It's written all over
the internet that the
color blue is a
appetite suppressor

so why is it
that whenever
i look into
your sky blue eyes
i crave your touch
more than
//ever//

THE ARAB PAGANS
                     MATLOOB BOKHARI

The Arab pagans  were plunged in the depth of ignorance,
Barbarism;  adored idols, lived in unchaste life,
Ate  dead bodies,  disregarded every feeling of humanity,
Allah raised among them a man,  honest, and pure ;
Who called them to  Oneness of God , forbade idol worship.  
Enjoined them to speak truth, be faithful, merciful .
Muhammad taught them rights of  neighbors ; kith and kin:
Forbade them to speak evil of women, or to eat orphans’ stuff.  
Ordered them to flee from the vices, and to abstain from evil.
Offer prayers, render alms,  observe fast and respect elders.
  The Arab pagans rose against him to cease his preaching.
Muhammad with a bloodied face, a busted lip, a broken tooth prayed for them
When they mutilated Hamza’s corpse; burnt off his nose ;  cut off his ears;
Muhammad, the messenger of peace and love, forgiving prayed for the pagans
But the shadow  of  the dark clouds of hate totally eclipsed the moon of love
The Arab pagans ruthlessly massacred the whole family of Muhammad
Hussain ,picking up the body of his young son, an image of Muhammad,prayed:
Praise be to Allah Who is the hearer of prayers and warders off anguishes
Hussain, gathering pieces of the dead body of his nephew trampled by horses , prayed
O Allah! The All-gentle, the All aware! I willingly desire for You and testify Your Lordship!
Hussain, burrying  his six month martyr with his own hand in the sand of Karbala, prayed
Praise be to Allah Who is raiser of ranks and suppressor of tyrants
Hussain  standing on  shifting sand-dunes of Kerbala , smeared with blood. of Abbas, prayed
O All-merciful, O All-beneficent. !All glory be to You! Verily Originator and Reproducer
The grandson of Prophet Muhammad ,left all alone, called  for help
But the pagans threw his headless body  on  the plains of Karbala
Leaving Prophet’s daughters in   raging flames of tents, they celebrated victory
O God Who gladdens the hearts that mourn, dries the eyes that weep
I cannot write the whole story of love and hate,  My heart cries! My pen  bleeds!
Matloob, sky and stars weep upon such sacrifices, angels bow, they don’t die in vain!
Every soul shall  have a taste of death:  We test you by evil and by good by way of trial!
Praise be to Allah ,Hearer of prayers! From God we come, and unto Him is our return.













Jan G. A good poetic account of  the history of Islam. Another Hussein might be required to correct once again what came of the Islamic Republic. Oppression loves to speak in the name of liberation it once embraced. - See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poems/by/matloob#sthash.iCoJzCfi.dpuf



RAJ NANDY: To take an universal view I must say, that let religion not come in the way of love and peace! It has been for the Wise to show us the way, banish ignorance and bring forth light always! True faith is love and as the greatest binding force that shall remain! Thanks for sharing, -Raj



Rick Ratliff : I am  a Christian  and moved greatly by this  powerful read


Rev. Donny Doom – Thanks  for this thought provoking read!


Nikluss 6: An excellent story!!
is it from the Koran????
PEACE MATLOOB!!!!



tarobinson - What a great poem . Wonderfully told . RESPECTFULLY TOLD .




    Hussain was supported by Christians too in Karbala
    

Kyle Wittman - Title / intro is: It certainly sparked my attention.


My favorite line is: The last line.

It's a great read! I do love the imagery.






Dark Iris : Such a beautiful  truth! I  Like it.

‘freedom is a state of mind’
Wars fought
Wars lost
Freedom gained
Freedom lost.
The mind is almost devoid of peace,
When a beast sits entrapped inside.
It is like two magnets of the same charge.
Conflicting and warring,
Trying to meet at a certain point.

Barbed wires of suppression
blunt knives of oppression
The head is a place of chaos
full of:
‘I’m guilty’ ‘No you are not’
‘I’m too proud’ ‘no you are not’
The oppressor just mollifies the pain of the suppressor
It is too weak to overcome it.
The head then bursts
And out flow tears, tears in a million shades
For they signify such different sorrowful tastes
The person, he sighs
An empty mind
Peaceful mind
War fought
War won
Freedom lost
Freedom *gained

I have yet to manifest all I am,
Like the prolonged discovery
Of a well known secret.

Here's a free grand tour
Around here special guest,
I would very much like it
If you stuck to my side
Like a sidekick.
I, the heroic tour guide
Of so many surreal wonders,
And darling oh my--

The setting sun sat beside
Two bottomless candles whistling.
Before you knew it,
Their identities were indistinguishable,
In their fervid resplendence.


Frank motives are held back,
Control is so fallibly crass.
What would happen if the
Suppressor were to collapse?

We would expand,
Like we toiled for.

Originally written 2/27/11
Revised 10/19/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith

She sits with a bottle in her hand.
The hippies mourning in sorrow
peace signs held, oil seeped
into the skin that you
now see as damaged.
****** images that will remain
unknown.
Rain and alcohol
Clawing at the front door breaking
your throat.
snow packed inside her lungs.
Years passed of abusive melodies
full of teasing whispers
Broken glass dancing with her flesh
My friends, you will remain unknown.
Cigarettes inhaled to shorten the experience.
Jeans too tights for the pleasure of his fingers
against her ****.
He is your savior,
but your suppressor.
She will die unhappy.

Dark shadows circled my nest
on the ridgeline that
spooky winter night.
All I could see
was the moonglow
sifting through my misty breath,
glinting off my suppressor.
Icy winds whipped
up through the valley
to kiss my bearded face
& freeze my teardrops.
I thanked God for my pakol
and woolen fingerless gloves.
The fibers kept me warm
under the blanket of stars.
Not a cloud,
nor a single wisp
could I see against the pitch.
I had the itch to pop off a round
on a falling pebble.
But to do so,
might have meant certain death.
The area was crawling with bad guys,
insurgents looking for heads.

The mad professor of slapping the lesser
the bad aggressor, facts to beat the guesser
no more oppressor, killed by the successor
the glad possessor, words against suppressor

waiting for the dormant informant to storm it
debating when to swarm and transform it
it's hard to form a new form and perform it
you never conform it's cold and you warm it

the mad magician of having rhymers wishin
the new edition, hell bent on transmission
so much ambition, with no need for permission
the new munition, made for demolition

I ache for our simple pleasures
For our tired, languid, gestures
For our vested, fruitful, leisure
Though our time and distance often measured
While both our suppressor
Let us never accept lesser
Than our treasured
Than our together

What is silence? Is silence just quite violence going on in your head making you wish you were dead suppressed like a gun with a suppressor I died in silence with a bullet to the head, im sorry I gave up I was just on my last thread

I’m Imagining a place where we make sense - the hot-chocolate
safe-house where we’ll tongue wrestle, watch Gossip Girl reruns
and cuddle - sustained by love and Cinnamon Life cereal.

This dark, coffin-like clock in the corner whirrs, mechanically.
Suddenly a little yellow-clock-bird bursts, jumping-jack-like,
through a tiny door on a blue, tongue-suppressor diving board.

“Cuckoo!” it shrieks, to mock me. “Shut up!” I say defensively
but it repeats, “Cuckoo!” like an oracle - an unfeeling instrument
of adult logic.

I loved her
from the first moment I met her.
So sleek she was,
manufactured to perfection,
I cradled her in my arms,
invigorating me
she did.
I fingered her trigger
& she reacted violently,
spewing lead
rapidly
from my hidden place,
her suppressor-face was hot,
molten,
effective.

-

A silent force,
In white or black.

Your suppressor,
your liberator.

You curse him,
you love him.

He takes you home,
the place where you belong.

You can stay,
to avenge,
to fix.

You will turn black,
becoming miserable,
sadness.

But if you let him,
you will shine,
be your true self.

Death.

The moon was still visible, but hard to see behind cotton candy skies. The moon rested just above the lake a mile or so out. Twilight was always gorgeous out here.

My target was one of the only ones who left their window open with this windy weather. But it’d make it easier to sneak in.

God, when did I start calling him my target? I hate this job.

I climbed through the window quietly.

His room was dark, all black and gray except for the curtains, which were white. The curtains were going crazy in the breeze, while everything else sat still. What a dull room.  

I sighed and took out my gun; a simple pistol with a suppressor attached. I took a deep breath and silently crept towards his bed.

He looked so peaceful, sleeping. I took another deep breath and crossed the room to the bed. I looked at his sleeping body sadly. This was the last time I’d ever get to see him again. I hate this job.

I climbed on the bed, quickly putting my gun to his head and my hand to his throat before he could react. He woke up and looked at me, shocked. God, this hurts. I hate this job.

He calmed down a little. Is he not afraid to die? Or did he think I was too weak to shoot someone I was so close to? He looked at me and reached his hand out to my face. His voice was raspy, and his throat moved on the inside of my palm. It felt kinda gross, but I didn’t move my hand.

“You-“ He put his hand on my arm softly. It didn’t hurt. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. It just made it harder knowing I had to hurt him. I hate this job.

He moved his hand to my face and caressed my cheek. My ****** expression shifted to a much softer one, but not so much he could tell. It’s hard to tell when I’m happy because of my eyes, which always made me look mad. ​Evil.

Nightmare eyes, I always thought. He always said I was beautiful no matter what, but I hated them. I didn’t really mind when he called me such feminine things either, until all the guys in my school started calling me girly. Even then, I didn’t say anything to him. I let him call me whatever because it was him.

My mom used to say my eyes always made me look evil. Blonde hair and red eyes. The guys in my school always made fun of me for it. But he never did. 'Guys leave him alone,' he told them, 'he can’t control it, just like you can’t control how small your brain is.'

“Last words. Make em’ count.” I ordered. A tear fell slowly down his cheek and was absorbed by the pillow.  

He smiled weakly. I loosened my grip around his neck but didn’t let go. He rested his palm against my cheek.

“You’re beautiful.” He said.