of having it beat out of you,
if you listen intently,
you’ll hear it,
your want will turn into your breath.
I’ve driven myself insane with aspiration,
and now without anxiety or misstep,
at the drop of a hat,
I’d wipe all I’ve become conditioned to know,
if it meant a moment with divinity.
In other words,
a maturing thought that pulsates,
that is the catalyst to accelerated achievement,
will have to mean erasure.
A vanishing if you will,
this self that does nothing but accumulate waste,
until the toxicity becomes default.
The dragging nature of growth,
as time juxtaposes my reconciliation,
and mocks my milestones.
Time is having its way with me,
and disappearing appears to be,
the only way to disarm it.
Ironic that I’ve become,
the ammunition against myself,
in the same breath,
poison and antidote,
in the minds courtroom.
Some call it schizophrenia,
a thousand more names and labels,
man will forever find an excuse,
for dealing with their state.
Still, erasure is easier.
Wesam El dahabi
I often question my aversion to groups,
and distrust in closeness,
and then I remember,
it’s rejection, that’s built my walls so high,
made my tongue fancy with wit,
my hand flowing with writ.
The reluctance to vulnerability,
has furnished my soul with all the excuses,
of why I crave to be close enough to catch your scent,
yet distant enough for you to long for mine.
This connection I crave,
is nothing more than a muse on crack.
Wesam El dahabi
Three AM silence,
is not a healthy way to find your breath.
of what is normal for others,
awake when they sleep,
awake when they’re awake,
takes its toll on you.
When you think of it,
it’s double the work for half the survival.
That survival is only temporary,
before you use up your heart.
Coming to terms,
may mean ignoring your mind,
to settle your heart,
slowing your heart,
to soothe your soul,
soothing your soul,
doesn’t mean mending it,
it just means,
accepting it for what it is.
If it comes, it comes.
If it doesn’t,
there will be aloe for ink.
He with the darkest secrets should master silence,
observant with where his tongue may lead him,
treading lightly around the minefield of egotistical swaying,
until all the quiet becomes a guiding light.
It may be that this introversion is the vehicle for my salvation,
it may be that it lulls me into a false sense of security,
the balance of trusting the light and embracing the darkness,
ever so fine a thread.