Marwa Bhuiyan, born on November 8th, 2006, in Brooklyn, NY, is a dynamic young poet, playwright, and activist. Being a first-generation student and a woman of color (WOC), she is committed to amplifying the voices of people from all economic and social backgrounds through her writing. Currently, she serves as the executive director of three organizations: Brooklyn Plays Scream, The Timely Education Review, and Nirbhoy Nari. Through these platforms, she effectively merges her passion for the arts with her dedication to political activism. Marwa's fascination with language and storytelling began at a tender age, where she felt drawn to the power of words and the sense of reverence they evoke, even in the rawest narratives. The allure of various art forms and their hedonistic essence continually fuels her passion, motivating her to excel in her pursuits. Beyond her artistic endeavors, Marwa also devotes time to her studies and directs a tutoring center at her local masjid. Through her multifaceted endeavors, Marwa strives to make a positive impact on society and create a more inclusive and passionate world.
Three Hours of Lost Merit: A Poetry Collection
1 Three Hours of Lost Merit: A Poetry Collection Riches of This Forest The turbulence entailed by the gulls who chant above — their capsizing strength, evidenced by the mass of the conformation’s devotion below. The echo of the pests that adhere upon my shoulders and the creatures that hover above; they are all mindful of their position in this ecosystem. I strike at the sight of the heirs who reside at the echelons of the trees; the spectacle of this beauty has immersed the ruin of the grounds entirely. But I am unable to flee from this moment — empowering my limbs to confess to the earth's triumphant cry; the framework that denotes the condemnation of all rebellion against this regime. The freeloaders all impede the rabbits' speech; they speak of evolution and propriety, but the parasites sneer at this noise! They ridicule the cries of the forest and the enclaves clamoring for transition. There is an enforcement of brutality across all echelons of prosperity; unfaltering in the sight of pleading. The supplied guarantees for the dream, this once redundant ambition that has concluded liberty for all organisms. The owls have now begun sending prayers for the sanctuary of the night – even the sun's rapture has proved to stagger all organisms in this forest; communities cried for the sun to never rise. Anguish was now amplified in the narrations of the sky, where there was no quality to possess in this reality but the simple veracity provided by the gulls above. Where had the insects of the trees, the creatures of the sky, and the soil of the earth's floor embraced the jurisdiction of affluence's poisonous tongue? What had prompted this blind conformity? The forest's subordinates are all hindered by the gravitational force of this ridiculing class – they again, bite their knees and rehash the structure once more. For centuries of blind saturation, the animosity between the infrastructure of authority within this forest has prospered for generational tides - to devour an infrastructure built on the principles of strength. A redundant tide of transformation is now threatening to rip the trajectory among all regions. The animals that cry from the bleached whispers of the trees have now woven the silk for the new generation to sing. I unearthed the dismantling glorification of our providers who sleep in the echelons of my actions; all warranted for the organisms in this forest who seek for the relinquishment in my own movement towards the sun’s saturation. A substance now trickles from the steep of the forest and annihilates all those below. The raccoon who moves for autonomy — for a smell of the world's delights; the pinnacle of its guarantee, has died. It had been the raccoon of the attempted voyage, whose plasma had declined from the peak of the leaves; announcing the silk to spread across the regions. In this forest, there is no chastised wish for clarity, no commitment to change; only the silent turbulence of killing.
2 Three Hours of Lost Merit: A Poetry Collection The Snatched Limbs At the center of my speech is a dye of gimmick – an unidentified myth of crippling bliss emerges to depict the concealed torment of my tongue. There is an impediment of a genre in the throng of onlookers; permitting a fresh foundation of women to obey in my sound. But how long before they recognize that my own foundation has been scowled out of the fundamentals of various characters? The set of individuals who all pertain to the particular stigma that permeates a false impression of sweat or rather pain — in actuality, the very prudence of my existence. In this disembodiment compartment, the woman's vanishing features are crammed together with those who embrace her idealized attributes. They encircle my unconscious to the degree of penetrating deception, where I have abandoned the lure of my own face in this chamber – to which I have foolishly sneered. In the blaze of my being, I have surrendered on my own volition – the lost dignity of my world’s perforation; the recollection of my mind’s resistance. The vacuous sound of women fleeing at the scene of worship to the impossible; towards the unquenchable thirst of chastity. To be relished wholly – slumbering in the hymn of a church. The discolored glass of aspirations and splendor, all ravishing the abduction. But they accept your assertions! The century's most famous act, where everyone fell to their knees! They couldn't see it, but my eyes were exhausted. All of my savior's limbs have been abducted from the good riddance of an illusion. The absolute infiltration of servitude – where there is a deal to die for something quite heinous. Their own entities follow the blood corridor that seeps from the above; striving from the inner thigh to the shambles of plundered organisms floating. For one shirt stolen, one voice raptured – the uptime objective of being unutterably sought. There is a bargain to permit yourself to be subordinate of the dream; you must seize the virtue of others. You merely derive the civility of their spirit and the force that seeps from their breasts – inhibit a punishment too repugnant, so they cannot reach the theater of your consciousness. The circuits of busy callers wail for the termination of their contract; they wish to be freed from the robbery of their limbs. But you demanded this! You pleaded for it! You must accept it. The worn-out speakers of anguish proceed to seep through my gestures – the audience appears to relish the hue of my speech's impediment; my tongue is now clasped. There is now speculation about my contract – to which I had reassured. This contract has allotted me the reward of discharging the sorrow of every individual for whom the face I have snatched. My own configuration emerges to be a challenge to the audience; who have now begun to stand. They are incapable of fathoming the desperation of my performance; where I had not been performing for adulation or devotion – but rather, for my own world’s retirement.
3 Three Hours of Lost Merit: A Poetry Collection
Ecstasy’s Combative Noise
The symphony that permeates the grace of her existence and the peculiar force of self-indulgence, discharged through a grandeur of vibration – it cannot be prescribed.
And what precisely is this substance? What do these distorted arrangements of noise constitute? The sound that suffuses, annihilates, and produces!
There is an obliterated stage of torment, obeying the distinct whispers of the evening's despair; where the provisions vibration tumbles into one – filthy hands of the taking begins to sing.
The inviting flesh of the drunken pavement dyes her ears crimson — the structure of her spirit uttered the arrangement once more.
You are taking too much; they will cut your hands!
There is now a split of sensibility; the abundance facilitating her stature scowled, as she diverged to preserve her empty composure.
The relinquishment of incredulity – founded on the phlegmatic movement of her tongue and will. There was the world's stillness, its own apperception of her spirit; they had sanctioned her to stand still. Where had she discovered an avenue to articulate her devotion and animosity – the world that dismayed the arrangement from being circulated elsewhere?
Could anyone else aurally perceive it? The brilliance of the vibration – the unconditional delight of all divinities in the world as they move towards such a distinction of influence.
The vacant kiss of a reality where there was directed annihilation of all noise and divergence to be disparaged; where opposition is belittled and the vibration is embraced.
The announcement of a new deal begins to glee – soon the whispers wash over her forearms, wings, and imagination.
They are eating her alive, but she is blissfully ignorant; she has no competency to comprehend it.
It had begun with the rear of her height and transitioned to the commencement of her imagination; shortly restricted from acknowledging the spirits spilling over her instinct.
There was now the internal confrontation of being deceived; had it been what she sincerely sought in the head of her actuality? What had she fully wished, if not the consistent and authentic, but the depraved and divulging? There is no broader indignation than witnessing the scowls of one's own reality – to live a life with no unconditional connotation but manufactured liberation.
The resonance may never be absolute or real, but rather a delusory perception of dreaded daylight reaching the very last region of her core – for a real merit of lost penance.
She was confronted with a question as the ruined whispers of acceptance commenced to retaliate – begging to foreclose.
Why did you succumb to the ecstasy of the noise? Why did you permit such foolish penetration to liberate your being?
She wailed to the spirits – as the noise washed away and the spirits mocked her ambition to reach the finale of her own manufactured vibration.