Future essays and audio-notes

Youth brings with it many new experiences without the tools to sift through them in an organised and methodical way. It is most characterised by haphazard thought processes and a clouded and confused mind. In another way we can also compare youth to life, in that we have many points of reference that point us towards the direction we want to go. The problem is that there is no clear line of sight. In my case, I don’t have the experience of life nor the level of masculine rigour formed in a 40 something male for instance. I am incomplete,  both in experience and in intelligence. But time and effort will put this problem to rest. So naturally I needed a format that allowed me to convey meaning without losing form. Without losing order. I looked to poetry because of its brevity. Its ability to convey meaning and concentrate it to a sentence or two. And so a question arose. How do I transition from clumps of information, into essay writing without losing the poetic touch? 

So essentialy I will look to expand on the length of my writing. But writing can only convey meaning in a limited fashion, while body language and tone of speech play a more central role. So I’m being more open to sharing and recording voice notes regarding ideas I have as well. As such, look out for essays and future audio notes. In the meantime, I just need to figure out how all this audio recording malarkey works. Peace!


Why did you cut me?

A short piece I wrote about those that do self-harm

Photo by rawpixel.com from Pexels

My wrist spoke to me

It said “why did you cut me?

“how are you able to speak to me?”

It said, “I am your body

I hate that I have to share it with an enemy

you cut my mouth forcefully

And pried an opening

To let my words free

Your blood, pain and agony. “

For Whom Hell Calls (2)

As far as the man in the mirror can tell

when he sees his image in the mirror,

his hell

When he sees his reflection

like words on a screen

It shattered to pieces

To let out a scream

The pieces of innocence

Crashing down on to this world

Had a distinct bell-like clanging sound

A signal that hell was calling

So I better not make a sound

Be silent desire, said I

Be silent oh lie

Be silent oh slander

Be silent oh ignorance

Or your end will be the fire.

A Theory of ❤’s that Give and Get


Some share their hearts and their love most wisely

to those who are poor and to those that are wealthy

some hide their hearts and their love from their family

to lie with a stranger and use it lustfully

Some grab their hearts and they loan it wholly

only to see it returned to them empty

Some love to eat others hearts like fresh meat

They devour what remains of its contents blindly.

The Theory of Hearts and their types do amaze me

A testament to the truth that the hearts do vary

And what makes you think you can see hearts clearly?

There’s a reason we can’t see their hearts that clearly

For absolute power corrupts absolutely

“Bring mine enemies all before me,

make them kneel in a line in front of me”.

So before I digress let me finish this poetry

For the Theory of Hearts and their types do amaze me.

Some work hard to keep their hearts clean and healthy

while others learn to keep it dirty and unhealthy

There are those who convey what gives hearts their beauty

Giving goodwill and loving God earnestly

And it’s sad to say that some hearts have envy

like arrows piercing victims, death by archery

Perhaps I can turn this poem into a story

For the Theory of Hearts and their types do amaze me.

Ramadan Ascended


Ramadan why must you leave?

Why must you leave oh Ramadan?

I’ve now begun to feel your warmth

And just like that you pack your things

Why must you leave your host so hollow

For he prepared a feast to delight ten kings

And days went by, so his love for you increased

and the zenith of my happiness lay in being your host

And it was on this month where a holy recitation was heard

 And daily fasting was prescribed as provision for a starving soul

So why must you go oh Ramadan?

Oh Ramadan why must you go?




Is not the Morning near?


When the night draws close and the day is lost

When the feeble hands could feel no touch

And the frail heart is fraught with fear

Is not the morning near?


Is not the morning light so close

It signals birds that come in droves

they seek their sustenance which they can’t see

But beyond the horizon is their Lord’s bounty

Is not the morning near?


And perhaps the message has not touched

The rusted, dusty, blackened hearts

It’s center screams for guidance’s touch

It’s casing is darkness

It’s core is light

Is not the morning near?


Alas the time has come to say

The morning light has found its way

it’s rays have shun and warmed your touch

and hope has come to win the day

Is not the morning here?

The Soul that Departed


The time passed quickly like a sword unsheathed

And a soul departed while the relatives grieved

For the family who had lost the one they loved

minutes moved, and hearts were touched

and the sudden news of a passing soul

reversed us all from hollow to whole

for it left the hearts to mourn, yet remember

That the end is at the hands of ALLAH our Creator.

May Allah shower mercy on you my dear Grandmother.

The Theatre of his Eye


Steely eyes pierced the window pane

Hiding heavy clouds bearing rain

The  signature of a storm without a name

A sure sign that a violent hurricane

passed through this very domain.


and so the movement of the eyes became

a sort of mise en scène of a drama

set in pain

set in shame

set under the torrential rain

with the only source of heat

A naked flame

A glimmer of hope

Which lit the stage with brilliance.

For Whom Hell Calls (1)


As far as the man in the mirror can tell

when he sees his image in the mirror,

his hell

seeking to silence and shatter the spell

the reflection? just words 

like a show and tell 

like a shattered mirror

like a soul unwell

oh, what memories of morrow,

of fire can quell

a  generous portion

A measure of hell





Photo by Isaac Davis on Unsplash

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Theodore Roosevelt