A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.


dear grief – 8

There’s nothing quite as sobering as grief,
to uncover the guilt and sin,
the grime within,
there’s no teeth gritting,
no blood spitting,
that can remove the angst from your jaw,
or the taste from your mouth.

I’ve found in all this haunting,
a special fondness,
a familiarity,
we all smother with inattention.

To look at death,
and not worry about the ghosts,
takes a spiritual anchoring,
a maturing,
a purge,
of all you fear,
an embrace,
so the memory of the deceased,
remains near.


dear grief – 6


It’s no coincidence,
I was offered all this time,
an escape from staring at reality,
a comfort,
for seeing who I thought I was disappear,
and who I really am,
stand over me.

Time is there to prepare you,
and I used it to fancy my excuses,
dress them up a little more,
until I had no more of it left.

Now time looks like a grief stricken widow,
sunken eyes,
a veil that suffocates,
relentlessly numbing.

She beats me,
with nothing more than pulse and breath,
I know something isn’t right,
and I am not looking for it.

Am I being selfish,
am I offering others the time they deserve,
or will I,
like my father,
not leave grief in my will.

I’ve swollen soles,
standing in the same spot,
I’ve not been shown how to traverse,
my grief tastes of sugar and neglect,
of tongue heavy stroke,
stricken and struck,
muddied and stuck,
quickened and parched,
into the dunes that smother.

This brother,
this lover,
this son of a widowed mother,
has no answers,
has no poem long enough,
or experience savage enough,
to ease anyone’s grief,
to give anyone relief.


The merchant of forgiveness


He came like a passing vapour,
embodied with the gift of light and lightness,
the faintest hint of jasmine and sandalwood,
and a buried childhood.

Suppression makes for an interesting man,
a thorough masculinity,
that is more tender than dew on the petal of lemon trees,
and as firm as the roots of date palms.

He held himself inside until he imploded,
it wasn’t diabetes, cancer or kidney failure,
it was a heart that couldn’t contain any more.

He didn’t lose limb and tissue,
but reconciliation and forgiveness faded.

And that was his weapon against you,
he could forgive you,
because he knew by doing so,
he would leave you to your guilt,
to gnaw at you,
to cut you in half,
no one would punish you more than you.

When he could no longer forgive you,
he had to learn to forgive himself,
not for anything he had done,
but his guilt,
his gnaw,
the thing that tore him apart,
was he couldn’t reassure you any more,
that he would be a provider of forgiveness.

Even to his last breath,
he was selfless,
the gurgle of his lungs,
his open mouth,
closed eyes,
soft cold hands,
forgiving everyone in the room.

Everyone was caught up with the spectacle of death,
and all I could wonder,
was how his Lord was preparing his place amongst the elite.

A man once passed in front of the Prophet of God,
the Prophet exclaimed that the man was a man of paradise.
One of the companions, feverish and eager for the works of good,
encouraged by the words and wanton of the fruits of righteousness took it upon himself to follow the man home and pretend he needed a place to stay.
In utter custom and tradition, hospitality was granted.
For three days, the man watched the man of paradise and noted his every move and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Finally on the third day, the companion came clean and admitted that he had heard the Prophet of God proclaim him a man of paradise and that he wanted to know what his secret to attain such a status was.
Perplexed, the man of paradise replied, “As you see, I do no extra activities than the layman, I pray, I fast, I pay the charitable tax, but every night when I sleep, before I lay my head on a pillow, I forgive everyone that I know.”

And that is where my father was,
his childhood whatever it was,
lived inside him until his last day,
and the act of a child,
the ability to forgive and forget so easily,
was his unsheathed sword slaying the hatred in the hearts of all.
He passed, and slayed us all with forgiveness,
there’s no recovering from that.




Before he passed,
grief was not something he left me in his will,
others mourned,
and I couldn’t muster a tear.

So what’s a man to do when his emotions remain idle?
Practicality becomes the default.
Take care of affairs,
make amends,
find a semblance of balance,
in comforting others,
albeit, still emotionless.

I don’t do well in social situations,
and only when I recluse to the comforts of solitude,
did I find the fortunes of his will,
flood my heart and clutch at me with volcanic vigour.

Alone in my car,
alone at work,
alone with a book,
alone in the sea,
I wish I didn’t inherit a single thing,
even a coffee cup becomes a thing of guilt.


Suicide (mental) note


The only thing harder than suicide
is living with the inner war of
cowardice and bravery for not
going through with it

-Wesam El dahabi.

How does the dichotomy turn into reconciliation,
How do answers agree with questions,
When ending it seems the only suggestion,
From the highs of elation and the lows of depression.

How do I look myself in the face,
When all I can conjure is utter disgrace,
Wherever I find myself, I’m out of place,
Death seems such a worthy embrace.

Then my cowardice kicks in, urges me to go on,
Ignore bravery and sing life’s song,
Urges me there’s more for me, the journey is long,
And I have to fake for others, being strong.


grief tastes like


-grief tastes like

Grief, is such a hard pillow,
a tight swallow,
a fiery bellow,
a sorrowful cello.

A cavernous hollow,
a long wallow,
chewing your marrow,
the tattoo of sorrow.

It never leaves,
robs and borrows,
haunts and reminds,
a lurking shadow.

You turn from it,
but it follows,
digs and burrows,
leaves wounds pus filled and yellow.

-Wesam El dahabi

The patient bride

patient bride


What’s left to decide,
When death is my patient bride?

What will she accept as dowry,
Except the whole of me?

Except the soul of me,
But I’ve still yet poetry.

Will the reaper pardon me?
Will he bargain with me?
Part payment now, no late fees?

Of what will my bride smell,
A waft of heaven or stench of hell?

How will she come adorned,
Silken lace, or shards fire born?

And when lung filled bellow horn,
Will Azrael walk her down the aisle of thorns?

When we consummate to what we’ve sworn,
Will the soul created be stillborn?

This bride cannot be helped by Sheikh, Rabbi or Pastor,
She’s mine to keep, ever after.


The utterly devoted

Whilst you’re busy devoting your soul to another,
Without guarantees of reciprocation,
Caught in the high of chasing,
In the thrill of unintelligible outcome,
There waits for you patiently, a sure thing,
A devoted companion with perpetual longing,
Relentless clinging,
Assured of the eternity it will bring,
The ballad of a crows singing,
Moment of soul extraction, between your two sides swinging,
It sits amongst tombstones, amongst decaying,
Waiting the reapers blade sheathing,
And you, you simpleton, in oblivion living.