would you give him your nicest room?

would you serve him your signature meal?

Would you hide some magazines and put
The Quran where it should be?

Would you still watch those movies,Or your T.V. set?
Or would you switch it off?

Would you turn off the radio,And hope he had not heard?

And wish that you did not utter your last loud hasty word?

Would you hide your worldly music, And instead take out Hadith books?

Would you keep up each and every prayer?
Without putting on a frown?

And would you always jump up early, For Fajr at dawn?

And I wonder…if the Prophet (saw) spent, a day or two with you,
Would you go on doing the things you always do?
Would you go right on and say the things You always say?
Would life for you continue As it does from day to day?
Would you pretend to be somebody else...
Just because prophet Muhammad comes...?

The rain is racing down the window behind me
With a cup of warm tea sitting on the side.
I am propelled through the pages of the book that I hold in my clenched hands.
I am leading a charge into battle.
Storming the infallible towers that I ensure will fall by first light.
I am embracing my sweetheart
After a separation that seemed like a lifetime.
I am slaying the dragon
And saving the enslaved kingdom.
I am holding my love's hand
As we run through the night to places unknown.
The rain is beating against the window,
Yet I am warm living the lives of hundreds of others.

My parents spent so much money
and so much time
on swimming lessons when I was young.
I think they would be disappointed to know
that after 10 years of lessons,
I'm drowning
with 2 feet planted firmly on solid ground.

more tears cried
less hours slept
more blood spilt
less food intake
more dark shadows
less bright eyes

is this all i am anymore?
a pathetic state of
depression?

i don't know what
was worse, a
broken heart i was able
to blame on my love.
or a broken soul
that was deformed
to begin with.

I still think
Heaven is a small
Town with bright
Blue eyes and the
Sound of a child's
Laugher—

That it unknots
The brows of even
The most weary of
Philosophers.

I still think
Heaven is a small
Garden encrusted with
White feathers and
The west-wound winds
Coming from the Atlantic.

An old harbor—Vladivostok—
Spelled perfectly,
Abandoned by
Knaves and all the carnage they left,
Or Ceasaria:

Dry bed of luminous ruins.

I imagine You beckoning us:
"Don't be afraid, come!"—
Revealing pockets of
Nature only you would have
The courage to call

Beautiful.

She flickers in and out of me
like the movements
in a midnight sea.

you told me that you would always be here to listen to me
but there you are and here i am,
drawing nebula and counting items on my room wall,
just to keep myself sane.
just to keep myself from drawing yet
another line on my wrists; to keep me from
painting my skin black and painting this city state
red, crimson, scarlet, violet,
a myriad of colours that would shock and scare.
but it would only be temporary
for in a matter of months, many would forget
and few would still care.