Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.
How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.
I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.
There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.
I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.
Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
and yet there’s an ache for reciprocity,
by the sheer fact you’re standing,
on such a tender branch of expression,
moving only so much as the breeze allows you,
at the mercy of your words being accepted.
That place is torturous,
humiliating and uplifting at once,
to be graced by a zephyr or swept by a tornado,
still, on that branch,
eyes closed and in another place,
lips still moist with your hearts empty,
unafraid and pensive.
How do you express intimacy without being meek,
and show your bones in hope she’ll hold them,
how do you conjure yet another way,
to assure, to inspire, to tell the truth of who you are?
I’m not good at anything but a slow release of my thoughts,
that’s why I’ll immortalise you with prose,
take my time one word at a time,
one thought a day,
and because she’s patient with me
the opus will be epic.
You’re music that drags,
a lyric that begs for the next line,
verse out of turn,
poetry that makes all and no sense.
You’re prose that doesn’t care for order,
rhyme that does what it wants,
you’re meter that causes hearts to skip,
allegory beyond conjure,
a dance of fire,
madness with no cure.
What have you left in all of this mess?
Chaotic and perfect,
disorderly, but oh so worth it,
who cares for things that add up,
where’s the fight in that?
I’ll take my chances with odd notes,
off beats and smudged ink,
a poem on you wrist,
a tattoo on your clavicle,
a beggars desperation.
The ruins of beating a heart until it’s frantic with love,
until it burns your mind to smithereens,
are the ashes of reconciliation with your soul.
It’s always love,
mad, one way love.
I want to decorate her soul
with a bouquet of bewitching
but my hands are tied
leaving me mute and itching
My tongue is lit
with rhyme and resin
the knot of doubt
Expression and love,
I’m shackled, I’m placid
I’m raging in noose
all I want for you
all I try to do
of no use
If you haven’t progressed beyond the concept of your self,
I know I am.
Here I am, grandiose with pomp and assuredness,
that I am beyond the pale of love,
and but a cup holds me hostage.
Still, it has to be said,
Ask these people who are promoting all this self love,
What they have accomplished,
Where they have been,
Who they have helped.
What they plan,
And you will always be met with a selfish checklist,
Of a person constantly looking to coax the flimsiness of their being,
With a lard of lies.
Unwilling to remove the vices,
Scrape away the rust of their longing to be recognised,
They paint over flaking paint.
They appear well,
But they fall apart so easily.
Give up already with self love,
I propose a composed anger,
A hatred of all that is ugly in you,
But plan and toil, and with elbow grease,
Slave away at your ego,
Your prattling mind,
Your loose tongue,
Your soiled heart.
Work yourself to a lather,
And stop loving that which is unlovable.
Anyone who tells you you’re worthy of love,
Whilst not addressing your ugly traits is an imbecile,
Bent on your and their own destruction,
Turn your face from them and flee.
I’m attracted to
eyes that have hurt burned into them
Skin that is dry from self flagellation
Tongues that are heavy with words unspoken
I enjoy their hurt, abandonment and silence
But it makes me wonder,
Am I a bad person for being attracted to their woes,
or am I saintly for seeing it.
-Wesam El dahabi
I feel guilty for seeing vulnerabilities sometimes,
but I feel joy when I can express their realities,
to people with a little prose,
show, that they’re in my sights.
When I can unveil the reality of their state,
for the world to see in vivid colour,
and remove the anchors of taboo,
the stigmas of non-acknowledgement,
the stares of non-acceptance.
There is far more beauty,
in the processes of hurt and healing,
than there is in mediocrity and complacency.
And this is how I breathe,
this is how I exhale,
a resuscitation into their mouth.