I write poetry. I am a dreamer, thinker, lover, artist, nerd, music-hunter, football-watcher, Afghan-American stargazer, gamer, best friend, sister, and Pisces. Currently a VCU Ram. Follow me on Twitter: @SabirahG
frma2z:

underrrdog:

bratsquad:

this is so beautiful :(

frma2z

🙊🙊 a must have

How do you clean it and replace the fish??? 😱😰😱

frma2z:

underrrdog:

bratsquad:

this is so beautiful :(

frma2z

🙊🙊 a must have

How do you clean it and replace the fish??? 😱😰😱

(Source: srsfunny, via narcolepsyslide)

#SundayFunday  (at Fabbioli Cellars)

#SundayFunday (at Fabbioli Cellars)

#SundayFunday #RoadTrip #MiniMacarons #Scute

#SundayFunday #RoadTrip #MiniMacarons #Scute

all-the-ways-things-are:
afrikanattire:

Ugandan baby being weighed at a local clinic.

afrikanattire:

Ugandan baby being weighed at a local clinic.

(via downwardspiralintooblivion)

#nofilter #turnt #jkyeahright

#nofilter #turnt #jkyeahright

baluchx:

BONUS SADAE AFGHANISTAN VIDEO!!!

I wanted to get some interesting stories from the young kids in Afghanistan, but I learned the hard way that kids require different methods of being comfortable in front of a camera 

So I wasn’t able to get any real stories from any of them until I met with the last young girl who shared her dreams of becoming a Film Maker when she grows up and shared a lovely little nursery rhyme she wrote.

subscribe to the channel, and share the video :)

(via afghangster)

likeafieldmouse:

Hense - 700 Delaware (2012) - Mural on abandoned church

I went to a NYE party here and it’s fucking awesome. The inside is an art gallery and there is graffiti/street art covering it from head to toe. It’s called the Church of Blind Whino. 10/10 would totally go back.

(via thatsmoderatelyraven)

Missing this lady 😘

Missing this lady 😘

Family

She is never amused.

She is never amused.


They call us now. Before they drop the bombs. The phone rings and someone who knows my first name calls and says in perfect Arabic “This is David.” And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies still smashing around in my head I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?” They call us now to say Run. You have 58 seconds from the end of this message. Your house is next. They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy. It doesn’t matter that there is nowhere to run to. It means nothing that the borders are closed and your papers are worthless and mark you only for a life sentence in this prison by the sea and the alleyways are narrow and there are more human lives packed one against the other more than any other place on earth Just run. We aren’t trying to kill you. It doesn’t matter that you can’t call us back to tell us the people we claim to want aren’t in your house that there’s no one here except you and your children who were cheering for Argentina sharing the last loaf of bread for this week counting candles left in case the power goes out. It doesn’t matter that you have children. You live in the wrong place and now is your chance to run to nowhere. It doesn’t matter that 58 seconds isn’t long enough to find your wedding album or your son’s favorite blanket or your daughter’s almost completed college application or your shoes or to gather everyone in the house. It doesn’t matter what you had planned. It doesn’t matter who you are Prove you’re human. Prove you stand on two legs. Run. Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

They call us now.
Before they drop the bombs.
The phone rings
and someone who knows my first name
calls and says in perfect Arabic
“This is David.”
And in my stupor of sonic booms and glass shattering symphonies
still smashing around in my head
I think “Do I know any Davids in Gaza?”
They call us now to say
Run.
You have 58 seconds from the end of this message.
Your house is next.
They think of it as some kind of war time courtesy.
It doesn’t matter that
there is nowhere to run to.
It means nothing that the borders are closed
and your papers are worthless
and mark you only for a life sentence
in this prison by the sea
and the alleyways are narrow
and there are more human lives
packed one against the other
more than any other place on earth
Just run.
We aren’t trying to kill you.
It doesn’t matter that
you can’t call us back to tell us
the people we claim to want aren’t in your house
that there’s no one here
except you and your children
who were cheering for Argentina
sharing the last loaf of bread for this week
counting candles left in case the power goes out.
It doesn’t matter that you have children.
You live in the wrong place
and now is your chance to run
to nowhere.
It doesn’t matter
that 58 seconds isn’t long enough
to find your wedding album
or your son’s favorite blanket
or your daughter’s almost completed college application
or your shoes
or to gather everyone in the house.
It doesn’t matter what you had planned.
It doesn’t matter who you are
Prove you’re human.
Prove you stand on two legs.
Run.

Running Orders by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha

(Source: lilightfoot, via afgham)

Pablo Neruda's Saddest Poem ↘

naguib:

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights…

(via wordpainting)