Undo the buttons of you
until your poem writes itself
-Wesam El dahabi



There’s buttons yet undone,
there’s that hum,
poetry, unsung.

How far from yourself your fingers are,
to slip it out of the slit,
to undress the layers that have kept you barred.

Where is your valiance,
your claws, grinding teeth,
instead you’ve buried into the arms of silence.

Your seed has become but a faint memory,
forgot you sprouted from something,
perhaps enamoured by your fruit,
proud, only of your hands doing.

If your hands are so able,
why won’t you take to the buttons of you,
and let the poem complete itself,
how do you expect the meter of being to reconcile,
when you’re not willing to admit you’re powerless in the grand scheme of things?

If but a button holds you hostage,
where is this knowledge you profess,
where is your pride and nobleness?
Nay, it’s time to undress,
it’s time to address,
this arrogance,
this regurgitating and waning mess.

You’re parading around assuming your free,
and it’s but a button that keeps you on one knee.

I wish every soul could remember what they looked like when they answered the call. When one by one, we were lined up and asked the question, and we all answered in the affirmative.
The amount of scrapping away, clawing away, biting away you have to do is usually too uncomfortable. Memories of your innermost nature are the last to leave. They will haunt you and then manifest as your greatest nightmare at your last breath if you don’t make a conscious choice to acknowledge it prior.
This is why God chooses to run some of us through so much pain and hardship before we come to realise it, so the journey of burrowing away at yourself becomes easy compared to what you’ve already endured.


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