deceiving yourself into sanity

reality looks like an exaggeration,
when you’re used to telling yourself lies,
repentance, such a lofty aspiration,
when sins are such in-severable ties.

where goeth my honour and pride,
how distant we’ve become,
my hands are unrecognisable,
i’m a man broken, begging and undone.

leave me a morsel of myself,
empty a crumb of me into me,
something of recognition,
with heart full of prose,
i beggeth thee.

all i’ve done is plea,
all i’ve done is bitten and swallowed,
until every recognition of who I am,
unrecognisable,
shifting and shapeless like a shores sands.

-Wesam El dahabi

dear grief – 22

dear grief,

folding for you is as easy as decomposing,
dying in winter as opposed to dying in summer,
folding linens because the last thing you want to leave
behind is more mundane work for anyone,
but a scent of you that lingers on a collar, even after
fabric softener has fought is war with the sun,
folding your hand, because you never seem to have the
right cards to win this game,
folding the last poem, the last stretch of prose you have,
fighting in a language you can’t express yourself in,
folding your arms, chasing warmth, as the breeze reminds
you and frightens you of cold that’s yet to come,
folding the earth over you,
so that we fold over you,
and they fold over you,
and all folds over you.

W.E.

image source: http://www.madisonartery.com/buy-madison-art/single-autumn-leaf/

wonderless, wanderless

Disconnect, seems to be the only thing that lingers,
familiarity like pulse, like breath,
like work beaten out of your forehead,
all that relieves, all that comforts,
only ever a wish, despondent,
a reminder like a splinter,
small, intolerable,
stuck,
and in your fingers.

W.E.

– safer, behind my lips

I’ve kept a lot more than I’ve shared,
yet expunged against my will and dared,
divulged inner workings, pits and pips of me bared,
and I see no solution but silence,
leaving my soul intact, unaired, and unimpaired.

I’d rather a hook in my mouth than to share secrets,
let the worlds tongues wag until they rustle up storms,
let the rumours spread about me,
let them eat the flesh off my back until I am naked sinew,
it is noble to be the laughing stock,
the trodden on,
the mocked,
by fools.
W.E.

The order of disorderly love

 

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.

W.E.

When envy is not a sin

You’d want my loneliness too,
if you knew in the midst of it all,
you could always carve up poetry.
if you could write a zephyr onto your breath.

They can’t taste the bile and metal,
or is it a liver punch and ketosis,
is it the fog and swell beneath your eyes,
come, come reach you some more,
what have you got for me,
that I can envy you in return for,
what have you got,
that will arch my back for more?

My solitude is plenty enough for you and I.

Wesam El dahabi

Teach your children how to be alone

I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,

I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,

if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,

plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.

There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
conformist, sheep-like,
and in pain.

It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
of inability,
mediocrity,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.

It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.

W.E.