Poetry

Tonight, like every night, I will go to bed
with my heart, mind, and soul intact.
They will have their cracks, and those few holes I just couldn’t fill again,
but overall, they will still be enough to keep me going.

Tomorrow, like every morning, I will awake,
to find my heart, mind, and soul shattered into pieces.
They will have their few recognizable pieces, and those few whole parts,
but overall, they will still be enough to keep me going.

I begin my day, putting myself back together,
starting with the big pieces of faith, love, and hope.
After this, I will find the smaller pieces,
of prayers and memories.
And finally, I will gather the remaining dust,
Made up of patience and what remains of my trust,
and will put it all together with my tears of joy and sorrow.
As I begin to see my heart, mind and soul returning to their shapes,
I say a prayer or two, to seal it all together.

I will rest my head on my pillow again,
Turn to my right, and say a prayer.
I will ask Allah to bring me ease,
And to return what my heart, mind, and soul seek.

Tomorrow, if I wake to pieces again,
I won’t be sad or upset.
The crumbs of patience and trust will have grown,
But with that, they will be easier to remold.
What the final product will be, I don’t know.
But, that it will beneficial,
This I know for certain.

Beauty.
Not just beautiful.
She is more than just the enlightenment of elegance,
more than just the depiction of depth,
more than just the supremacy of simplicity,
she is the essence of beauty itself.
More than beautiful.
Bella.

When I began my journey with her,
I spent most of my time in thought.
I was trying to understand how someone could exist,
in a world so harsh, as one of such purity.
It was only after a long period of time,
that I was able to accept her as real.
Through all these years, I had pursued marriage,
but felt that in order to marry, I’d have to lose a part of me.

With her, it is different.
All that happens only leads to gains.
When she would smile and laugh,
or would remember a quirk about me,
I would gain a sense of comfort and confidence in our love.
And when she would be upset or would cry,
or would question my heart’s honesty,
I would gain an opportunity to learn, so that I may be better for her.

This is what I have learned to be beauty.
It does not always come in the most appealing of ways,
but if looked at with honesty,
to oneself and our other,
it is found in the depths of every moment we spend together.

Beauty.
A simple word that depicts her,
and to which she brings depth to definition.
When I see others, or think of love,
my mind and heart make her presence known.
For me, she is in every way or form greater than the rest.
Not for any other reason except that
Allah has engraved her name onto my heart.
He has made her voice the narrator of my every thought,
and has allowed for her purity to flow through my veins.

She is my Beauty, my Bella.
And I will always love her.

Often, a poem is only as beautiful as the mark it leaves on a heart. Be it a temporary or permanent mark, the mark determines the greatest component of a poem’s significance. Or the significance of any words for that matter.

Thus, we should keep caution of what we say, as every word, every syllable, every letter, has an impact.

One day, I lost a part of me.
It was replaced with a flood of misery.
I had now lived out the truest love story.
One of loss, without regret,
because I had given her every part of me.

They say that upon leaving, you find your way.
They say that upon leaving, they rush back to stay.
They say that upon breathing, they make everything seem okay,
They say that upon breathing, they take your breath away.

But what becomes of that moment,
when all they say has been disproven?
When leaving left both merely lingering,
longing, but never acting?
When having your breath taken,
was all that left you breathing?
When that breath that was now missing,
was perhaps what you were truly missing?

Ah, but there is the beauty of love:
Sometimes you drift and sometimes you grow.
And sometimes doing one, leads to both.
The truth of the matter is really quite clear,
when you have truly loved, they never really disappear.
When you have truly lived, you must have loved,
and at that very moment, you will have found what real happiness does.

It pulls you in, makes you yearn for more,
for the path we all seek is happiness through oneself and the Lord.
But love is a necessity;
a prerequisite of sorts.
In order to truly be happy,
you must let love take its course.

So, I have, with all the strength I could muster,
shoved misery aside and left it flustered.
My love and my faith are both working hand-in-hand.
And I am certain that my prayers are more than just words in the shore’s sand.

Brush strokes
smear the paint of moments across the canvas of life.
Every strike begins full and slowly dissipates,
as it grows weak and loses its color.
Towards the end, every brush is left light.
The weight of the moment has left it and become one with the canvas.

Dipped again into the mounds of vibrance,
hoping for another opportunity,
another lift in confidence;
the artist looks down at the palette,
and sees that no matter the options of colors,
only one works.

Lifting the brush to the canvas takes a toll in itself.
Holding all the tools in hand,
the artist still fears the color might not be right.
What if this color ruins the painting?
What if this choice ruins my life?
Every color and every stroke
a step towards finding what one sought.

Ah, but in the question lies the answer.
The beauty of color is that it molds and changes.
It adjusts to its surroundings,
creating a newfound vision
the artist had never imagined.
Despite the overwhelming doubt,
the color worked.

Stumbling upon an epiphany,
the artist found strength.
Now, it was understood.
The paint and the brush may have been in hand,
but the painting’s destiny lay in the future.
The artist’s vision may have been one,
but the final image was in the Hands of Another.