Life didn’t come wrapped in soft promises. It came like a fist—relentless, brutal, unforgiving. From the shifting sands of Saudi Arabia to the suffocating grip of mental illness, Eeta’s world was forged in chaos and survival. That’s where their words come from—scar-deep, raw, and unflinching.
Schizophrenia. Bipolar disorder. Gender dysphoria. These aren’t just labels; they’re battlegrounds—realities Eeta wrestles with, rips open, and bleeds onto the page. Self-harm scars, medication fog, two suicide attempts—they're not tragedies—they're chapters.
And this isn’t a story about redemption. It’s about survival. About living through what should’ve killed you.
Eeta’s poetry doesn’t hold your hand or whisper “it gets better.” It seizes you by the throat and drags you into the dark until you see what’s really there—yourself. It’s a mirror for the parts you try to bury—a dare to confront your pain before it devours you.
Present Life, Art and Solitude
Eeta found refuge in creation. The more broken they felt, the more they sought refuge in bold colors, daring jewelry designs, and the power of self-expression. Creation is more than a passion; it was also a form of resistance.
For Eeta, being alone is about being true to oneself. No forced smiles, no empty talks. Utter isolation, rawness, and bleeding wounds. Crochet and painting are not hobbies. These are survival rituals. A method of repairing a fractured self; one stitch, one verse and one brushstroke at a time.
For Eeta, traveling isn't about chasing sunsets or checking off bucket lists; it's about outrunning the whisperers, even if temporarily. Every new location provides a little respite, a halt in the storm. But shadows always catch up.
Eeta: The Shadow
Eeta Writes Because the Night Won’t End
The poetry started in their teenage years by moving into their father's library, surrounded by Arabic tomes. There were no poetry books. No guides. Just shadows that clung to the shelves, whispering in the dark. Writing wasn't a hobby—it was survival. A lifeline in the suffocating silence.
The poems? They clawed their way out. Raw, ugly, relentless. Each line a punch thrown at the shadows that wouldn't leave them alone. Forget pretty words and flowery metaphors. This is about survival, about screaming the things no one wants to hear.
Eeta's poetry doesn't ask politely; it grabs you by the throat and forces you to listen. Confessions ripped from a place where reality fractures and memory bleeds. No borrowed styles, no idols—just brutal honesty fused with insomnia.
The shadows are still there, whispering in the dark. But now they speak in verse.