top of page
  • Writer's pictureAnxious Poets Society

on burnt, gauzed wings by Hammad

deriving your constant disaster

seeking reason to hold second nature

a candle to the scorching death of your pleasure ames forging the face of the crying master

with my head buried in my hands

and my hair dampest around it's fringes while the skin raises to a thousands syringes forceful to move a corpse till it stands

phantasmagoric, one may say.

the real pleasure was the pain of flight

when rotting feathers line the trail of searching and a shred of bandage marks a place of meaning the daggered wounds cry a silent blight

oh burnt, gauzed winds

carry repair to the limping limbs

and rapport to the screeching screams

on burnt, gauzed wings


”My name is Hammad and I am 17 years old. My writing is often influenced by the music and art I consume, as well as by my most contemplative days and when I'm at my lowest. The solace I gain during these exercises is one I hope translates into work that is meaningful.”

17 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I. Your skin is wet paste sticking to a hospital wristband Under an empty wide gaze that sees nothing. Though I imagine how pretty you must look With your friends at the park, Lying on a picnic table,

blank paper sheets waiting to be filled on the study table, she picked her pen up every ink burst’s her spell word by word, she started weaving kingdom—her utopia. before her eyes, an ethereal scenery

More powerful than a locomotive, able to leap reality in a single bound, it’s a nuclear bomb, it’s a super computer: it’s the age-old strain of virulent addiction. Once in its ravenous and raptor claw

bottom of page