I’ve hit and been hit uncountable times
And I still can’t connect to people.

Perhaps why my fists have come down,
and my tongue is my biggest duke.

But even that,
is a mute.

It’s through my pen,
I can summons,
like fingers on a flute.

I tried my hand and normality,
I tried my hand at brutality,
I tried my hand at humility,
I ended back at civility.

My sanity,
remains hidden,
in cavities,
of punching peoples lights out,
and getting mine punched back,
and I still can’t connect.

I lay, I prostrate,
I bend and I stand erect,
I walk to,
I turn away from,
I rush towards,
I flee,
And I still can’t connect.

I give, I take,
I give more than I take,
I leave more for others,
Only for Allah’s sake,
And I still can’t connect.

Perhaps I’m not meant to,
perhaps others are meant to connect to me,
touch me from a distance,
prod me with the broomstick of their fears,
to see if they can connect.

-Wesam El dahabi

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