I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard guys say they want a girl that is modest and isn’t “known” around the community. She’s gotta be a bamf of a hijabi & she’s gotta be on her hayaa game.
The irony.
It’s always out of the mouths of guys who lowkey talk to so many girls,…
As salaamu alaikum wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuhu
My wife is going into surgery about now. Make du’a for her rahimakumullahu ta’ala
May Allah azza wa jal give her a speedy recovery, ameen.
waalaykumussalam wa rahmatullahi wa barakatuh
May Allah make it easy on all of you and grant her a speedy recovery. Ameen.
My mother,
the lioness.Tall grass,
a fearful sniff of the air
there she is
hurtling forward
to protect me.The sky darkens,
the birds no longer chirp
my lungs filled with cold air
filled with fear,
staring at the unknown.There she is,
the lioness.
Her roar echoes behind me.
I rise.
This is beautifully amazing, masha’Allah. ♥
Masha’Allah, this is true. But sometimes it’s hard for us to remember.
So my mom and the Stepfather got divorced recently and well, I’m not upset about it. I had been having a hard time with him and I’m not sad that he’s gone. I don’t know if this is wrong of me as they had been married for about 15 years since I was almost 4 years old. I mean, he is a good man and all, but he’s cruel. And he had some extremely hard mood swings that left the rest of us spinning. And just like my mom, I was tired of walking on eggshells around him, wary of him being set off by some silly little thing. I was tired of being stuck in the house all of the time because he never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. I was tired of it. And he had began making me feel uncomfortable. I won’t say how, but he did. So yeah, I’m glad that he’s gone. My mom doesn’t have to be miserable anymore and I don’t have to feel like a prisoner in my own home. I don’t think that makes me a bad person, do you?
Written by my mother to 14 year old me.
Death of a Poet
I spend all my time
Making words rhyme
Making reality real
Spinning words into sentences
From a heart that’s afraid to feel
Writing words that you would
Never hear from my lips
Lips that encage a tongue
That’s too young
To express innermost feelings
Life dealings and soul wrenching reality and healing
How I wish that I could kill my pen
And break the cage
That makes me a slave
I wanna breakaway, not be home all alone
I wanna die hard and cry hard, not be hard as a stone
I wanna take my beauty from within and make it shine out
I wanna cry out instead of needing to write it out
The life of a poet is dead
A life that lives on wrinkled pages that may never be read
Poetry is slavery
For the soul that is meant to be free
A self made cage
Who’s master is a page
And a pen
Is that me, is that you?
Who is she?
I don’t even know me
And neither do you
But someday I’ll write a letter
To make me feel better
Or maybe a long song
About how life treated me wrong
Until then I’m just a slave
To the page
I envy the one who was never a sage
Who was never afraid to speak
Whether strong or weak
To cry from their eyes, to scream from their mouths that don’t have an eraser
Who can live a life that’s not captured on paper
Death suits the poet because after death is fame
After death people remember the name
Of the person
That they could never really know in life
If you read this and you’re a poet like me
Release your spirit
And set your soul free
Stop hiding behind a pencil afraid to feel
Make your life into a poem that’s real.
I haven’t ACTUALLY been on hiatus. I’ve just been in the Twilight Zone. Seriously. I wake up, same time every morning after pressing the snooze button a precise number of times spaced evenly every five minutes, run around like a chicken with it’s head cut off trying to dress and groom and get downstairs, nearly missing the bus, same time getting to work, go scan my finger because my school is like a prison, get harassed by one of the matrons to go to my class as I am clearly heading in that direction, say good morning, open the curtains, make them eat, line them up, take them outside, listen to the Boss Lady speak incorrect English for all of the school to hear, walk the children back to class. Only variation is the number of sessions and when they are per day. Everything exactly the same. Wait for the laaate as hell bus at 3:30, may or may not leave before 4, get home, do chores, write daily report, cook, eat, pass out. Repeat. That is my life. However, this post was not supposed to be about that. I am a poet. I write poetry. Talking about my world and how I feel about it. I got my talent and love of writing from my mother. I began by writing songs, as most young people who write poetry start these days. A friend of mine from the past was stealing songs from singers and telling me that these were her own writings. Gullible, naive, 14 year old me believed her because I had never listened to music then. My best friend at the time told me that it sounded like a song that she had heard, so I googled it all and find that, yes, she was stealing. Anyways, all the songs I wrote were my own. I share everything with my mother and so I was sharing them with her. Most of them were very depressed and sad because I was still mourning the non-presence of my father. So, my mother wrote me a poem. In reply to all of the ones I had ever written before it. I will be posting it in a new post in dedication to my mommy who I love so so much.
There is no power or strength except through Allah ♥
I love this. :o
So. Everyone should know that what I write here is always one bit of random fancy or another. It’s never a planned subject or essay. In fact, my essays aren’t planned either…Wow…I just start and then keep typing until I can’t think anymore, then I go back and put in essay form…Which is cool because I always get an A for them. Anyways, today’s topic is going to be about the subject that I think on the most. Marriage. So, if you’ve read my other blog, you’ll know that I was/am half in love with this teacher that works at the school I teach at. He’s a Quran teacher and he’s just one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my life, masha’Allah. But my mom doesn’t like him because one time he came to work and the sides of his beard were cut very low. Now, mind you, I have been watching the poor guy since I started there a year and a half ago and he has NEVER once had his beard cut. THIS day, however, was the day AFTER I’d managed to convince her to have one of my brothers ask him some questions. Sad thing, cuz she immediately changed her mind. :( Anyways, the other night, me and the bestfriend were talking about it (cuz she also has a major crush on one of the teachers) and we resolved to be good about it…Because we soooo weren’t…being good about it. I mean, we were pretty much stalking the poor guys, and hard. We’d found facebooks, pictures, class names, schedules…nearly everything. The only good thing was that my mom knew about all of it. So it wasn’t a big, dirty secret that she’d kill me about. So long as I didn’t touch him (read: kidnap him) she’d let me work it out on my own. And what we (bestie and I) were talking about was, if we want to marry these men, or any men for that matter, then we were going about it the wrong way. I mean, I have been making dua about it, istikhara, between asr and maghrib, between the adhans, in sujood, etc… That if Allah knows it to be good for me in this life and the hereafter than to let it happen and if not, to change the way I feel about it all. So far though, zip. And we realized that, maybe, just maybe, Allah is waiting for us to get our acts together. To figure out that we were doing it wrong. So we made the plan to not stare, stalk, or talk about them at work or otherwise (not gonna be easy since that was the meat of our convos and the excitement of our lives). Then, I told her I was deleting all the pictures I had of both of them (I was the picture-keeper because her mom was way stricter than my mom) and she had a hissy fit. She yelled and screamed at me and called me a….very bad word. :D And then she was like, you’re right, you’re right. We have to be halal. But it was hard. It was very hard to do, but I did it so, I think I’m ready for the other part of it. The not talking about or looking out for bit…OMG. Maybe not… We’ll see…Tomorrow. Gah.
Boys are stupid. I’m going to throw rocks at them.
Byeee,
Cleo ♥
