The heart can dry up,
even the most moist tongue,
uttering litanies of thanks,
uttering wanton prose of need,
is quietly begging rainfall,
to stir the seeds that lay dormant,
because we have a desire to be content,
and we know we can’t get it with stuff.
I’ve thus found it easier,
fought myself at both ends of my wit and found,
it’s not hard to be wet with contentment,
when you’re bathing in gratitude,
when you’re drowning in gratitude,
Alhamdullillah, wa shukr lillah
Nobility has its passage,
and it is not a dragging robe,
it’s dragging your ego in the dirt,
until it is one with the soil of humanity,
until you care not from where truth comes from,
as long as it comes.
Coming to terms,
may mean ignoring your mind,
to settle your heart,
slowing your heart,
to soothe your soul,
soothing your soul,
doesn’t mean mending it,
it just means,
accepting it for what it is.
if you think lip service offers you the escape,
if your repentance is marred with recurrence of the vice you want to abandon,
if you can’t regret having to regret.
How are you going to climb out of yourself,
that basal carnality,
When will you topple its reign,
choke its life to within a breath,
and make it ever grateful,
aware of the frivolity it keeps dragging you into,
making regret your staple.
Find me at the tail end of a rosary,
with sugar breath and a neck that wreaks of agar,
alone with my words,
alone with God.
There it is again,
unworthiness and loneliness,
those ever loyal friends.
There’s always the guarantee of silence;
underneath my eyelids,
hearing your sweaty palms ache for a touch,
the ongoing march of my heart,
the lies my mind conjures,
and especially when they all meet,
and truth acts like the reconciliatory scimitar,
and quells all the hurt.
Tricks of the self,
to the point that if you don’t get it, you starve.
Lying to your heart,
that you’ve made the decision all by yourself,
knowing deeper past that pump,
(that conspires with whatever random thought passes by),
that society doesn’t think much of your strangeness,
your aversion to conformity other than for civil discourse,
uncomfortable with the reality,
you’re unimportant unless you can sing and dance,
unless you can show and prance.
You prattle, we prattle, I prattle,
over and over and over again,
a religion if I have ever seen one,
of worshipping ones self to no avail.
Fruitless, pointless self worship.