Empowerment


You become larger than you are,
swollen with vernacular and prose,
happy to contain and implode.

You empower yourself by having so much to say,
but in dignity holding your tongue,
by making knowledge your staple,
and sanctifying it all in your lungs.

A hold of breath,
a pause before a thought,
reducing yourself to rubble,
your ego, to naught.

All this plenitude inside,
fit for kings and queens,
quietly content, utterly observant,
hidden and unseen.

W.E.

Stumbling into myself

I seem to struggle handshaking my soul,
when I need to return to the place I know I can reconcile,
it seems, it figures out a way to remain distant,
or maybe I’m not so appealing to myself,
I scare or repulse myself,
perhaps my self has nothing in common with my soul,
and here I am, thinking I can retreat to a cocoon whenever I like,
when the reality is both my soul and my self are troubadours,
unsettled, unhappy, homeless and trying to find a way.

But the hope of acquaintance is alluring,
until then, I’ll search for the perfect line.

W.E.

-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.