has revealed itself,
come full circle and taken ownership.
Little did I know
for forty years,
it’s been my fuel,
so, I don’t feel shame for my shame,
I feel gratitude.
That it was the catalyst to change and improvement,
the fuel for the fire in my belly to strive.
I wonder then,
perhaps all this underachievement,
is nothing more than a lack of shame,
a blame game,
ideologues twisting, conniving to paint the sane, insane.
Entitlement leaves us as beggars who attack the hand that feeds us,
bereaves us of the companionship of loneliness, of sadness.
that gravitational thing,
I can’t be sad any more without an invocation of discomfort.
I’m not uncomfortable.
people want me to be, but I’m not.
They want my sadness to speak,
to be reclining,
to give meaning to a prying person’s existence.
These filers of discomforts,
bent of make me fit between their binders,
some people choose the strangest professions.
They should try shame and sadness,
they’d have far more desire.
-Wesam El dahabi
Unless a psychologist convinces you that you have condition that needs a psychiatrist, that needs medicating, that needs monitoring, that detaches you from owning yourself, or God forbid feeling any pain.