I complain to You,
As if You are not the One who maintains my health-
the One who regulates my breath.
I submit myself as your willing slave.
I submit to serve
And in serving-
I know I am only doing myself service.
what kind of slave
is allowed to complain
to their Master?
and then be rewarded for establishing
this conversation full of complaint!
I complain because I fear not having the capacity
to know You.
because to know You-
is complete contentment.
I complain of my guilty complacency
this vacancy within me-
that is stagnant in service
Because until I serve like I say I will
I won’t know how not to complain.
Help me to truly become enslaved.
a good opinion of myself…
is a good opinion of the One who made me
so I can’t do anything blameworthy
for fear that I will disgrace myself
in front of the only One who is worship worthy
no compulsion in religion
yet I feel compelled to believe.
is somewhere “i” cannot exist-
I believe that.
besides me, there nothing
because I make the things-
in my reality, real
I believe them- and so they are.
like the law of attraction
I suffer the affliction of criticism
in that I was created to be
exactly what I am
bound by the fibers
that make me, me
to do what I do.
pulled by forces-
so i sin:
and in the love/sacredness thing
I do tawaf.
“I am in the opinion of my servant.”
I’ve come to trust
Pens are more pensive than pencils
unlike a pen-
they are the
so they need to have the capacity
to obliterate mistakes…
—-they are impermanent
they make my capricious soul
but a pen says-
that what I pen with this pen
by adding more ink
and even then:
its sits upon white paper
proving that there was something there…once
that the world wasn’t ready for it
or that we weren’t ready for the world with it
life happens and we can’t erase/
trying to erase doesn’t ease
trying to trace the process of another
like a pencil
because of the existence
of that eminent eraser.
Allah swore by the pen:::
so i take them seriously.
respect them profusely.
cradle them intimately.
bless them religiously…
I am like a pen—
my actions canNot be effaced!
only rewritten if i so choose
to re-write them::
All actions are inked into my book
-held in the heavens-
until the day,
my penned pages will be
because, like a pen
i am solid…
i choose to be secure:
so do not sever connections
between me and my pen:::
my crutch and my friend…
my sacred sanity secret keeper
my 6th sense allowing me to be dreamer by day!
reality lays at the point of my pen.
“BY THE PEN AND THAT WHICH THEY WRITE!” (68:2)
were the navigation system.
tuned ears so i could listen:::&:::hear
-book as map-
words of caliber within grasp.
Habib عليه السلام as guide
blessed to be on his rightly guided side.
eyes directed skyward:::
words working overtime
to try tallying –
how many times
i looked up
and found You
in the complete bewilderment
i felt found-
when i found
Before anything, there was love.
And before anyone, there was Muhamad.
in that we can only describe how indescribable mankind’s mercy is:
how liberating womankind’s mercy is.
Liberated our souls with ultimate truth.
Only Allah is worthy of worship,
and to worship Him
is to emulate the ineffable:
who lived an exemplary life,
full of trials and tribulations-
proving that his patience surpassed probability,
because it was evident.
Teaching us not to be statistics-
or statistically static-
but to be ecstatic!
Where there is love- there is ecstasy!
and truth fits between the two:::perfectly!
Taught us to concern ourselves only with truth,
and to be actively mobile and agile with it-
Truth and love are such that
they can’t be kept secrets.
Bodies do not permit lungs,
to fill with breath-
that is not dedicated
to at least trying to explain
how ineffable our love is.
Love is a condition.
and to be conditioned,
and open to that condition-
is to open your soul
to the conditioner
and let love in.
Muhamad. makes the conditioning sweet
because his life proves-
that it’s love in truth.