daily chores


Feels like,
I’m waiting to tell myself a secret.

A justification of sorts,
that I know something and won’t spit it out,
because it’s better for me.

I’ve enough sins,
to remain mute for the rest of my life,
frozen lips,
perchance a heart that’s thawed,
the only conversation,
the only scorn and ridicule,
I impose on myself.

I’d much rather a heart moving,
full of perpetual remorse and regret,
than a tongue wagging,
comfortable in the ignorance of it’s flutter.

Wesam El dahabi

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