“I will spend every breakfast with you. I will kiss your cheeks in the morning when you are too tired to go to work. I will put my hair into a bun and I will carry my heavy body for you. I will put my little heart in a bowl with rice milk. I will make you a cup of Turkish tea, and I will listen to your eyes. I will wait for you with all my beauty. I will make your house a harem of love. I will be so exquisite you won’t desire any other woman. And I will let my love pour for you like a cascade. I will fold your clothes and leave you love notes on the fridge. I will grow flowers under your bed. I will soak myself in honey for you, and I will let my hair fall down for you when you call on me. I will love you in anger. I will kiss you when you least deserve it. I will look for your father in your eyes, and I will ask for your mother on how to make you happy. When I will upset you, remember my little heart next to yours. I will pronounce your name in Arabic, and you will forgive my sinless eyes. And I will fall in love with you again.”

— Marriage Legacies by Royla Asghar 

"I am an unforgivable creature. But darling, I will love you. I will love you through all my disgusting perfomances."

- The Short Poems Series by Royla Asghar (via poems-of-madness)

I ran away just to face my own horrors. I ran away from my passions, the same way millionaires run from their debt. To an European island where all inhibitions are free, the weather is hot, and love is dressed in a beautiful gown, speaking with an unknown accent, selling poems and dreams by the Riviera. And there I was, most beautiful, most youthful, but utterly heartbroken. In debt with my heart and my soul. I could not meet anyone's gaze or tanned skin, even as they served me sparkling water in a wine glass, thanking me for merely existing. In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me enough to delicately tend to the immense hurt within my heart. Yet, on an Italian island, I found myself peeling lemons and savoring them with sugar. A metaphor for my life. That's exactly what love tastes like. The ache descends upon me like sweat on my back, and all I can think about is how it feels to be genuinely caressed on the parts of my body that only my poems have witnessed. I'm on the most beautiful island. And I might not be the most beautiful thing here, but my heart is. With its cracked surface, fractured interior, diamonds scattered on the floor, and colorful glass veins. Finally, sun rays break through; finally, the yearning for him finds its place. Finally, tears fall from a seductive woman confessing the sins of love. This confessional, this heart, has finally shattered, and the entire island trembles.

#1 Capri from The Italian Collection by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

I romanticize everything, to the point of self-destruction. I fabricate love stories in various places, leading to isolation. There are so many places I can no longer visit because I've given them away to love. Throughout my life, I've always been the one responsible for breaking my own heart.

I Am My Own Mirage by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

I ran away just to face my own horrors. I ran away from my passions, the same way millionaires run from their debt. To an European island where all inhibitions are free, the weather is hot, and love is dressed in a beautiful gown, speaking with an unknown accent, selling poems and dreams by the Riviera. And there I was, most beautiful, most youthful, but utterly heartbroken. In debt with my heart and my soul. I could not meet anyone's gaze or tanned skin, even as they served me sparkling water in a wine glass, thanking me for merely existing. In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me enough to delicately tend to the immense hurt within my heart. Yet, on an Italian island, I found myself peeling lemons and savoring them with sugar. A metaphor for my life. That's exactly what love tastes like. The ache descends upon me like sweat on my back, and all I can think about is how it feels to be genuinely caressed on the parts of my body that only my poems have witnessed. I'm on the most beautiful island. And I might not be the most beautiful thing here, but my heart is. With its cracked surface, fractured interior, diamonds scattered on the floor, and colorful glass veins. Finally, sun rays break through; finally, the yearning for him finds its place. Finally, tears fall from a seductive woman confessing the sins of love. This confessional, this heart, has finally shattered, and the entire island trembles.

#1 Capri from The Italian Collection by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

I ran away just to face my own horrors. I ran away from my passions, the same way millionaires run from their debt. To an European island where all inhibitions are free, the weather is hot, and love is dressed in a beautiful gown, speaking with an unknown accent, selling poems and dreams by the Riviera. And there I was, most beautiful, most youthful, but utterly heartbroken. In debt with my heart and my soul. I could not meet anyone's gaze or tanned skin, even as they served me sparkling water in a wine glass, thanking me for merely existing. In love with a man who only loves my shadow and my silhouette. My hips were on the plate, my legs were over the table, and my figure shattered into diamonds. He does not love me enough to delicately tend to the immense hurt within my heart. Yet, on an Italian island, I found myself peeling lemons and savoring them with sugar. A metaphor for my life. That's exactly what love tastes like. The ache descends upon me like sweat on my back, and all I can think about is how it feels to be genuinely caressed on the parts of my body that only my poems have witnessed. I'm on the most beautiful island. And I might not be the most beautiful thing here, but my heart is. With its cracked surface, fractured interior, diamonds scattered on the floor, and colorful glass veins. Finally, sun rays break through; finally, the yearning for him finds its place. Finally, tears fall from a seductive woman confessing the sins of love. This confessional, this heart, has finally shattered, and the entire island trembles.

#1 Capri from The Italian Collection by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

There are no fantasies of love, Only realities of me belly dancing, in my little kitchen. My body moving only for me, my hips know the hurt of my heart And I lose myself once again, The sun shines through my rose-colored drapes Turning my home into a Harem of love poetry and perfumes. I smoke a cigarette as I make the breakfast, And the whole world serenades me And love is nobody but myself. My hands in jewelry on my shape And I keep on dancing my hair getting longer my eyes getting greener. I eat my dessert in a beautiful dress on the balcony, And my solitude is pink sweeter than any gesture of Love. And they worry about my loneliness But if they saw me now They would fall in love with a woman that is utterly made out of soul and sensuality only for herself; Understanding that love is made of the solitude within the self.

- Pink Love by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

There are no fantasies of love, Only realities of me belly dancing, in my little kitchen. My body moving only for me, my hips know the hurt of my heart And I lose myself once again, The sun shines through my rose-colored drapes Turning my home into a Harem of love poetry and perfumes. I smoke a cigarette as I make the breakfast, And the whole world serenades me And love is nobody but myself. My hands in jewelry on my shape And I keep on dancing my hair getting longer my eyes getting greener. I eat my dessert in a beautiful dress on the balcony, And my solitude is pink sweeter than any gesture of Love. And they worry about my loneliness But if they saw me now They would fall in love with a woman that is utterly made out of soul and sensuality only for herself; Understanding that love is made of the solitude within the self.

- Pink Love by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

There are no fantasies of love, Only realities of me belly dancing, in my little kitchen. My body moving only for me, my hips know the hurt of my heart And I lose myself once again, The sun shines through my rose-colored drapes Turning my home into a Harem of love poetry and perfumes. I smoke a cigarette as I make the breakfast, And the whole world serenades me And love is nobody but myself. My hands in jewelry on my shape And I keep on dancing my hair getting longer my eyes getting greener. I eat my dessert in a beautiful dress on the balcony, And my solitude is pink sweeter than any gesture of Love. And they worry about my loneliness But if they saw me now They would fall in love with a woman that is utterly made out of soul and sensuality only for herself; Understanding that love is made of the solitude within the self.

- Pink Love by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

The people I love are the workers of my heart. They rebuild a heart they did not break from a house of ashes to a skyscraper ruling over the whole world.

- The Short Poem Series by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

The people I love are the workers of my heart. They rebuild a heart they did not break from a house of ashes to a skyscraper ruling over the whole world.

- The Short Poem Series by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

The people I love are the workers of my heart. They rebuild a heart they did not break from a house of ashes to a skyscraper ruling over the whole world.

- The Short Poem Series by Royla Paula Rădița Asghar

God gave me a mother tongue, so I can speak to Him in my prayers, while you listen to me I whisper dreams of my heart The mother tongue, I am calling God. I am calling my mother attempting to tell her about a women's pain I am the woman She is the woman Only the mother tongue knows the suffering of a broken heart Of a heart that contains its blood Now, a heart that closes like a fist That beats you like a fist I keep looking for my mother's eyes only to find my own eyes I ask for her food, It is the only thing that reminds me that I am a gentle soul that I am still someone's daughter I am still a heart that belongs to no one but me That I loved once That I am capable of love Even though I can be unlovable I will always be like this, Like I could drown someone in all of my love Like I could take it all away. A promise I intend to keep; Once my heart is more red than the sun I will create a new era For us. For me.

- The New Era by Royla Paula Radita Asghar

“You are a blonde, you dance in front of other girls, you learn Spanish on a huge balcony. Your house burns with poetry, and your soul extinguishes like the sunset, quietly, charmingly, melancholy. You avoid your lover, you taste like pink soda, you listen to rap songs for escape. You let your girlfriends compliment your body, because sometimes you would rather be a woman of women. You keep your figure like an hourglass, counting time, counting kisses. When they leave you, you cannot recognize yourself, you cannot look at him. You are a blonde, and your girls make you laugh on the hottest summer day.”

— Blondes and Brunettes by Royla Asghar 

“No documentary can capture my soul, no movie will deliver my pain to the audience, not truly; the way my tears sparkle on my cheeks at night, how my heart dies with me in bed, how love always betrays me, how much I give and how lightly happiness sustains me. No documentary can explain my aching, my belongingness, my charisma, and my melancholy. No one could paint the world I carry in between my lungs. What kind of life I’ve chose for myself. How misunderstood I felt, how little I was. What kind of burden my heart was for me, how I prayed for another one. No one will tell my story like it was; like I loved too much and it got me nowhere, like I faked my patience. How mad I was that I was not like other women or that I felt guilty all the time. I never gave myself the time or kind words. It seemed childish. No documentary will portrait my loneliness. The training I constantly put my brain and heart through. Closing my mouth a little more, screaming in my head more. But I would lie in every documentary and in every biography for a little bit of attention, for a little bit of passion. ,”

— Cinematic by Royla Asghar 

“At times I needed my friends, more than I needed myself, more than I ever needed a man. You see, I would get so homeless without them. So unpoetic. They were the love of my life. I was so goddamn melancholic withiout them. Sweetly pathetic without them. They were my temple, my place to go when I needed forgivness. Chocolate and kisses, soft touches on my body. I would have chosen them over and over again. Our phone dialogue were movie scripts, manuscripts of hours, hours of poetry. They were my muse, and they knew it. Till the bone. I wrote them down like I owed them all of my poetry. At times they used me, and I was there to be used. At times I used them till my sins were theirs.”

— My Girlfriends Were The Love Of My Life by Royla Asghar

“Poets are so shady. We are never honest and even if we seem to be too honest and raw, we are not. We are selfish and egoistic. We only write about what hurts us. We write about our pain and suffering. Moreover, we blame it on lover after lover. You have already read that a thousand times before, the story of a how a person broke our heart and tricked our mind. However, what we never write about is the hearts we break, and the pain we cause. I am not as innocent as I made myself seem in my poems, yes, I am in love with a fool and he breaks my heart every day. But sometimes I wonder if it is just karma hitting me repeatedly. Oh, there has been a boy willing to set himself on fire for me but I handed him the matches and left… I never saw the beauty of him burning for me. And later on I’ve read about him in the paper, that he is not ashes anymore. Oh my God, there has been a boy I’ve let starving because I thought he already ate too much. I did not want to be another bittersweet revenge on his plate…. only to find out that he was honestly hungry for the love he thought I could give him. I read his cooking books, and he makes sweets for a lovely girl now. And oh, there was a boy with a broken heart but with strong hands that wanted to touch me. I thought I was too extravagant for his dirty soul, and so later on I found out he had mines of gold and diamonds. I’ve hurt a lot of people. I’ve hurt them the way this boy is hurting me. And now I am screaming to God to forgive me. I’ve been so so ruthless with their good hearts. And I am down on my knees praying for the ghosts to stop hunting me every time I try to love him.”

— I Am A Poet And I Break Hearts For Art by Royla Asghar