I like writing my owns stuff during brief random moments of imagination. Alot of them are symbolic and not literal but some sort of reality. Storing this here will be a good folder for me
Written 28th December 2024,
Sons of Adam
I have seen all types of men,
Each one unique, and yet akin.
Each son of Adam wears a different skin,
But contradictions live and breathe within.
One man is carefree, drifting through the day, Blind to vultures lurking down the way. So is he really carefree, or naive lost in play?
One man is aware, yet strolls at ease, Like deer approaching crocodiles' dark seas. So is he really aware, or just appeased?
One man is anxious, trembling every hour, Frozen like a fawn without the power To flee his fate, devoured by fear's tower. So is he really anxious, or just sour?
One man is nonchalant, a sloth in guise, Calming the world with slow and steady eyes, Yet knows his pace means hunger in disguise. So is he really nonchalant, or telling lies?
One man is masculine like oak and stone, With iron jaw and voice a thunderous tone, Yet weeps alone when night has fully grown. So is he really masculine, or just alone?
One man is feminine like flowing stream, With gentle grace and soft, reflective gleam, Yet holds a warrior's fire in his dream. So is he really feminine, or more than he seems?
One man is both, a river and a flame, No single word can hold or cage his name, He shifts like seasons, wild and yet the same. So is he really both, or just untamed?
One man is angry like a storm at sea, With lightning tongue and waves of fury free, Yet seeks the peace he cannot let himself be. So is he really angry, or just not free?
One man is disciplined, a rigid line, Each hour measured, every move refined, Yet craves the chaos he has left behind. So is he really disciplined, or just confined?
One man is generous, his pockets bare, He gives his last, pretends he has a spare, Yet starves in silence, too ashamed to share. So is he really generous, or just unaware?
One man is humble, bowing low his head, Yet burns with pride at every word that's said, And keeps a ledger of who's honored him instead. So is he really humble, or pride-fed?
One man is loving, tender as the dawn, Yet wounds the ones he says he's leaning on, And wonders why, when morning comes, they're gone. So is he really loving, or a pawn?
One man is hopeful, eyes upon the light, Yet stumbles daily, falling every night, And questions if his hope is wrong or right. So is he really hopeful, or just in flight?
Every man is a living contradiction,
A calculated, careful work of fiction.
Each one performative, rehearsed, and staged,
Playing roles on life's elaborate page.
They craft their masks with trembling, desperate hands,
Yet crumble when reality demands.
Made of clay yet claiming sky, Born to crawl yet taught to fly. No man is whole, no man complete,
Fragile actors on a fleeting stage, Pretending strength from age to age.
God alone is congruent, whole, and true, No contradiction mars His view. Forever constant, forever same, We are the echoes. He, the greatest of all names.
Written 24th March 2024
Of the Sultan Who Bowed Only Once
Names, they said, were too small
for the way he moved through the world.
He walked
gravity had made an exception for him,
light as a feather
borrowed by the wind,
touching the earth
only when it pleased him.
He carried freedom
the way the sky carries clouds:
without effort,
letting them gather
and letting them go.
No chain ever found his wrists.
No voice taught him to lower his head.
He learned kneeling only once,
on bare ground,
before God alone,
and stood thereafter
unclaimed by men.
In seasons of peace,
he seemed almost careless.
He laughed as though time
had never cornered him.
He wandered as though the world
were wide and forgiving.
But his ease was not emptiness.
It was mastery so complete
it no longer needed praise.
Those who stood near him
felt themselves slow.
Urgency loosened.
Quarrels forgot their words.
Not from fear,
but from the strange tranquility
that follows him
The chroniclers warn:
do not mistake the feather
for featherness.
When the hour arrived,
when borders trembled,
when betrayal breathed too close,
when mercy would have been
a wound to the future,
he did not hesitate.
The feather remembered
it had always been a lion.
The Khagan
The Khan of all Khans
He became firm.
And in that stillness,
everything else learned
where it stood.
He did not rage wildly.
He moved with the patience
of something that knows
it cannot be resisted.
Stone yielded.
Men listened.
History adjusted its course.
And when the danger passed,
he returned to lightness,
to laughter,
to silence,
to the unburdened air of a man
who had never been owned
by power.
That was his freedom:
that neither peace nor fury
could hold him.
The old texts end quietly.
They say such rulers appear rarely,
men who bow only once,
walk lightly through the world,
and stand like lions
only when the world
forgets what strength is for.
And when they pass,
what remains is not fear,
but a silence
that feels
like being protected.
Written 19th December 2023,
Title: Where I Chose to Sit
At sunset,
when the world lowers its guard,
I sit
not searching,
not waiting,
settled.
The sun descends like it knows I’m watching.
Gold darkens into something richer,
something earned.
Light stretches across the water
and I let it.
The wind passes me.
It doesn’t test me.
It recognises stillness that doesn’t need permission.
I stay where I am,
and it moves on.
The sea crashes with intent.
Not chaos,
decision.
Each wave arrives knowing exactly
what it will take
and what it will leave untouched.
Birds circle the edge of that power.
Some drift close,
pulled by instinct,
by the temptation of being seen
near force.
Others feel it coming.
They read the water.
They sense the tension gathering beneath the surface,
the moment before impact
when restraint becomes intelligence.
I see the big wave long before it breaks.
wise and sharpened sight.
Presence sharpened everything else.
The wiser birds fall back.
Not in fear,
in respect.
They understand something simple and rare:
you don’t step into the garden uninvited
power is to fly above and not to prove yourself to the waves.
The wave hits.
Hard.
Unapologetic.
Stone sings under it.
Sand gives way.
The birds who kept their distance rise afterward,
clean, unharmed,
carried by the same wind
that rewards judgment over impulse.
I don’t move.
Salt settles on my skin
At sunset.
At four.
I learn what I already suspected:
essence is not proximity to force,
it’s awareness,
control,
and the certainty
to sit still
while the world unfolds