Fear.

Fear.
It gnaws at my throat, gripping, grabbing, ripping and clenching.
Tightening my wind pipes, squeezing my breath, I look round hoping it won’t come to collect.
Collecting my hopes, my dreams, my love for you; it never left, it’s residue lingering on the fringes of my faith, I cry in anxiety, calling out to God. Free me, hold me, keep me close, don’t let him take me and don’t let him collect.
The dark place.
That place where the soul lingers, gasping for light, seeking its might.

Don’t let it collect; remaining fragments of love, hope and years of ache, the small pieces of glass, broken, some mended, always cracked.
Don’t collect.
Fear, how real a transformation of the abstract.

Forgiveness

Sometimes forgiving is easier then remembering the pain. Sometimes letting go is better then holding on and moving forward is better then living in the past. Running away isn’t always the right option but removing yourself from the situation is always your decision.

Forgive friend so you maybe forgiven

Love so you can love yourself,

Make the choice and start afresh,

For tomorrow is never promised.

Praise is only for today.

Revitalize

Revitalize

يا فلسطين الحبيبة لم ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻙ

“Israeli citizens cannot live with the threat from rockets and from death tunnels – death from above and from below,” Netanyahu said in a speech”

REALLY? Do these “threats” come from children? The death toll of the Palestinians is above 1,040.
How are they being permitted to murder children in cold blood; والله in this world we give animals more rights and importance then we do our fellow humans.
We are allowing the LIVES of humans to be toyed with like this; it IS mass murder, an open air hunting ground for the predators. Atleast animals Only kill for food.
سبحان الله
where is the sense in people – does the world not see the reality,
has دخان blinded them, how do they feed into this illusion that Israel is the victim, that “Hamas” are the real threat; how are people blind to statistics and the facts that are being plastered world wide?

Is it because they are Palestinian lives and not Israeli, American or European?

إِنَّا لِلّهِ وَإِنَّـا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعون

Surely to الله we belong and to Him is our return. May the heavens be filled with the laughter of the Palestinian children and all those martyred due to the selfish, greedy and satanic minded belief of oppressors.

يالله forgive us and preserve your Beloveds ummatis and allow us to do what we can and unite for the sake of you, for the sake of humanity ameen.

O فالسطين maybe our hearts would burst forth from our breasts if we were to ever witness your true agony. Forgive us and stay courageous and patient as you are, for I believe and know that my Lord, الله never burdens a soul with more than it can bear and your souls are precious to the Almighty and you WILL be free one day انشاءالله .

يا فلسطين الحبيبة لم ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻙ

O my beloved فلسطين; I have not forgotten. ❤

20140729-170218-61338682.jpg

Beyond Faults

Love beyond all faults, My friend.
Who knows which one of your faults, may turn the Beloveds face away from you?

So remember, to Love beyond all faults,
for only Love can teach and Mercy can rectify.

Live in His spirit,
Love beyond all faults.
My friend,
you were once lost too.

The Passionate Woman

Feel blessed to be a woman of passion

A passionate woman. 
A woman who feels and hears.

A woman who cries from her soul and laughs from her breast,
Full of joy and love. 

A giving woman. 
A kind woman. 
A woman not afraid of her mistakes. 

A woman God has blessed time and time again.
An Imperfect woman,
Who is proud of her blessings

Rejoice in the passion he has given you. 

The feeling of feeling passionate about something or someone is a feeling not everyone is blessed with…
The ultimate aim is to achieve that everlasting passion…To feel the نور (light) entering the breast. 

Don’t be Afraid
Embrace it.

We are Passionate Women.

 

Tree of Life – SHE

SHE.

She, looked at her familiar surroundings, sighed and sat down, cross legged, tired limbs, puffy eyes, ragged skin.
No. This can’t be it.

She, picking up her pen and deep rooted notebook, sighed and starting writing; fragmented thoughts, disjointed puzzles, unanswered questions.
No. This can’t be it.

She, torn between half smiles and those half frozen tears; laughs.
No. This can’t be it.

The tree has deep rooted veins, the golden veins bulge on the cover, a backdrop of long brown winters.

The tree, has branches and leafs.
They begin to fall, scattering the brown earth like stars in the dark sky.
Her golden feathers crumble to the ground.

No. This can’t be it.

She, sits staring at her leafless tree, sighs and puts the pen down.

No. This can’t be it…

The roots don’t budge,
but
The branches still grow,
Seasons change,
Life once more takes ITs form.

She, sitting cross legged, tired to the bone; rejoices and quietly cries.
See, this is IT….

20140430-004518.jpg

SHE: On Love

SHE

She, never taught me On Love.

She, working her fingers to the bone each day,

rubbing her feet at night, alone, in the dark,

crying, aching, bruised and estranged.

She, never taught me On Love.

How could SHE?

She, who was sacrificing her rights, each and every day,

never allowed to feel the real beauty of her own laugh, 

She, never taught me On Love.

But really, how could SHE?

Never knowing herself, who to ask.

She, never asking, never questioning, always believing, always, it’s a Farce!

SHE – who never taught me On Love,

still struggling each day, still crying, alone, in the dark.

I tried telling her,

“Listen! Swollen ankles cannot be worked with broken hands.”

But Still. 

She, She never taught me On Love.
“No Stop! Listen, how could I really?”

 SHE, she said, never taught me On Love.

She Said, I Prefer A Broken Neck-Amir Sulaiman

She said that she would prefer a broken neck to another broken heart.
I said “Remember, even the beauty of birth leaves its own scars
And know that you will find your home right where you are.” She said, “I know it sounds cliche, but I really am just waiting to exhale.”
She’s not looking for a perfect man, she ain’t holding out for Denzel
She’s just looking for a real man,
But she said “Most of the realest were in graves or in jail”
Just an upright brother, but she’s left with low down brothers, homo thugs, and downlow brothers.
And it took her some time with herself to discover
That having love is even more important than having a lover
But what am I supposed to tell her?
That it’s going to be okay? But it may not be.
It may be hard and ugly,
Difficult, complicated, rough and bloody
And I said, “So many women are struggling”
She said, “Yeah, I’d like a man to kiss me, I’d like a man to hug me
But he’s gotta truly love love before he can truly love me”
I said, “I feel you.” She said, “No, you’re not feeling me.
We are women bringing up seeds,
Our own sons grow up thinking love is a disease
Ducking and dodging real relationships, and just gonna take what they please
And they treat pregnancy like it’s an STD
If the test comes back positive, it’s a negative
And they are ghost in the streets,
Drunk in the wind, only a moment is spent and those moments are brief
Our sons’ role models are rolling stones unknown or deceased
They figure we can’t teach them manhood, so they’ll get grown in the streets
So in the cold world they find warmth with the men holding the heat.
“I said “There’s gotta be a change.”
She said, “Yeah, it’s gotta be more than poems on TV”
I said, “I feel you.” She asked me how I survive.
I said, “By Allāh, it was my mother otherwise
I would have been dead, crazy, institutionalized.”
“She kept us in the good neighborhoods, even though she couldn’t keep on the lights
So we could go to the best schools learning to read and to write.
Sometimes we’d be so broke, in the store, she’d have to pick between the beans and the rice.
Sometimes she’d put ketchup on a navy bean so it wouldn’t seem like we’re eating the same thing every night.
Two jobs during the day, and one at night.
And the stuff I saw her endure, I never wanna see my wife [endure] So I know being a man is more than being male, and I’m focused on doing it right.”
“But when I think about my childhood, I don’t think about poverty
I remember how she hugged me, kissed me, taught me, loved me.
And I know you prefer a broken neck to another broken heart
Broken parts that litter the night sky like stars.
But remember, even the beauty of birth leaves its own scars
And know that you will find your home, right where you are
We will find our homes right where we are.”
~ Amir Sulaiman

Video

On Storytelling

Image

It was like a mystical moment. A moment of high revelation and spiritual ecstasy; It was a scary conversation; one of my first ever on a philosophical level. 

It was a revelation of words. It was a revelation of true storytelling.

A conversion.

“Your life is a story.” I still hear the words SHE had said to me.

SHE was like Mother Nature calling out to me – whispering her secret, through the caress of the summer wind.

It’s funny though, because I cannot recall who this SHE was now. I know I loved her.

Memory fails me. I’m hardly what you would call old; just aged with the timeless quality of an antique timepiece. Hidden away in the shadows; an Old Soul. Unknown to the Earth; a fragmented Nomad.

Every little thing that happens to you, whether good or bad and everyone who enters your life – whether for a second, a minute, an hour, a day, month or a year – becomes a part of Your story.”

Her tone rose on the word “Your”.

“My Story,” I had repeated.

I marveled at the notion of life being a story and I thought back to the days, months and years on end, when i had tried so hard to make the odd, aching, disjointed puzzles of life fit together. Of course, they never did fit.

But her words, in that brief encounter had taught me that what i had been searching for since that first gush of fresh air had reached my dry throat.

I didn’t have control over the characters and incidents of this story. 

I was in awe at the simple logic of this.

For days on end I recall that aged, old anguish one has, at the lack of control one has over his life – all the while thinking he is in control.

I had sighed.

I rejoiced at the harsh memories in my Pandora’s Box and at the silent picture frames haunting the edges of my own untold Odyssey.

Embrace it, for only you can Tell Your Story.”

I always fancied myself in the World of Old.

The myth was out.

I had turned, trying to catch her. But it was too late she had glided past me, leaving a ghostly chill.

I heard her often. But I never felt her again.

But there are times, I can swear the oath that she is near. Close by. Waiting to remind me of my tale, still untold.

bH's blog

What I see. What I thought. Just.

Islamic Ink

The pen has been lifted, and the ink has dried...

MadamePinkPanther

The following blog will be based on irrational, random thoughts that may, or may not aggravate those who dislike the truth. Think of it what you will.

iiThinks

Poetry of the Soul

rumiscaveblog.wordpress.com/

This page has moved to...

poetry by skull

The Musings of N. E. Skull

Forêt

A World Within In A Forest

kushtrimthaqi

Just another human being who's trying to reach new levels of consciousness.

Commuters of the Double-decker

What should have been an ordinary commute.

New Website @ shawnthewriter.com

New site shawnthewriter.com GO SUBSCRIBE

Beyond the Spectrum

Life, love and lol's as an Autism mom ❤️

SFoxWriting.com

Something For Everyone's Needs

as we think: so we become

i have a challenge to write and write and write and here it will be documented

The Neighborhood

Society online's creative conscious.