Just a Day

Each day is but a sheet of lined paper

Clean and crisp,

Unruffled by worry,

Not worn, or tired and dirty,

But crisp like the morning,

When it is given to me.

…

The seconds, minutes and hours,

Are lines upon the sheet of my life,

Waiting for my words,

For my actions,

And my thoughts.

To fill the spaces in between.

…

I must stay within the margins,

Not scribble on the sides.

Write neatly, carefully, thoughtfully,

Keep in mind the One,

Who will read it all.

It might even be read aloud.

…

But every day,

Even with the best of intentions,

Though I start,

I mess up my page.

With angry words in bold,

Smudged with tears,

Crumpled and creased.

…

A few lines of gratitude,

Of zikr and reflection,

Are followed by many paragraphs,

Of  ugly complaints.

Regrettable actions, envy and greed

…

As my pen pauses,

And I look back at my sheet,

I am sad.

My page is all ugly,

There is no way to cross it all out,

And start over again.

…

How will I turn this in,

At the end of the day,

I couldn’t even keep it clean,

From one sunrise to sunset.

It is hopeless indeed…

…

Yet somehow the next day

I am given another sheet,

“Try,”

It is said.

“Try again.”

Release yourself from your regret.

…

Write something so glorious,

Say something so sweet,

Think thoughts so poignant,

Be a role model,

For yourself,

Inspire, be inspired and set yourself free.

…

The book of your life,

Though written front to back,

Will be read the other way around,

If the thoughts, words and deeds,

In the end are beautiful,

Forgiveness is yours and a full reprieve.