Amicable me:
lowly, obscene,
hypocritical to a tee,
they don’t see,
a waste of space,
my heart-beats expendable
but I breathe.
The stranger’s praise is poison
you see,
they don’t see,
what goes on behind the scenes,
how my soul’s dried up into debris;
exhausted,
answering the devil’s plea.
He gave me fake applause,
for a hollow deed,
they still don’t see.
Lord, to you i plead,
don’t write me off with munafiqin,
let me walk in the shadow of Prophets
to that garden serene.
A heart’s only real when it bleeds
without making a scene,
they don’t see.
Amicable, me?
Dear God, make it be.
Photo by Nijwam Swargiary on Unsplash
About the Author: Ibraheem Ali is a graduate of English from the UK. His interests include literature, film, and Islamic history.