Why I have no friends

I don’t trust a man,
who hasn’t tested the edge of his being,
with poverty,
his confidence,
with the threat of violence,
or his resolve,
with solitude and loneliness.

They’re measures,
which every person must pass through,
to determine the fabric or who they are,
to sell the world,
their humanity,
if not the world,
then at least the person you want to associate with.

I guess that is why I am mostly alone,
my yardstick and most of society’s,
don’t measure up.
I don’t reconcile well with the mundane,
nor the flamboyantly sophisticated,
and the people I’m attracted to and they me,
ironically don’t associate with me,
in concentric circles we move to and from each other,
perpetually.

I don’t trust a woman,
who sees being and existence,
through monetary markers,
her metrics of madness,
cannot reconcile with my propensity to violence,
at the drop of a hat,
towards a man that oversteps their mark.
She can be comfortable,
with the cushion of society,
that will constantly break her fall.

She can be seen,
for all that she wants to display,
there are always other eyes,
other hearts,
mine,
will never engage,
always caged.

She has no lashes she can buy or flutter,
no sigh she can moan or mutter,
no breast, she can heave,
nothing to sell me that proves she has a real pulse,
except a wayward gaze beyond me,
and to the creator of me.

Yes, I have trust issues,
and it is not without merit,
ashamed, guilty binding seams,
I let my ability to read people,
way before they commit to me their secrets,
contain me,
but when time and time again,
there it is splayed before me,
it reinforces that I knew well the truth,
and ignored my compass,
my distrust in people,
then becomes married to the distrust in myself,
and that is a knot I can never undo.

W.E.

-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

-spineless

I’m not spineless,
I have an aversion to bullshit.

I’ll cry,
the hot tears,
the ones that have been buried so far inside you,
they can only be as warm as your core,
when,
and only when,
there is no bullshit,
or,
you’ve pierced that part of me,
hurt me to that core.

Otherwise,
you need me spineless.

You need me emotionally detached.

When  your world is upside down with emotions,
and you lose all sense,
Hyper-erratic, out of control,
and running on the wild bonfire of reactionary states,
you need me to rationalise,
to hold my steady hand over yours,
to stop the bleeding,
control your breathing,
and show you the order of things.

And there is order,
always order,
even in chaos,
the order even more so evident.

It’s the reason why chaos can exist.
and I, can swim in both currents.

W.E.

Art: Charcoal and Bone VIII by ~napoleoman

 

again and again

again-and-again
I’m the conversation filler
the space between your wine list,
and your drunken sips,
the gaps in your soul won’t last long,
just befriend me,
find me splayed out before you,
a convenient meadow you can selectively pick from,
when the rustle inside you says,
speak up,
but the coward inside you says,
don’t step out of line.

I’m the opinionated man,
who is palatable because I mince my words,
to sonnets in your ears,
a bashing they may be,
but your fetish of chain and whip,
of bleeding lip,
is stronger than your fear.

I’m gender neutral too,
the bullseye on my back appeals to both,
it’s easy for most to confuse passive with pussy,
relaxed with pushover,
indifferent with naive,
trusting with gullible,
and run with their whims,
through my flesh,
until they muster the courage,
to stand alone.

At that point,
I’m the thing they discard,
like it was them all along,
they sang their own song,
and they were wronged,
it doesn’t take much,
they all run back,
before long.

But by then,
I’m a prison,
it’s gates they can’t pry,
and buried inside them,
they know why.

W.E.

Immortal comprehension

immortal-comprehension
Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your  neck would be smitten if you divulged.

Whilst we write,  at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.

No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.

If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.

W.E.

Dear feminism

uzo6

I was wondering where in your confines,
my wife’s spirituality fits,
where her chastity sits,
if at all within your boundaries,
can her need to be free from men and women,
she can exist.

Will her devotion,
you permit,
will her night vigils and devotions,
you allow to be moonlit,
what of her veil, her shroud,
or is it attire you’d omit?

Ahh, her feminism,
for you stops at her outfit,
for you, even for her, unfit.

A word of her spirituality,
she can’t transmit.

Nay, your feminism,
is laced with prejudice,
and is pseudo-liberation,
white only, Holy writ.

-Wesam El dahabi

#justcurious as to how inclusive your mantras are,
if a woman content in her devotions,
liberated in her submission,
to her creator her orientation,
in complete volition,
has a divine addiction,
and is enshrined in her tradition,
she chooses to be abandoned,
from your pop culture couture versions,
devotes to her husband through choice,
would she still be deemed a free woman,
even though neither her husband,
her son, her father or brother has reigns over her,
would you still hold her and embrace her as woman as you?

Believe it or not,
not everyone wants your version.
So don’t be surprised if POC have aversions.

Image by david uzochukwu