-unveiling

​-unveiling
An aversion to being known,

not unlike a lure to being unseen,

neither here, nor there,

not even in between.
Your eyes fail you,

if you can’t close them and see all that I am,

your heart betrays you,

if you’ve settled on my confines, your hologram.
I’m not yours, his,

hers nor mine,

I don’t belong here,

there, nor in any time.
Hybrid, morbid,

acid and livid,

alive, breathing,

spirited and vivid.
Most people are not brutal enough,

to punish themselves to the point of harm,

a sadism of pain,

to appreciate how alive they are.
The most honest experience I’ve tasted,

is that dishonesty seeps from my marrow,

perhaps here,

there is hope yet,

perhaps in this pool of maim,

this wound licking orgy,

is where I can relish in narcissistic pride,

mortality clenched between jaw and jugular,

that I have something left that resembles a sensitive heart.
And it’s precisely that sensitivity,

that keeps me from you,

worlds apart, worlds apart.
I have no interest in lending,

a fibre, nor borrowed time,

regrets have become,

an easily avoidable past time.
W.E.

10,000 hours of introversion

See free s

 #and s

I’ve done my 10,000 hours,
in so many things,
that I don’t know what I want to be any more.

I’ve written words,
my ticket most likely to hell fire,
fought until it is now second nature,
beaten the skin of a drum with fervour,

  • and now hear, see anrsnd feel everything,
  • in rhythm and meter,sc

everything, everything, everything.ss

I’ve served, oh howss I have s4erved,
the appetites of men who cannot get enough,d, ex x t5 es
oddly, I never served a woman stricken by the same addictions.
Fattening their wallets,
fattening their bellies,
giving them pieces of me,
at the expense of my own dreams.

I’ve fixed and broken things,
mechanical things,
until pulling apart,
and putting back together,
is default,
I always want to know the crux of things,
the crux of me,
mostly,
sometimes, I leave scars.

I’ve been alone,
in probably the longest calculation of man hours I can fathom,
for myself at least,
that there is my legacy,
of nothingness.

I’ve done 10,000 hours tenfold,
actually 344712 to be exact,
of that, I can easily be classed as elite,
but that is not what I hold my head high with,
that is not what I want to pass on to my children.

Is that what I want to pass on to humanity?
How, to perfect being alone?

I can calculate every waking hour I’ve been alive,
even if were spent in activity,
even with people,
and relegate them all as being alone,
because, I was always somewhat disconnected,
outside of my body looking downward at what was transpiring,
even when alone,
I’m away from myself,
outside of myself,
viewing this mass of man hours,
of waste, sinew and coagulation,
trying to figure out,
contrary to what I believe,
if I am THAT alone,
I haven’t mastered introversion,
until the second self ceases to exist.

Perhaps my children will want the same aversion,
perhaps this is old, old money,
a pass down,
nay, an inheritance of immeasurable proportions,
and like an ungrateful child who didn’t establish it,
I am squandering its value.

Is this a sellable commodity,
teaching others how to comfortably be alone,
or is this a sacred relic,
I should choose who I pass on to?

Perhaps, I just haven’t done enough hours to figure that one out.

W.E.

The tearing

 

I should have been a sculptor
I’m so good at carving things out of myself,
severing,
tearing,
cutting away at unneeded fabric,
perhaps, to return as naked to my Lord,
as I was given to my mother,
or perhaps I have become so stained with guilt,
yes, it’s definitely guilt.

I smile then,
whilst everyone is trying to become more,
here I am trying to become less.

-Wesam El dahabi

You’re always being lied to, always.
Stop trying to mend,
stop the pretend,
the last thing you want is baggage sitting on your shoulders,
garbage in your throat,
robotic with answers,
ridden with societal cancers,
finding comfort in the gloat,
yet an empty,
and meaningless bloat.
Start stripping yourself of dignity,
throw your pride to the wall,
flee,
naked if you have to,
before you take your fall.
Your image doesn’t matter that much,
neither does your honour.

introversion forty six


But I understand your aversion to knowledge,
do you understand my aversion to social garbage?

I understand your need to feel loved,
do you understand my need to be loved only by the utterness of a sincerity with burnt bridges? A sincerity that can’t look back, go back or want back?

I understand your need for material to make you better than the person next to you,
do you understand my disdain for material that makes someone feel less than another?

So I guess, in reality, call me as pompous, arrogant, distant as you want, I guess we’re not even.

W.E.

-mood

-mood

It’s not enough that I’m alone,
a veil of separation is needed.

Vast, arid separation,
a mercy of sorts.

The sky doesn’t want to touch the desert,
even if their illusion says otherwise.

How did I grow into such a desensitised state,
never craving the embrace of anyone.

How do my children, my wife and others,
still find comfort in displays of affection,
knowing well my aversion.

I don’t know where I lost it,
and searching for it is as futile as combing my fingers through sandhills.

Alas it rears every now and then,
and I struggle to remain a gracious host.

W.E.

It’s either an air of chill, a wall, repulsion, dryness, or intimidation, something keeps people away.

I wonder then, if perhaps I’ve grown into this introversion.

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.

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.