The Poet's Pen.

The Poet's Pen. Welcome to The Poet’s Pen — Where words dance, emotions speak, and stories come alive. Journey with me through verses of passion, reflection, and imagination.

03/31/2025

A Eulogy for Love

Roses are dead, their petals decay,
Once crimson bright, now faded away.
Whispers of love drift into dust,
Promises shattered, betrayed by rust.

The vows once spoken, now hollow rings,
Echoing falsehoods that time only brings.
A dance of shadows, veiled in white,
A march to silence, lost in the night.

The altar stands like a solemn grave,
Where lovers weep but dare not save.
A gilded coffin, laced with lace,
Masking sorrow in its embrace.

The bells toll soft, yet none rejoice,
Bound by duty, stripped of choice.
Hand in hand, yet souls apart,
Smiling faces, aching hearts.

The wine is poured, the glasses raised,
Yet all is lost in love’s charade.
A fleeting joy, a fleeting kiss,
Buried deep in emptiness.

The past lies still beneath their feet,
Ghosts of passion, bittersweet.
What once was warm has turned to stone,
Two hearts together, yet alone.

A banquet set for mourners bright,
Dressed in silk, bathed in light.
Yet none can taste the sugared lies,
Or see the grief in happy eyes.

A wedding veil, a funeral shroud,
Laughter muffled by the crowd.
Marching forward, bound in chains,
A love decreed, yet filled with pain.

They toss the petals, cheer and sing,
Blind to what the years will bring.
A fairytale, a hollow dream,
A fleeting spark, a dying gleam.

For love once bloomed, then wilted fast,
A garden burned by time’s cruel grasp.
Roses are dead, love is fake,
Weddings are funerals with cake.

Yet still they dance, yet still they vow,
Ignoring fate, embracing now.
For hope is cruel, yet hope remains,
A fleeting light in endless rain.

Perhaps, in time, the lie feels real,
A forced embrace they choose to feel.
Perhaps the grave, so deep and wide,
Is where love learns to turn the tide.

Or maybe not, the end is set,
For love is something most forget.
Roses are dead, and so they break,
Weddings are funerals—with cake.

03/26/2025

Soar Beyond the Storm

(A Poem of Rising Above Negativity and Distractions)

Upon the mountain’s whispered height,
An eagle soared in golden light,
Its wings stretched wide, its spirit free,
Unshackled by the storm’s decree.

Behind it came a shadowed cry,
A raven, black against the sky,
With beak like daggers, sharp and keen,
It sought to wound, to strip, to glean.

It pecked and clawed with bitter spite,
A tempest bound in jealous flight,
Yet not a feather turned to fight,
The eagle climbed, pursued the light.

Higher still, through winds unknown,
Where only silent stars had shone,
Where thunder lost its mighty roar,
And weight of earth was felt no more.

The raven gasped, its wings grew weak,
The air too thin, too high to seek,
Its voice, once fierce, now faint and still,
It lost the strength, it lost the will.

Then down it plunged, through skies undone,
A shadow swallowed by the sun,
While still the eagle, proud and bold,
Ascended high in hues of gold.

Oh, let the bitter voices cry,
Let envy perch and peck and pry,
For those who rise beyond their chains
Will find no use in petty pains.

Do not descend to meet their call,
Do not engage, do not let fall,
For battles fought in lesser air
Will bind you to their dark despair.

Instead, take flight on winds of grace,
Let wisdom be your dwelling place,
Rise higher than the storms below,
And let your silent triumph show.

The hawk may chase, the crow may caw,
The world may mock, may bend the law,
But those who climb beyond the fray
Will find their burdens blown away.

The sun does not debate the night,
Nor does the dawn demand its right,
It rises, silent, bold, and bright,
And banishes the shade from sight.

So be the sun, so be the flight,
So be the soul that seeks the height,
Let lesser minds remain behind,
For higher paths are for the kind.

The eagle soars, the raven falls,
And wisdom heeds the higher calls,
For those who climb on truth’s embrace
Shall never falter in their race.

So rise, ascend, and seek the sky,
Let not their arrows make you cry,
For in the end, the light remains,
And shadows perish, bound in chains.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

03/18/2025

Who can walk without a trail,
Without the stars to light the way?
Who can dream but never fail,
And never lose the night to day?

Who can love and never ache,
Or hold a hand, then let it go?
Who can bend but never break,
And hide the pain they’ll never show?

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

03/18/2025

Through the Fog

The path behind is traced in shadows,
footsteps carved in fleeting sand.
Once I walked with dreams unbroken,
now they slip through trembling hands.

The echoes call of roads untaken,
turns ignored, and doors left closed.
The weight of chances left to wither,
clings like mist that never goes.

I gave my trust to hollow voices,
placed my faith where none belonged.
Now I stand with lessons heavy,
wondering where I went so wrong.

Yet even now, the fire lingers,
dim, yet steady, deep inside.
Though the storm has stripped me barren,
still, I stand and will not hide.

I see the world that could have been,
a life unwritten, bright and clear.
Yet staring back won’t build tomorrow,
nor shape the path that waits from here.

No time to beg the past to answer,
no space for longing’s empty plea.
What’s done is done, what’s lost is buried,
but I remain—I will not flee.

Each scar a mark of lessons learned,
each ache a guide for where to go.
No chains will bind the steps I take,
no weight will steal the fire’s glow.

The night may stretch its fingers wide,
but dawn will rise beyond the haze.
No fortune shapes the road ahead,
but hands that carve and hearts that blaze.

So let the ghosts of failure whisper,
let regret still haunt the air.
They may walk beside my shadow,
but I choose the path—I do not care.

Through the fog, through fear and silence,
I step once more, though lost, though blind.
Not to mend what’s left behind me,
but to claim what’s yet to find.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

The Making of a MonsterHe did not fall from the sky,nor rise from the depths of the earth.No storm bore him, no whirlwin...
03/15/2025

The Making of a Monster

He did not fall from the sky,
nor rise from the depths of the earth.
No storm bore him, no whirlwind shaped him—
he was molded by hands too blind to see.

At three, his tantrums were painted in laughter,
his rage was wrapped in warmth.
"Boys will be boys," they said,
as little fists learned to strike,
as tiny feet stomped to demand.

He threw his food—
a king displeased with his feast.
Instead of correction, they chuckled,
"Oh, he's just strong-willed."

He raised his hand to slap,
and his mother’s voice was soft,
"You're beating mummy, ohh."
Not a warning, not a lesson—
a lullaby to his growing fists.

Like iron left to rust in silence,
his heart hardened, his mind sharpened—
not with wisdom, but with will unchecked.
No child dared defy him, no playmate refused him.
"He’s a no-nonsense boy," they cheered.

He was a fire left unquenched,
a river that never learned its banks.
And when he flooded his sisters’ world
with commands and cruelty,
they called him "The man of the house."

Strength, they said. Power, they claimed.
But no one told him that true strength is restraint,
that a fist is weak compared to a hand that lifts.
So he grew, unchained, unshaped—
a storm on the horizon,
a lion untamed.

By twenty, love became control,
his words, a whip, his presence, a cage.
The wife he won with charm
now walks on eggshells in her own home.

"Men must have their way," they whisper.
"A woman must endure."
But tell me—when does endurance become a noose?
When does silence turn into a grave?

The boy who was never told no
became the man who never heard stop.
The child who ruled his home
became the terror of another’s.

No, he did not fall from the sky.
He was raised—
brick by brick, blow by blow,
until the world saw him for what he was—
a monster with a familiar face.

But monsters are not born, they are built.
And it is easier to shape clay
than to break stone.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

Title: The Gentle Strength of My FatherHe is the quiet in a world so loud,The calm when storms rage high.A patient hand,...
03/13/2025

Title: The Gentle Strength of My Father

He is the quiet in a world so loud,
The calm when storms rage high.
A patient hand, a steady heart,
A warmth that never runs dry.

His kindness blooms like morning sun,
Soft, but strong in its gentle rise.
His words, like rivers, cool and clear,
Flow with wisdom that never dies.

He gives without measure, loves without pride,
A soul so rich, yet humble inside.
In every smile, in every prayer,
I find his love, always there.

He never raised his voice to lead,
Yet his silence taught me more.
In his patience, I found my strength,
In his grace, a steady shore.

When the world felt heavy on my back,
His arms were home, his faith my guide.
He never asked for much in return,
Just that I stand with truth and pride.

He carried burdens he never showed,
And dreams he sometimes set aside,
So I could reach for skies he never touched,
With his love always by my side.

His forgiveness is a sacred gift,
A well that never runs dry.
He lifts me up when I fall short,
With kindness shining in his eye.

He taught me wisdom, not with force,
But through the life he chose to live.
In every step, in every deed,
He showed me what it means to give.

His generosity knows no bounds,
A heart so open, a spirit so free.
He found his joy in lifting others,
And built his legacy in you and me.

And when I stumble, when I stray,
It’s his gentle voice that calls me back.
With love so patient, so pure, so true,
He keeps me steady when I crack.

So if you ask me who my father is,
He’s the wisdom in my every choice,
The quiet strength that shapes my soul,
The softness in my steady voice.

And though I may never match his grace,
Or the depth of his endless care,
I love you, Baba — my greatest peace,
My guiding light, my answered prayer.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said {The Poet's Pen ✍🏾}

Title: Shouldn't I Tell You Who My Mother Is?Shouldn't I tell you who my mother is?The woman whose love wraps me like da...
03/13/2025

Title: Shouldn't I Tell You Who My Mother Is?

Shouldn't I tell you who my mother is?
The woman whose love wraps me like dawn’s first light,
Soft and warm, yet fierce enough
To chase away the darkest night.

She is the quiet strength behind my every step,
The voice of reason when my spirit wept.
Her hands, calloused with care and sacrifice,
Built my world without thinking twice.

She made me the center of her universe,
Her focal point, her brightest verse.
Yet never once did she let me forget
That the world owes nothing — I must earn my respect.

She carried my dreams on her weary back,
Through storms and trials, through all we lacked.
Her laughter was music, her tears my rain,
And in her silence, I felt her pain.

But never did she falter, never did she break,
Even when life asked more than she could take.
Her prayers were whispers that lifted me high,
Her hopes the wings that taught me to fly.

She taught me courage with a gentle hand,
And strength that knows when to softly stand.
She shaped my heart with wisdom and grace,
And love etched deep in every embrace.

Shouldn't I tell you who my mother is?
She is the heart that beats beneath my skin,
The wisdom woven deep within,
The light I follow when I lose my way,
The reason I am who I am today.

And if words could paint the love I feel,
They’d never match the warmth so real.
But still, I’ll try, with all I am —
I love you, Momma — my soul’s first flame.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said {The Poet's Pen ✍🏾}

They Said I’m RudeThey said I’m rude — but do they knowThe storms I weathered just to grow?My words are sharp, my tone i...
03/12/2025

They Said I’m Rude

They said I’m rude — but do they know
The storms I weathered just to grow?
My words are sharp, my tone is clear,
But honesty’s a sword they fear.

They call me harsh when I stand tall,
When I refuse to shrink or crawl.
But why should truth be wrapped in lace,
When lies wear such a gentle face?

They said I’m rude — but never saw
The love behind my every flaw.
My silence speaks when words would bruise,
But even kindness they confuse.

Is strength a crime? Is fire too bright?
Must softness always win the fight?
I guard my heart with walls of stone,
Because I’ve bled too much alone.

They said I’m rude — but I’ve been kind
In ways they never cared to find.
A loyal heart, a steady hand,
But they won’t try to understand.

I speak my mind, I take my space,
I won’t be shamed for my own grace.
If that’s a sin, then let it be —
I won’t apologize for me.

But still, I wonder late at night,
If my sharp edges cut too tight.
Do I push love too far away,
With all the things I never say?

I wear my scars like battle art,
But there’s a softness in my heart.
I crave a touch that doesn’t sting,
A love that doesn’t clip my wings.

They said I’m rude — but here I stand,
A tender soul with calloused hands.
I fight, I fall, I rise again,
Unbroken by the weight of men.

So judge me if you think you must,
But know this fire is born of trust.
I’d rather burn than fade to gray,
I won’t be less to make you stay.

I am the storm, I am the flame,
The rebel who won’t play your game.
If that’s rude, then so be it —
I’ll wear my crown and never quit.

They said I’m rude — but I am free,
Unchained, unbowed, unapologetically me.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

03/12/2025

TITLE: Whispers of Love: Entre Soledad cike da Kauna

In the quiet of night, when the moon stands still,
I hear your name — soft, like a prayer, like a will.
Mi corazón calls for you, though you’re far away,
And the stars become witnesses to all I cannot say.

Abar ƙauna ta, do you feel this ache in your chest?
The weight of words unspoken, the dreams unexpressed?
Your absence is a shadow, cold and wide,
Yet your memory is a flame I keep inside.

I wander through days, lost in your scent,
Every breeze whispers promises you never meant.
¿Dónde estás, mi amor? Do you miss me too?
Or has time made a stranger out of you?

Zuciyata cries in this endless space,
For the warmth of your touch, the light of your face.
But hope is stubborn — it refuses to fade,
Even when love feels like a debt unpaid.

So I wait, and I wonder, between fear and desire,
As my soul dances on this wire.
Sai da ke, my love, will this longing cease,
When your voice brings my restless heart to peace.

Until then, I’ll stay in this quiet fight,
Whispers of love filling the lonely night.

©️ Muhammad Muktar Said

03/12/2025

Patience and Providence

In the hush of night, when sorrows weigh,
And hope seems lost, so far away,
Be still, my heart — let patience grow,
For every tide must ebb and flow.

When shadows stretch and fears reside,
Place all your trust in Him, your guide.
For He who shapes the stars above
Knows every tear, feels every love.

In quiet faith, let burdens rest,
For trials come to shape the best.
And when the storm has had its say,
His mercy carves a gentle way.

So wait, my soul — and do not fear,
The light of dawn is drawing near.
With patience strong and trust complete,
You’ll find His grace beneath your feet.

For every wound, He’ll bring a cure,
And through His will, you shall endure.
In every fall, in every climb,
His providence is always time.

Written: Muhammad Muktar Said

(Untitled)You left,but the door never closed.The air still carries your scent,the walls still hum your laughter,and sile...
03/12/2025

(Untitled)

You left,
but the door never closed.

The air still carries your scent,
the walls still hum your laughter,
and silence speaks your name
in whispers only I can hear.

I write this for you—
but I never send it.
I speak—
but only to the wind.

Some words are never written,
some poems never read,
yet they exist,
woven into the spaces you left behind.

Address

The Universe
Earth City, MO

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