Don'T Be Like The Candle Poem by Ibn Ali

The sorrow of cynicism,
Is how often proven right,
When coveted you sing a choir's chorus,
When barren, a ballad verse,
Why do they all desert me,
At the zenith of my hurt?
They seek what's beneficial,
To reap my threadbare soul,
Seeing that I must burn myself
For them to bask in glow,
My whole self is kindle,
Consumed with good intent,
Till my charcoaled embers dull
And extinguishes themselves,
The hands that lit the wicker,
Waved the flickering flame
With palms that bear hue of warmth it gave them,
Come with teeth gritted, blood dripping,
Don't steal from me my goodness,
Leave me my good intentions,
And take what you've been given.