Desperate Purple

I finished the day with yearning,

Wished the day stretched further,

The violent orange glow and

desperate purples of the sky screaming, reaching

for another breath as the night yawned awake

and smoored the fires of day.

I remember, my head against the pillow,

my hands reaching to clasp some far-off dream.

So content in sleep, so self-absorbed in wakefulness

So conscious somewhere in between.

I remember myself so vividly.

As vivid as the excuses I made for problems I should not have had,

As vivid as the pure emotion that drove my decisions from day to dark.

I loved my beauty, whatever of it I owned, I loved my mind, for it was vast and filled with


I loved the small blooms of wisdom that grew there, that I would pick and share with others.

And so I am unclear, uncertain as to why

this dark, thick fog has descended.

Settled neatly between my confidence and optimism,

Smothering with its full weight upon what defines me.

What I could have been.

Nesha Usmani

April 23, 2015


the way

She doesn’t sleep.

It evades her as a skittish moth

would evade a determined palm.

Instead she dozes in the shallows,

the ice-cold and transparent tide.

Pushed along the hours by dark thoughts

and dreams.

Affection is the worst of lures.

Blinds you in its presence and

leads you deep into the woods.

Holds your hand and caresses

your knuckles with warm thumbs.

You are reassured.

And then when it leaves,

the blindfold goes with it,

fluttering in the wind.

And you are alone

in the woods, in the dark.

In a clearing that looks the same

in every direction.

and consciousness

is worst than the nightmares.

But the only way home

is up.


Nesha Usmani




Strangely, Very Relevant

A Much Delayed Stream of Consciousness.

Every night,

A solid dream

Waking unrealities

I wish never became real to me

The inner apocalypse I ignore,

The mad madness of every madman that ever was mad,

Bottled inside of my throat,

Plays with the cords of my voice

A sad tune,

An evil smile

The irony is so spectacular…

The betrayal so profound

Sends shockwaves of hatred up into my brain,

Brought down by slow torture of gravity,

And into the shallow shores of my conscience

Ah, the betrayal…

The betrayal!

The convulsions throw me

With the memory of every gift I ever gave.

And every word I’ve ever said

The shame,

The humiliation,

Rape me

Rape my unabashed vow to never regret

Touch me, look…

Look! Where are the scars?

Where are they, the deepest wounds, and the horrendous gashes?

Hidden behind the placidity…perhaps

Taking sanctuary beneath the smile…

The pain, blessed with the gills to breathe in the abysmal pools

Of the darkness of my eyes…

So that it will remain there,

Breathe there, thrive there,

And I’ll let a star in sometimes…

I’ll let the star in to twinkle off the surface

I’ll make the pools reflect and shine and glow,

And you’ll think me happy

Perhaps never seeing the monstrous deformity

That lingers on, dwelling in the deep

Perhaps you’ll never see me again,

Only observe the weak projections

It will get better

Better it will get

Get better it will

Will it get better?





You will regret it

Regret it you will

Will you regret it?


I think so

But maybe,

You won’t.

Tragedy, Tragedy, Tragedy

Mumbles Shakespeare in his sleep,

His peaceful sleep, an arm around his mistress

“The Horror The Horror”

Chants Kurtz

Kurtz in the jungle…Kurtz in the bed,

Kurtz making his way to Hell

And his Intended floats in an infinite maze

Whilst Conrad sharpens his pencil to bleed some more…

Why don’t we all bleed some more of our lives, mop it up on paper,

Sell it to the world

I hope…

I hope it was worth it…the hypocrisy and the lies…

The glass promises thrown down the stairs and the shards shoved into a closet…

I hope it was all worth it,

I hope it was worth the breaking of our friendship…I hope it was worth sending it to Hell.

And I hope it was worth the shattering of red vitality,

I can’t even look at you,

I hope it was worth that too

Funny…it was easier when the wound was fresh

But… every divine being must have looked down upon me and frowned

When I began to miss the knife that bled me.

Nesha Usmani

Saturday, September 23, 2006

edited: October 29, 2012