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.