my feet,
the shattered sorrows lying all around me
I whisper, so low the wind fails to catch it:
“Come back to me…”

Edition XXVIII

Porcelain - by Rasha Darra (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj


By Rasha Darra

Naive, innocent, introvert,
they think I am what I am not,
mistaking silence for weakness,
thinking I can easily show meekness,
submissive, unrelenting obedience.

Not knowing my true complexion,
they mistake my skin for porcelain;
fragile and easily broken.
When in truth, it is as hard as titanium steel.

I am not a doll of porcelain,
raised only to eat, sleep and leave
behind me a trail that disappears.
Leaving me known as that girl that appeared
yet could not do anything until she disappeared.

They throw labels thinking I am not one that comprehends
the meaning behind all the things being said.
Must I be so clear?!
About all that it is, I hear and see?!
Is there no mediocre ground to reach?!
That can lead to uniformity?!

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