Tag Archives: suicide

As Temporary As the Mountains

With God's might, they all move...

With God’s might, they all move…

The Quran Chapter 27, verse 88 says:  “And you see the mountains, thinking they are rigid, but they pass like the clouds. It is the doing of Allah, who has perfected all things, and he knows what you do.”

وَتَرَى ٱلْجِبَالَ تَحْسَبُهَا جَامِدَةً وَهِىَ تَمُرُّ مَرَّ ٱلسَّحَابِ ۚ صُنْعَ ٱللَّهِ ٱلَّذِىٓ أَتْقَنَ كُلَّ شَىْءٍ ۚ إِنَّهُۥ خَبِيرٌۢ بِمَا تَفْعَلُونَ

Ameen. (Amen)

God knows what you are going through. He knows you’re hurt. You get sick. You’re sad and lonely. You have financial problems. You have health problems. You worry. You don’t see a way out. But look back at your life, that time your money got tight, your car was about to be repo’d, you’re heart was broken, you stressed over finding work, graduating from school… Did you make it through? Did it work out?

Of course it did. My mother used to say that worry is a sign of disbelief in God, that you don’t believe He will pull you through. But He always does, doesn’t He? Yes He does. Yet you doubted Him when things got stressful. Did you even thank Him when it was over? Or did you claim that you found a way out?


Muslims say that Allahu khayru alma kareena:  God is the best of planners. Indeed He is. The Creator does not put any situation on you that He doesn’t deem you strong enough to deal with, and even when you find yourself trapped in a maze He will lead you out. If you are a believer He will save you. If you are a non-believer, He still may save you. (By the way, “Believer” can be a Muslim Jew or Christian) Just ask, and if it is His will, you will find a way. Notice I did not say “if you deserved it”, I said “His will”. Deserving is up to Him. Regardless of the outcome, God is in control and His will be done. End of story.

Understanding that even the mountains will move as easily as the clouds is a sign of God’s power. What looks more stable and immovable than the mountains? If God so desires, he will move them or crumble them just as he will move the clouds. The Creator is permanent, and He is powerful. If you stare long enough, entire continents will shift, but only Allah sees it. When you look at your love life or your job situation, regardless of how bleak it may seem or how powerless you feel there is always a way. You don’t see it, but having faith will help. You think they are permanent, but those who understand the miracle of Allah know otherwise. And this is why He told us way back during a time when men weren’t even aware that the Earth moved:  Yes, I even move the mountains too. He knows what you go through, and through this passage he is telling you that not even the mightiest mountain is permanent.

When I hear someone give up–love, work, their passions, working out, their goals–I want to share this with them. Perhaps you are too close to the forest to see the trees. So rely on the One who knows the way out. Follow Him.

Or accompany someone who follows Him.

Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Why I Hate 80s Soft Rock

I know that I said I would focus the love articles on marriage, but I think since I have so many friends who read this blog–as well as women who once claimed or claim to love me now–I am somewhat compelled to address something I am asked frequently: what happened in my love life that made me appear so callous in my relationships.

First, let me give you a song to play while you read. If you’re as old as I am, you might recognize it. I recognize it and it brings up bad memories, so when I heard it while driving this afternoon it led to a chain of thoughts and recollections. One subject and event led to another, from 1985 and the 15-year old me through the next 6 or 7 years; and what happened to make me the way that I am today. First, the song:

I grew up in Chocolate City, Washington, DC. I attended a private high school uptown with the wealthier folks, but had to commute across town from Southeast DC (the hood) to the Dupont Circle neighborhood, where a poor kid of color like me doesn’t belong. Anyone I met was not allowed to come home with me, although I did violate that rule and I paid for it once they saw where I lived. But some things you can’t hide, from the ghetto English I learned to speak living in the neighborhood I’m from, to the choice of clothing that differed from what the kids uptown wore, to the music we listened to. The kids I met around Mackin listened to soft rock; I grew up on DC Go-Go and rap music. The kids from Dupont Circle were warned by their parents not to venture too far down the Orange and Blue lines (away from Northern Virginia), and forget about befriending kids from my part of town.

And dating? Shiiit….

I was sexually active. The girls I met were not. I knew guys who drank, used drugs, committed crimes; the girls I met did not. This was a terrible mismatch. But I was not your average kid-from-the-hood. I was a mixed kid who had lived abroad and grew up reading books, encyclopedias and National Geographic magazines. I spoke several languages, lived in several countries, knew the difference between a British accent and an Australian one, and was a little more worldly than your average DC Black kid. On top of that, I had the hoodie confidence that came with knowing that the world would fear walking the streets I played on. This made me attractive to teenaged girls, despite that I wore old clothes and had never heard of Duran-Duran.

Every teenaged boy who meets a girl (at least in those days) had two goals:  get laid or fall in love. There were girls from my part of town I could sleep with, even at 15 years old, so getting laid wasn’t a big deal for me. I wanted to fall in love, and like most people–I wanted girls who really didn’t want me. In my neighborhood (two from my hood actually read this blog), I was the popular boy. Of the prettiest girls in my age group, only one got to adulthood without spending at least part of her life as a “Miyagi Sweetheart”. But silly old me–I kept falling for grown women and “preppie girls”, as we called them. Problem was, I was a gimmick for them and any interest they had in me was short term.

Lord, why am I telling you all this?

Anyway, let me tell you who they are. Lauren Kelly-Washington, Malaika Smith, Kama Lucas, Violeta Alvarado, Ivy Reyes, Evelinda Acevedo, Terri Stoney (some of these chicks were 15, 20 years older than I was!)…. oh my gosh–I can’t think of the rest of them. And each one of these courtships ended up with lil confident Moe, heartbroken and more and more in resentment of girls from that part of town, hating soft rock more and more, and turning more and more into the kind of guy I grew up with. While I never really listened to this music, I liked it while I dated the girls who did. But just as quickly as I met them and started dreaming of what was next, it was over and I promised myself I would never, ever go down that road again. Anything remotely familiar in a new relationship would turn me off, and by the time I was 17, I was a freshman at University of MD, College Park–and so opposed to the idea of “falling in love” I became the kind of shitty guy every nice girl’s mom warned her of. And you know what happens to an insecure guy pretending to be confident as a defense mechanism? I went overboard with it, and kept this false confidence all the way into adulthood.

Let me say this:  I am in no way blaming me being an asshole on those girls. We were all kids, albeit young adults, but it does explain what is in my past that made me what I became and why I am the way I am today.

Us guys all have our “things”. Some guys screw for sport, some are looking for wives, some are looking for arm candy to make themselves look good. I had become the kind of guy who would pretend not to love the women I really did love, and would break up with a sister I completely was enchanted by if I thought there was a remote chance she might break up with me soon. Better I hurt them than to let them get me first. I adopted the belief that any girl who was of the caliber I could fall head-over-heels for needed to be far away from me. I needed women I could easily walk away from, because it would make my life happier, I thought. At 42 years old I am just starting to get rid of that policy.

I use to threaten my ex-wives with “don’t push the buttons of a brother who had been divorced 2/3/4/5/6 times”. I gave a specific list of “don’t dos” and “better NOT dos”, and if they violated those rules, I was out. Each time I strayed from my philosophy and allowed myself to fall madly in love it always bit me in the butt. So as the pages of my life turned, it became harder and harder to be a normal person. Each of my wives had to threaten me with a break up to get me to marry them, and we entered each marriage with me saying to myself “I’ll try, but you better not fuck up.” The one thing I have never done was to drop on one knee and ask a woman to marry me. I had never married a woman I pledged undying love to. I had never dove head-first into a relationship the way I had done as a teen, because the last time I did I wound up hitting a painful hidden rock. And as a result I ended up hating an entire genre of music and swearing I would never date another Asian/White/Latina/preppie girl. I would swear another pretty girl wouldn’t “get me” again. Talk of damaged goods…

I say all of this because each of us over 30 who is unmarried probably have similar stories. Of course, you’re probably not as psychotic as I seem. But you are all damaged by something in your past, and the bruises of that something is showing on the way you treat your relationships–just like me. I had this bad habit of sabatoging my own relationships if I felt I was not secure enough in a relationship to just take off the training wheels and trust my own balance (or lack thereof). We all have those lovers in our past that we always return to, or someone who reminds us of them–or those lovers we try with all our might to avoid. We all have a certain way we react to heartache too. I used to track down some exes and their new boyfriends to fight; others I avoid and try to never see, speak to or think of again. I don’t even want someone who reminds me of her. And even very recently, I didn’t even want to love anyone with the same intensity and limitless boundaries I once did as a foolish, confident teenager. During my 20s, I even relocated each time my heart was broken in the silly effort to “escape” the experience. I would change my (nick)name, change my appearance, open a new business or get a new job, take a trip or go into seclusion, and when I emerged–I pretended to be some happy new person, and would try to live a completely different life.

I’m no psychiatrist or therapist, but I bet an expert would tell us we have to let go of all our fears and just do it, lest we become hostages of our past. I wish I had someone shake me 20 years ago to keep me from going down this road; I lost a lot of time–but it’s not too late. And it’s not too late for you too. Find out what in your past is being repeated. We have to break the habit.

Whatever you’re doing is not working; and if we fail to understand our past we are doomed to repeat it. I still proclaim to hate 80s soft rock. But here in this hotel room, where no one is listening to my laptop and my thoughts, I am enjoying Bonnie Tyler, Foreigner, Paul Young, Berlin and Madonna. The next time you all hear from me, I should return back to the trusting and naiive kid who wrecklessly trusted his heart to anyone who promised to care for it.

Thanks for visiting my blog.


Filed under Marriage + Love

Ghetto Queens, Part II

Notice, there’s no “Part I”.

That’s because I have hundreds of poems, and I just happened to be editing this one, and I don’t feel like posting the first part. (Promise to post it later) But I have the feeling you might like this one anyway. Enjoy!



we Ghetto Queens

ruling the night

claws clamped down onto cash cocks

with my costly coochie clutch

abused since birth

exploited, educated, entrapped

on this earth

no man to lead me by the hand

provide shelter for my seed

left behind to feed

my baby, myself, my greed

i cook

i clean

i bleed

five days and i don’t die

forced to live the fallacy

of loving ghetto life

keepin it real—

a lie

survive on asphalt prisons

destined to serve life sentences

fueled by my nakedness

i strike

with the only sword i yield

i feel, i deal, i steal

your lives

i play, i sway,

betray your wives

command my stroll with Satanic stride

feed your death to my pride

inject me intravenously with

Coach, Gucci, Louis Vitton

Lexus, leather, Sean Jean

Donna Karan

Guess why i spend my

nights impaled on my back for you

black of the night beaming down

mother’s soul frowns on what i’ve become

what drove me to you

what makes me soar

what i live for

but the best of you

still greens with envy

my wink can make your

husbands and fathers and brothers

spend time in me

baby, don’t you judge me cause

America, you created me

though these streets enslaved me

hated me

X-rated me

my life calling is pleasure

and i hold the treasured loot

body of honey milk passion fruit

lick my nectar, nigga

take this pie in the sky

that awaits he who lives the lie

of loving his queen

yet can be seen with me

going to Hell

punany potion moisten swell

lubricate lustful well

long enough to make you rise

from the ashes of my thighs

give me life

give me death

hasten my last breath

ancestors beckoned me back

but birth has banished me

to the belly of the beast

better than the Proverbial bad wife

John can keep his life

my body has been breeched

as i turn sweaty

acrobatic back seat feats

for survival on these streets

most of all, my own brothers got me

dropping it hot, like the

ghetto dance floor remix

girl, set your thickness

on my prickness

wanna eat you for dinner

what’s the matter, baby?

don’t you like my spinners?

we are your mothers

your sisters

your daughters

alone we tread deep dangerous waters

left behind to fend for your babies

using the temple God gave me

in the way your selfish flesh laws

made me

coulda been a teacher

a doctor

a better mother

but thanks to pain and hunger

i’m nothing more

than another monarch of the moment

ruling the night

in my dreams

on these streets

sentenced to you serve as a

slave of the day

poisoning your minds in videos

life cameos

and club scenes

through your moral mistakes

cast yourselves into the fire

along with me

this is the reign

of Ghetto Queens…


Ghetto Queens, part II

© 2007

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“Child of Innocence”: Poetry by Michael Jackson

I just got to see a copy of Michael Jackson’s book of poetry, “Dancing the Dream”. It goes for around $600. Just try and get a copy.

So, I discovered that MJ had a lot of talents that many of us didn’t know about. He was an awesome poet and artist (check out the drawing). His self-portraits were picture quality. His poems really told you who we was as a man, as a brother, as a son, as a child. I enjoyed all of his work, but I would like to share a short one. For you poetry heads, this one was written in a style called an “elegiac stanza”–a series of two couplets per stanza (aabb). Besides that, it has renewed my interest and my understanding of every kid’s “big brother”. At least my generation. Enjoy.

Child of innocence, I miss your sunny days

We joyously frolicked in extended plays

Ever since you’ve left the scene

The streets are lonely, dark, and mean

Child of innocence, return to me now

With your simple smile show them how

This world once again can respond to your glance

And heartbeats flutter to the rhythm of your dance

Child of innocence, your elegance, your beauty

Beckons me now beyond the call of duty

Come fly with me far and above

Over the mountains in the land of love

Child of innocence, messenger of joy

You’ve touched my heart without a ploy

My soul is ablaze with a flagrant fire

To change this world is my deepest desire

“Child of Innocence”, by Michael Jackson


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Superman Looking Out the Window

I’m going to do something very rare. There’s this poem that’s floating around in my head, and I have to get it out. I rarely have time to write these days, so I’m just going to get it out.

This is my first draft–hence, the “very rare” thing. I never let anyone see anything but the final copy, but I’m going to let you read the draft, and then later when the piece is done, you will see what the poem becomes. I do this all the time and my final copy rarely looks anything like the first copy, and this is one of them. The background…. Only a few people close to me know this, but I have been sick for a while, and a week ago I was diagnosed with Bell Palsy. In the three days following, I fell apart mentally very quickly, and now I am experiencing a disfiguring partial paralysis and I am seeing a side of life from an angle I’ve never even dreamed about. So it got me to thinking of others who are much “worse” off than I am, and I ended up seeing a man in a store being wheeled around by his kids… he is in a place I imagined I could be myself, if I don’t take care of my health. Basically, nothing on the man worked, but his brain and his eyes. After reflecting on his situation (actually I felt sorry for myself until I saw him), I began to imagine what life was like for him. I thought about people who longed for euthanasia and why they wanted it. How the most basic instinct we have is to fight to live, and where some people would swear they’d rather die “if”, while others live with that “if” every day and have fulfilling lives despite of it. And how some people who would have chosen death fought for their lives until they finally wanted death, but are now incapable of making it happen. And this piece is the beginning of what I was thinking about.

Remember, it is a first draft.


he peeks out of windows

dreaming of the superman he once was

feeling the strength of steel in those hands

when  he ruled the Earth



tall, like orders to create life

from nothingness

equipped with little more

than his will

and the notion that

it can be done.


there was a time

when windows were doorways

and these legs worked

and these hands could grasp

hold of the belief

that I could do



when I was still him

and my kids thought I was


when brainwaves could travel like rumors

further than light

when this mind could leap tall buildings

in a single bound

before the sounds of failure

could utter its first syllable


eyes that once saw

ears that once listened

a tongue that could



and latch

onto dreams

towing fantasies out to the land of

things coming true


I felt like I could do


but somewhere trapped inside me

lives the man i really am

the superman i used to be

instead of the Daddy they see

now sentenced to looking out of windows

at the world I once ruled

where this dead prison

holds my world within its walls


i am longing to be set free

and fly.



“Superman Looking Out the Window”



Filed under Poetry