The Painted Sky

The city was a gray machine,

ticking with a million cold hearts.

In the winter of 1950, London was a ghost

of a forgotten dream.

I stood before a dusty canvas,

a palette of primary colors

dripping onto my weathered hands.

I was a man of great character,

but I was drowning in the noise of status.

No empty degree could explain this void,

no digital success could fill this empty degree of hope.

I picked up the brush,

feeling the tarbiyat of a life

spent chasing the wrong sun.

I did not look at the clock,

I did not worry about the marathon of the soul.

I just began to paint.

A swirl of blue for the sky,

a touch of green for the fields I used to know.

I was a new life,

a garden of peace in a golden cage of iron.

I was finding my grit

in the silent stroke of a brush.

I painted until the sun began to dip,

until my hands were stained with gold and sky.

I realized that success

is not the life the world sees,

but the beauty you are willing to make.

A human style of belonging,

a connection in the vibrant silence.

Your "Grit" is not a wall,

it is a color you share with the world.

Stay firm in your art.

Stay loyal to your truth.

The world wants a machine,

but the universe wants a painting.

The Lesson (Short Insight)

poetry is the truth we are afraid to show.

Do not hide your colors.

Write about the things that make your heart bleed onto the page.

That is the connection the world is looking for.

Stay brave.

Stay real.