There’s only so much I can contain. I believe every introvert feels the need to come out of the cocoon, much like every extrovert want’s to eventually recluse.
Our souls don’t differ much. Despite what the world wants to keep feeding us, wish-washing our natures apart from each other, convincing the masses we are all separate from each other, that we’re such unique individuals.
We’re all sinew and love, all marrow and anger. We’re eyes, skin, sense and breath, and we all need peace and chaos to remind ourselves of our extremes, to remind ourselves the middle path is always more beautiful.
I’ve been quietly building myself up, and men my age are telling me, enough is enough, to let go.
I’m trying so hard to shed this shell, and my skin is aching to dance with this raging sun.
How did mattering, become everyone’s obsession,
all these people vying,
fighting each other for emptiness.
It’s beyond a family,
or world pastime.
default to masquerades.
Hands up if this is default,
hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,
none of this bloat and fodder,
no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,
without an ounce of arrogance,
seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,
you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,
with interest and utter diligence,
with critique and endearment,
trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,
it feels so right to want to sever my head,
there’s too much squawking,
there’s too much vying,
my souls aching to be read.
Picture not mine
with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
what makes them pang for more of you.
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.
you’re pungent with jealousy,
yet perfumed in compassion,
how wonderful a reconciliation.
I’m utterly attracted to the impossibly absent woman,
who doesn’t for a moment flinch from her hearts dissuasion,
who is captured and enamoured when the time is right,
who can make you long for the womb you were born from,
or bathe you in pangs of separation from it.
I measure men,
by their vulnerabilities,
I measure them by their willingness to mention them.
One day I hope to write in my mother tongue,
that is, embryonic fluid and gauze,
in allegory and hypocrisy,
wit and pride that drips off my cuffs,
in a fit of rage,
and the aphorisms of a sage.
One day I hope to meter out,
just as a Prophet does on a mountain,
a dance of moths around the light of my chest,
with musk scented breath.
To spin like Rumi did when he missed his Sun,
to write a poem of apology,
in hope of pardon,
for guilt to be undone.
Although I write in English,
I think in Arabic,
what verse I lay,
is a battle fought,
wrung and wrought,
where neither the flower cares for being sabotaged,
nor the bee for giving it’s life,
but the sweet nectar drop that’s made,
is the only thing that’s sought.
I ache to spend my days,
stuck in between breezes of lands that are at odds with each other,
perhaps with a poem of mine,
I can be the alchemist of hearts,
softening hardened ones,
healing broken ones,
and if not a heart hears me,
so be it,
I’ve always been my only audience.
I’m stirring with prose,
speak only in gushing aloe to me,
ink me a letter that wreaks of agar and leather,
pained in cinnamon and crimson,
but let it be tender,
like a lash falling,
let it be real,
rolling thunder calling,
whisper your dialogue,
a silk worm crawling,
cut to the marrow of me,
a scimitar mauling.
Where are your words you claim to heal with,
that float like perfumed dew drops,
that sooth and hurt and clot?
I want your words to clot,
if it means silence until you find the right ones,
the right way,
or if it means violence with everything undone,
be aloe with what you say.