Maktub.

When we strive to become better than we are, 
the world around us gets better, too. 
The universe hears the aching uncertainty in our hearts
so, be patient as it clears a path for us to pursue. 

Whether through prayer or wishes made in wells, 
the stars will align to light our way.
If it is written, only time will tell, 
until then find delight in every blessed day. 

If you should encounter calamity upon your soul's quest, 
hold tightly to your faith and keep marching on. 
Even if you fall seven times before you pass the test, 
the secret of life is to keep getting up until all fear is gone. 

Do not forget the universe exists inside of you. 
Like alchemy–you are the winds, deserts, oceans, and even the moon. 
The denial of your own self-worth is just like blasphemy.
Love yourself so brightly that your dreams are drawn to you.

If it is written, take a deep breath, 
and soon you will know the truth; 
close your eyes and listen to your spirit 
as it softly whispers "Maktub."

hate that i love u.

Nearly four years to the day 
since I first saw your pretty face, 
funny how life works that way.
It's like you vanished in thin air without a trace, 
left me replaying all the things you used to say,
like, "Baby, you're my favourite member of the human race" 
and that you'd always be right here to stay.
Now you've got me falling from grace,
cancelled all my colours, and you left me gray.
Stuck here missing you, addicted to the chase,
but I can't keep at these games you wanna play,
in the hopes of one day feeling your embrace.
You're still the sculptor and I am your clay.
Brighter than all the stars in outer space, 
now all that's left to do is pray,
'til I accept you're really gone and not just misplaced.

Me Before You.

A paper bridge under attack by razor winds, 
I was as fragile as a baseball bat made out of glass. 
Naive as a child sheltered from the outside world, 
I fell for your sparkling words. 
Left in a mess, 
a heap of soiled linens on the floor, 
I drowned repeatedly in my tear-filled bath 
until I returned to stone. 
I will go back to the warrior that I was before.

Street Symphony.

A single silver dagger,
rims plated with chrome,
cracked wooden doors,
and a rust-covered stove. 

Sirens are the soundtrack,
bass vibrates under feet,
drowning out the screams
as bullets echo in the streets.

Blood stains the sidewalk,
silence fills the empty halls,
mothers say silent prayers
because of silenced calls.

Innercity fairy tales, 
storybooks from the hood,
thickened skin on children,
from growing up too soon.