I hold myself back, I hold myself back While they leap on ropes of flowers, I remain seated on the old wooden bench.
I know they see me as a living shadow. I sense it, I perceive it.
I want to escape, I want to run desesperately, But I’m stuck and cursed to be on this bench.
My feet have no motivation Against this painful, bipolar breeze My words, Confused and clumsy, Is an old gray chain of lies That only sinks and sinks deeper into the sea.
I see it, Every time the chain experiences Different layers of state and light.
When it’s deep, It wants to return to its ship, But it’s stuck, And every creature will know.
The sailor, owner of the chain, Watches how all sailors and pirates Have their chains beside them, Clear and new.
They explore more of the sea without stopping, But the sailor is stuck.
She believed that by talking more About his treasure chest, She could got on others ships, So she searched thinking in just one place to find a chest, With abundance, “The things the sailor doesn’t have” Simply to make other sailors’ eyes shine, And finally be accepted
Among their luxurious suits and ships.
The sailor looks around.
Around her, Some wait for the expected treasure, But all the sailors around are slowly leaving.
Sure, And now they leave and are free, While the sailor is stuck.
The sailor regrets and wishes extreme happiness for them through clenched teeth.
Dystopian norm
We are programmed robots; when the time comes, we just walk, following what the norm order. “Norms” says: do all we say in a few seconds and devastate your fingerprints until there’s nothing left. Don’t close your eyes and follow one method. “Norms” says: have the same brain, with red lines intertwined, full of memories, genetics, and experience equal to the others. Keep it, Keep it to yourself.
For the, we have bunnies red ayes, Machinery that needs to be fixed. For us they are gluttons. The more robots they create, the more they cover the country with their bodies. Then we are stuck to these invisible webs. Then what will happen? We will sink into the dirty earth we didn’t create.
Underground
They cover their eyes involuntarily, and walk over them as if they were earth. You, the ones who will never consider yourselves nothing, float slowly in turbulent water.
No one is born to not be seen. While they laugh in luxury, you, the invisibles, work in the shadows behind their big backs, only to receive a step on the hand, something admirable.
Oh, nobody’s, you keep living in filth. And no one will stop the rage I feel when clenching my teeth and closing my mouth. Not only in me: between blood and blood,
the rage of their avengers and descendants will become more fulminescent and will explode on their pretty and rare porcelain
But to gist you about the heavy thought that occupied the bulk of my time.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to tell you how long I became an ardent worshipper of Love
But to finally tell you the words I whisper million times to the air
Hoping that one day, just one day
Those cool words would caress your ear like the evening breeze sweeping through a grass field.
I’ll write you a letter
Not just with an ink on paper
But with a mixture of blood and tears
Hoping that they’ll send my hearty request to you;
That I seek to make You and I – US!
And that one day, we could play and dance the “Nā cika buri na” song in our home.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to showcase my feeble knowledge of love and romance
But to connect with your soul so that when you excitedly read this letter
You’d hear my voice solidly pleading my case,
For somewhere in me, I feel the need to kiss your soul.
I’ll write you a letter
Not because I can write one
But because I wanna remind you of how You and I fit like a pair of gloves
And together we’d play a tune that’ll never register a discordant note.
I’ll write you a letter
Not to display the obvious elation that cover my face as I write this
But to tell you how your name is scribbled all around my diary.
And when far from the world I am,
I open each page and whisper your name to God, praying that He makes you mine.
And when I’m done, I place the diary on my chest, imagining it was your hand.
I’ll write you a letter
Not minding others calling me an old-fashioned lover
But to just send you these three words “I LOVE YOU”
After much struggling, I’ve cancelled many words
Just to show how lost I am in your world.
I hope these three words could do the magic!
I’ll write you a letter
Not because people didn’t call me Majnun already.
But for you to come to my rescue before life finishes rendering me useless.
However, if after you came, you found me on my grave;
Just know that, I’ll still be waiting for your reply.
WHEN I’M GONE
When I’m no longer here,
When far from this world I go
Just let me go
Don’t weep thinking of me
Because I’ve the Beloved to meet and the eternal garden to explore.
When I’m no longer here
Be grateful for the beautiful years we spent
During which I gave you my whole
Now is the time for me to travel alone
To leave for a joyfully distant race of no return.
When I’m no longer here
Trust me, we’ll only be separated for a while
So, smile knowing precious memories remain behind;
Lingering love that’s hard to find.
When I’m no longer here
Don’t go to my grave crying
I ain’t there, I am with the Beloved.
He’ll make me the star that shines at night
And the awakening of the birds in the calm morning.
Mohammad Babangida Ibrahim is the guy behind the pseudonym Moustapha Misau. He is a Nigerian poet that grew up traversing the globe through the pages of books. When he is not sorrounded by books, you find him at the gym working out to have a better physique. He has his poems published at williwans.express and an anthology by Young Creative Writers. He can be contacted via +2348060807042 or Moustapha Misau on socials.
Student Life – The Harmony of Dreams and Hard Work
There comes a time in every person’s life that becomes not only a period of learning but also a school of dreams, perseverance, labor, and life experience. This period is student life. Student life is the most beautiful, meaningful, and responsible stage of youth. It represents a turning point in a person’s life, a serious step toward the future.
Today, when we speak of a student, we do not only mean young people sitting in lecture halls, reading books, or preparing for exams. A student is someone who harmonizes their dreams with effort, contributing to the development of society. A student is the owner of tomorrow — a person who is laying the foundation for the future of the nation today.
No dream can be achieved easily. Behind every success lies sweat, dedication, and endless striving. Therefore, student life is not a dream without effort, but labor infused with dreams. Every day, a student wakes up early to attend classes on time, stays in the library after lectures, conducts research, and explores additional resources through the internet. With each of these daily efforts, they lay the groundwork for future achievements.
The years of student life strengthen a person and prepare them for real life. During this period, one learns to think independently, value time, and overcome obstacles. Especially when dreams and hard work are combined, the result is always bright. Work opens the way to dreams, and dreams give meaning to work. Every student has their own dream: some wish to become doctors who bring healing to people, others aspire to be engineers creating new technologies, and some hope to be teachers nurturing the next generation. Yet all these dreams come true only through diligence and perseverance.
Student life is a test — but in this test, a person discovers themselves. The moments of fatigue, the sleepless nights, the hours devoted to study — all of them later turn into a source of pride. Because this hard work is the foundation of one’s dreams, the beginning of future success.
Today’s students are tomorrow’s scientists, engineers, teachers, and leaders. In their hands lies the future of the nation, the trust of the people, and the hope of progress. Therefore, if every student harmonizes their dreams with their labor, our country will confidently move toward a brighter future. For wherever dreams and hard work unite, there will always be success, happiness, and a prosperous tomorrow.
Amonboyeva Shahnoza Yusupboy qizi was born on august,2007,in Gurlan District, Khorezm region, Republic of Uzbekistan. She graduated from her local school. She is currently a first-year student at the Urgench State University.
You can always achieve your dreams. You just have to believe and act. It’s true that sometimes you get depressed, things may not seem like it, but your efforts will pay off one day. You just have to sincerely believe in dreams.
I also have many dreams and I am gradually achieving these dreams.
You know, many years ago, when I was 6 or 7 years old, my parents used to take us to many festivals and theaters, and I was envious of those who participated in the festival or those who acted on stage. I used to say to myself that I wish I could go to the stage and take part in the celebrations. I dreamed of being like them, thinking that maybe I would be like them when I grow up. I had forgotten this dream of mine. But when I was young, I was so envious that I was able to play a role in the theater at the age of 14 and at the age of 15 to perform on the big stage at the festival. After a long time, I achieved my dream.
True, some people may say that this is both a job and a dream, but I am very happy that I have achieved my dream from my youth and I once again believed that if a person really wants something, that dream will come true. Your dream may not come true when you want it, but your dream may come true at an unexpected time.
Believe in your dreams and keep moving. Because you can’t make dreams come true.
Bizarro horror laced with black humor, [Alex S. Johnson’s] Wicked Candy is shocking, perverse, and, at times, funny as hell”–Lucy Taylor, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Safety of Unknown Cities, “Queen of Erotic Horror”
I write from the slit. From the altar. From the lipstick-smeared mouth of the wound. My horror is femme, feral, and sovereign. It’s Queer in the way glitter is Queer: loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. I write transfemme because I am. I write horror because it lets me scream in stilettos and bleed with intention. I write Queer because I refuse to be anything less than electric.
My protagonists are women. Slutty, sacred, contradictory, and divine. They are not victims. They are perpetrators, lovers, monsters, saints. They fuck like gods and cry like poets, often simultaneously. They are soft and they are brutal. They are tender and they are merciless. One thing they never do is ask permission to be who they are.
I write from the place Judith Butler named: where gender is not essence but performance, not fixed but fluid, not passive but political. My horror is a stage where femininity is weaponized, eroticized, and ritualized. My women perform gender with lipstick and knives.
I write from the borderlands Gloria Anzaldúa mapped: the space between, the space beyond, the space that refuses to be named. My horror is mestiza consciousness in stilettos. It’s hybrid, haunted, and holy. It’s the scream of the in-between. My stories live in the rupture/rapture between binaries—between victim and perpetrator, between sacred and profane, between Queer and monstrous.
I’ve stood beside the torture porn boys, have even been published alongside them. I’ve read their work. I’ve seen their mobs. I’ve felt their eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I don’t apologize.
Matt Shaw writes from the meat hook. From the gallows. From the dungeon. His books—Rotten, Sick B, The Cabin—are full of women torn apart, raped, mutilated, discarded. Pain isn’t merely a function of the violence. It’s the point. Women are the spectacle. There is no joy, no reclamation, no complexity. His protagonists are not people—they’re props. His eroticism is domination. His violence is spectacle. His tone is grim, brutal, and hollow. His purpose is provocation, not transformation.
Mine is the opposite. My protagonists are sovereign. They are slutty without shame. They love rough sex and tenderness. They revel in being women—not as objects of pity or punishment, but as architects of their own mythos. My eroticism is sacred. My violence is ritual. My tone is satirical, poetic, glamorously grotesque. My purpose is reclamation, rupture, celebration.
Matt Shaw attacked me. He joined mobs. He tried to erase me. He’s done it to others too—Hailey Hughes, a trauma therapist and BookTuber, critiqued his portrayal of women and he retaliated with a mocking book dedication, social media rants, and a swarm of followers. That’s his pattern: defensiveness, aggression, refusal to engage with critique, especially from Queer and femme voices.
But I don’t write to be palatable. I write to be unforgettable.
My horror is lipstick and knives. It’s sacred and slutty. It’s Queer and loud. It’s the kind of story that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It kicks the door in and dances on the table.
I write in the lineage of Lucy Taylor—whose work is lush, erotic, and unafraid. Her women are complex, her sex is sacred and savage, her horror is sensual and sharp. Like her, I write bodies that bleed and bloom. I write desire that bites. I write monstrosity that seduces.
Writing transfemme means writing with every part of me that was told to stay silent. Writing horror means turning that silence into a scream that echoes through the bones. Writing Queer means kissing the monster and becoming it. I do not ask for the reader’s comfort. I offer them transformation.
Matt Shaw can keep his meat grinder. I’ll keep my lipstick, my stilettos, and my monsters. And I’ll keep writing stories that make the genre gasp, gag, and grow.
Mother, a colorful phenomenon, magical and bright.
A faultless projection of paradise, a wondrous sight.
As the Quran says, “Show gratitude to Me and to your parents dear” (31:14).
And the Prophet’s words, “Paradise lies at the feet of your mother”.
So dear.
She offers glassfuls of love to all.
A nurturing spirit that stands tall.
With a heart full of affection, she guides us through life.
A mother’s love, a precious gift, a treasure so bright.
She’s a multi-dimensional mirror, reflecting divine beauty, rare.
A reliable blessing for humanity, beyond compare.
In her presence, hearts find peace and rest.
A mother’s love, forever etched in our breasts.
So let’s cherish and honour our mothers with glee.
For their love and care, are blessings to you and I.
Hassan Musa Dakasku, is a Nigerian writer, a passionate advocate for youth well-being and a performance poet, He is an author based on vulnerability and of a personal blog.
