I am a man.
I swear I am.
My reflection proves it.
The weight of who I am
Feels heavy on my shoulders,
Like a pressure,
Like a burden,
Sometimes like a curse.

I am a man.
I know I am.
She says I’m not,
Not how she sees me.
Her disappointment,
Her conclusions,
Her haste and distaste,
Are all my undoing.

I am a man,
But her accusations laced
With twisting scripture
And convenient verses,
Make me fear this form.
All this strength within me,
All this need to deliver
Turn to self doubt and silence.

I am a man,
Islam serves the woman,
Strokes her ego,
Makes man revolve around her.
Or so she claims
That scholars claim.
She pounds into me daily
With anecdotes on the perfect husband:
The Prophet Muhammad (SAW).

I am a man,
But I am not him.
She slaps me with stories of
Abu Bakr, Omar, Uthman, and Ali.
May Allah be Pleased with them.
Her wrath rains down on me
Through comparisons
Turned disappointment.
I cannot speak or move.
I wonder what she would do
If they were actually in my place.

I am a man,
But she is the peace,
That rips me to pieces.
I ought to be perfection,
A bearded, clean, proper,
Little gentlemen
Who keeps his mouth closed
Just lets her do as she pleases.

I am a man,
But her staunch stances,
Her experiences,
And pain are all projected on me.
I am the willing screen
To display her rage and fear.
I am her father, her brother,
All the men who hurt her,
The society that holds her back.

I am a man,
She wraps me in skins
That belong to others.
She punishes me for the sins
That belong to her criminals
Until I believe I deserve it.
I swallow this hurt for the privilege
To love her, to call her mine.

I am a man.
But she’s not mine.
I am her’s.
She doesn’t belong to anyone.
My reminders make her cry
And lash out in an ugly display.
Islam is a work in progress for her.
She’s not Khadijah or Aishah!
She needs time…
Time and time again.

I am a man.
I am expected to be anyways.
I don’t know what it means.
Everything she does for me is a favour,
But all I do for her she deserves.
She cries for equality,
But she doesn’t really mean it.
She wants to be equal
To her idea of freedom,
In which I am a slave to her desires.

I am the man,
So I swallow it,
Then I wallow in it.
Her hate,
Her love,
Her neutering indifference
To the consequences
Of this slide.
I bathe in the pool
Of this building animosity,
The dreadful horror
Of this thing I have become.

I am not a man,
Not anymore.
She’s finally euthanized
The last of that drive.
That need to lead and bring justice,
I have turned it off somehow.
I am a shell,
A speck,
The opposite
Of what Allah wants me to be.

A silent screaming heart,
Bowing to this flesh and blood,
Her interpretation,
Her rules and regulations,
Her need for constant validation
Are my religion and my lord.
A silenced worshipper
At the alter of her desires
And her misled prophesies.

No battlefields await me,
No brotherhood or brawn,
No martyr, no bringer of dawn.
I was created with purpose,
To establish His Law on earth.
Yet, most days are anarchy
Where those laws can’t pass
My throat, let alone my threshold.
What am I? What man?

Commander of the clicker,
Slave to superheroes, selfies, and sports,
Inheritor of food, fat, and frailty,
Follower of fads, fame, and fashion.
This is a reality we ignore,
For that blissful catatonia
That chases away this awakening.
He doesn’t live here.
For us, He lives in rituals,
Religion, and rules that we ignore,
Yet, showcase for convenience
To serve our desires and degrees.

I am a man,
Only by name.
I have lost myself
And my religion to her,
To this beguiling progression,
To the scholars that sate me
By singing soothing lullabies.
I am emasculated
To the point of no return.
Torchbearers, we are not,
My Brother,
Our flames have long gone out
With no one to light them
Or the way for those to come.

5/5 - (6 votes)

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