He watched you cry
He watched you bleed
He saved your life
Which isn’t yours to keep
So why do you question
His intentions?
He created you
With all your imperfections
He tests you today
So you can see tomorrow
In the hereafter
Without the sorrow
Of the Dunya we chase
While putting the Deen aside
We exploit His Grace
And refuse to abide by
The simple rules He’s lodged
For our own benefit
We disregard the elephant
In the room in which we sleep
The Muslims of today are no less than sheep
Following the norms of western society
Forgetting our own and neglecting the Deity

I wish I could be a book
I could send myself to you
in envelops and postcards
over a laconic lifetime
rungs of ladder climbed
waded through like the push
of legs in the water, over sand
chewing on the words you sent.

We, are a family now,
some privileged in the boundaries
of grandiloquent bags and pouches,
some forgotten in the drawers
before relocations,
versions of a person’s state of mind
over time, we make history books
capturing people in the making
of an indistinct next moment

sometimes we carry our own praises
outsourced by the wits of our writers
like love they did find not in the other
but their own selves, blind still.

Does your reader pause too?
basks in the glory of an empty wall
staring at nothing in particular?
I wish we had will and means
to write ourselves on ourselves
so that we could reach other and do that.

Instead like our creators, we are
dilapidated ruins of yellow bodies,
left to live and die on dirt and air
once they are gone, aren’t you scared
of death?

Seeking Reply
Letter A

3:30 a.m.
when all of them were studying,
for their board exams.
The future bestselling author
was busy stitching her new story.

When you left
you took away
the words as well.

Months are far spent and with you i still cannot break words
I must say, you and i have spent this lost time in two different worlds

During which i was about what would be termed infidelity
Faced with guilt i became scared of the consequential reality

I began to search for words excuse my indecent behavior
But non was good enough as words became blur

Eventually i lost my sight of words for expression
Then my train of thought derailed into chaos of volcanic eruption

And even now as i pen down this confession
i cant say much because my mind and hands has lost connection

i was carried away by **** distractions, oh! dear poetry
i am sorry for committing adultery

Secrets of a poet are hidden inside heartbeats,
ready to be played on scripted page,
on platform for readers eyes.

They're buried beneath scar thought to be healed.
Exposed to bleed once again
so a poem can be birthed.

Perhaps, Secrets are inside rays of sun
that dance with kaleidoscope beauty
inside a warm breeze.

Or on top of a shooting star moving in galaxy
that opens one to wish inside a breathe.

Secrets in treasure chest of scribes vault
welcomes a readers eyes
with key-like words and strong intention.

Come, open the vault with eyes and partake
wont you?  The invitation is now given.

The pen in my hand, the paper remains unwritten.
The pen starts moving writing down the secrets it’s been hidden.
The writer remains quiet but the paper shows how much she’s screaming.
Wrote down how much she misses dreaming.
With the cold cup of coffee, to keep her awake.
Her enemies wouldn’t ever to feel this pain.