Aqimussola

The mosque was my sanctuary,
My refuge when the smog of life got too heavy,
When Dunya turned gritty, and stopped its pretty,
The domes from which there were plain ones,
And ones worthy of envy,
Became my homes,
(For there were many.)

The quiet settling of dust from the books in little shelves,
The soft shuffling of slippers at the stairs before people washed themselves,
Sacred, preparing to meet their Maker,
Cast away the daily grind that just feels faker,
With all those days that flit by without meaning,
The peace in prayer became redeeming.

But then you age,
And these eyes that used to close for meditation,
Just can't seem to shut anymore for fear of manipulation,
You read and you see that the world needs to change,
That we should be wary of the strange,
Or maybe we shouldn't,
I don't know,
But maybe the learned ones can guide us from a certain range.

But the wise ones with their beards remained lying nurses,
When the cancer spreads in your shell,
And they tell you to always remember Heaven
And always remember Hell,
"It will all be okay"
You don't need to know the news about pollution today ,
Or corruption, all dismay,
Let's leave these innocent souls in our zikrs when we pray, (Amin)
And remind ourselves to hate our big abstract Doomsday. (Nauzubillah)

Oh and all our enemies!

The Zionists, the dissenters,
The Shiites, the Westerners,
Sometimes Qadyanis, sometimes Ayah Pin,
Occasionally those video games that make you go insane.

The mosque was my sanctuary,
But now in my calm, I get angry,
I can't have my khusyuk or thoma'ninah,
When the khatibs don't talk about WHY there are bombings in Madinah,
Or when there were other problems at hand,
They wanted to talk about fruits, and the health benefits of rambutan,
Or when greed seeped into our states and our federal systems,
We chose to talk about vape in our respiratory systems.

Do they take us for buffoons?
Do they think if they stay long enough in this cocoon,
They will become these God-loving butterflies,
With their own promised kingdom on the moon?
I mean, I know our symbol is the crescent,
But let's stay on Earth for the present,

Look man,
Maybe we don't need a Luqman,
Speaking in riddles about moral philosophy,
And respecting your elders,
Embracing humility,
Luqman is good,
But not without context,
Devoid of real world problems, with nuances and pretext.

The preachers from other pulpits laugh at our sanitized sermons,

Our khutbahs come with slides,
Because there's a format for our propaganda persons,
And even if no one important is laughing,
At this scripted - redacted- babbling,
Your congregation is asleep!
Doesn't that at least make you ask "What's happening?"

But you keep blaming our faiths,
Our lack of istiqamah and conviction,
Never slapping yourself in the face,
And the state of your positions,
When you're fed by a body that doesn't want you to disagree,
It gets harder to speak relevance, it gets harder to be free.

I get it.

And the mosque is still my sanctuary,
When I want to forget the world,
But when the world is loud and scary,
And is begging not to be forgot,
Let's pray we all check our ignorance,
Before we answer ourselves to God.

Aqimussola.

Tinder

This is a story of fire,
And how a boy discovered it,
He was walking through the woods witnessing life and people in their dreams, making up their lines as they go,
And then boom the simmering heat from the limelight, prime night,
Fire was born,
From lightning striking the boy's heart forlorn.

The Fire was wild, beautiful and free,
But it was about to die, from some past tragedy,
The Fire caught whiff of the boy's attention,
And the boy edged closer without any mention.

And then it was warmth for several nights,
The boy stoked the flames, whilst hiding his fright,
The Fire warned, "YOU DON'T WANNA BE BURNED"
"I CAN'T GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT,
YOU'VE GOT SO MUCH MORE TO LEARN"

And then the boy said "Oh hey I can handle some heat,
I just think you glow like a lone lamplight in the street."

And thus the Fire had many suitors,
Empty tin warriors, and sultry flower men,
Jesters and virgins, the whole lot of them,
Crowd around the Fire,
And make the Fire more hot.

"I don't want that, you see
To be someone's property,
To no one I belong,
I will not sing that song"

"It's okay.
Nobody really owns Fire"

"But what if you get hurt or go insane?"
"Sanity's overrated, and what even is my brain?

But to the Boy, the Fire was the cosiest glow,
Like by the lake, sitting, staring up at the sky for a fireworks show
Waiting with comfort, and Firelit cigarettes.

The flames lit chandeliers,
Silhouetting waves and waves of choir,
The Boy made the Fire a mixtape,
And the mixtape was fire.

But then came the day when the Fire wanted more,
Then the Boy became nervous,
And it started to pour,
All was wet with rain to shores,
But everyone was drenched,
And the Fire was no more.

Now the Fire is ablaze in someone else's hearth,
And the Boy only has a match,
Unlit in the darkest path,
But it was still (a) lighter,
For the shadows ahead,
A lightbulb that beams,
For all the thoughts in his head.


The Boy does not hate Fire for being what she is,
He loves that he ever got to see, her burning in his midst,
Tonight is the day we remember pyromania,
Instead of  burning scented candles, big burdens into ashes and saying SEE YA
And this match is for lighting candles to be made memorabilia
To this boy's most recent hyperthermia,
I choose no other friend for this hell,
Or call me a liar,
My dearest soulmate,my favourite Fire.

Happy birthday, babe. I love you.

Suhail

Suhail Samsudin is the light of my life
In the weirdest brotherly way,
We're comrades,
From our faith in communist shades,
And our friendship through more demanding days.

He's a mother, to my unkempt self,
To my often dishevelled brain,
He keeps me sane,
When I feel like a runaway train,
He fixes me up back to normal again.

He is my sense of humour,
And the source of my misplaced confidence,
When I drop puns and I act ridiculous,
I always take comfort in,
"That if he was around,
Suhail would like this "

He's neat and tidy, and ever so whiny,
If you mess with his bedsheets,
Or dirty up his room,
He'll put on a smile,
That spells out your doom.

You underestimate how wonderful you are at times,
So I'm gonna outline it in the form of unstructured rhyme...

You're kind, adorable
And pretty hot too,
Hilarious as fuck,
A potential polyglot (soon).

You're witty and smart,
And musical at heart,
Resilient as fuck,
And when needed, works hard.

And in a life where I keep on making bad choices,
I never regret having you as one of my inner voices,
That baritone silliness that consoles me almost daily,
While slipping in a joke you heard from Bill Bailey.

Anyway, I'm just glad the first time I walked into your dorm,
And rudely lied on your bed,
You didn't ask me to leave,
And talked about Warhammer instead.

I love you, man. Happy 23.