The fear of being proved wrong:
Lose it, it’s weighing you down
The fear of being proved right:
Find it, and keep it around
Poetry
Idioticked
It’s alright, son
I know it makes you sad
But acting like an idiot
Isn’t even half as bad
As being one
I know
Enough’s Enough
You look in the mirror
And see your reflection
But then there’s another
Large mirror behind you
You chase down reflections
And get to the last one
That last one you found there
While trying to find you
Yes, that one. No, THAT one
That’s tending to zero
You know you can’t see it
Although it can see you
It’s laughing at you
Tree
Forbidden tree
Forgetful mind
A devil’s plot
In a scheme Divine
What is, is not
What is not, is
Son of Hātim
The scholars sacrifice their books to hear,
The warriors, their arms, that they may touch,
The children, all their toys, to just be near,
This man. No man was ever loved this much.
And now ‘Adiyy bin Hātim, son of Tayy,
Of line defining generosity,
Found himself in Madinah standing by
A grandmother who kept his company.
He watched him standing on the dusty way
Conversing with that frailness bent with years,
Unhastening despite the long delay,
Attending, reassuring, calming fears.
‘Adiyy received more than he ever gave:
Came looking for the king and found the slave.