Not A Novel Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

(Salman's poem)


She gazes out windows like life's a film noir,
Sips lukewarm tea like it's leaving a scar.
Pouts at the sky like the clouds owe her tears,
Drenched in faux sorrow and thrift-store veneers.

Says, "It's poetic, " as she sulks in her bed,
Girl, it's just Tuesday—get out of your head.
The drama's tired, the gloom's passé,
You're not a novel—just bored today.

She twirls in her kitchen like pain is a dance,
Clutches her journal like fate's in a trance.
Collects broken mugs like they whisper her name,
Spins tales of heartache with zero real shame.

Wears eyeliner thick like it shields her from fate,
Plays vinyls at dusk like it's 1948.
Posts cryptic quotes, then refreshes the feed,
Starved for a comment she doesn't quite need.

Calls every silence a haunting refrain,
Wears melancholy like it's part of her chain.
Claims she's a tempest, a storm in her skin—
Babe, it's just hormones, not chaos within.

Sighs like the world just doesn't align,
With her tragic aesthetic and overpriced wine.
Stares at the mirror like she's waiting to see
A misunderstood muse in a black-and-white spree.

Carries a paperback she never will read,
Swears she's a poet just nursing a need.
Draws hearts on receipts in a moment of flair,
Then throws them away like no one would care.

But oh, how she loves her curated despair,
The spotlight of sadness, the vacant stare.
She's crafted a world where she's always the lead—
A girl made of longing, not actual need.

So sip your tea, babe, and dramatize slow,
Romance the mundane, let your irony show.
The world's not your stage, but hey, that's okay—
Sometimes you're just lonely. And that's kind of cliché.