Creating an Islamic-American Culture
Sometimes only paper is privy to the caverns of thoughts the mind finds difficult to process.
Challenged by the onslaught of awaiting gallows where damaged hearts lay witness to a world fraught with promise, hastily allowing fear to choose deception as its compass.
Sometimes only paper will resonate and give homepage to the sheer fruition of pain held so deeply embedded in the soul, bestowing upon heavy collective shoulders deferred justice and burial so warranted.
Sometimes only paper is the only tool left in the heart’s arsenal – the only safe place left to witness what the entire world pretends not to see or take ownership of, because somehow not seeing -makes everything a lie.
Sometimes only paper is all the comfort required when the irresistible urge to complain needs a home, or a nest of ideas, which must find the release to evolve into the next dream, promise, or hope.
Sometimes only paper is all that is left in this world, -to strip the lies awry and give rise to the vision that out in this world, is a place of peace that cannot be ignored or swayed away.
Sometimes only paper is the only container left to expose the secrets hidden away so deep, pried from a place much protected -where memories remain stored in practiced years of emotional defeat.
Sometimes only paper becomes the last refuge for speakers of truth to reside; A measure where records are cataloged, -marked and kept.
-Where mankind’s collision with humanity crept, by the seconds of time where the mother’s all wept, and fathers were left to bury their children in shallow graves dug by the dozens, by living dead whose humanity remained frozen, in time.
Sometimes only paper can be the barometer of truth, the last vestige of honest discord, -or more often than not a dangerous tool of massive corruption this world can ill afford.
Listen clear and listen close, the time is upon us now, to break free from the ties that divide us, these wretched falsehoods that persistently bind us.
Step out of the pages away from divisive lines we all choose to form. Break free from the sides that are evilly joined to foster a world so bleak; -which humans corruptly divide by misshapen beliefs and variations of color.
The ridiculous notion that somehow our differences are what should keep borders and walls forming, while behind all the doors where people’s lives must endure are breached in ways too difficult to invent.
Sometimes only paper can be where truths are revealed, the last and final goodbyes to a time and place that we all could have lived, but instead chose the pages to die, to wither and waste.
And as the words trickle on this page, the voice in my head wants to scream, Write down every last truth you can force on the page until the last breath from you is finally squeezed!
Time is quickly slipping away. Irreplaceable and lost.
And so like never before, charged to expose the brevity of lies by the hypnotized, -to resonate the voice of the silent lives.
Those who have been marginalized, compromised, demonized, then flippantly set aside, caustically left for dead.
The voices of those who’s only wish was to live in peace and integrity, but instead cut down short by the keepers of delusion as they lead our collective world to certain exclusion, but dismantled by the mindset of the consumed by repulsion.
-Rejected as dreamers not worthy of attention except by the pages of paper existing in anticipation,
-Awaiting words of internal meditation,
-organized into prose of clarification,
-into a battered world beleaguered by the devastation.
Sometimes only paper will the truth prevail. Sometimes only paper will listen . . . to you.