Don’t get anxious,
about the world not happening,
it’s un-happened forever for me,
and I’m still at its throat in spite of it.
I’ve let it drive itself mad,
waiting for my approval.
It’s a dog, barking with fever,
I’ll feed it when I see fit.
-Wesam El dahabi
Judge me as much as you want,
just don’t let me anticipate,
leave me to my anxiety,
a still lake,
cast not a stone with your glaring eyes,
it’s the ripple before it reaches me,
Quell your souls with this beautiful piece.
It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.
-Wesam El dahabi
My anxiety is a trap,
the battle in the middle of the ring,
me against myself,
knowledge and ignorance,
and the middleman trying to make them touch gloves,
is the black and white referee.
He’s black and white for a reason,
he’s a he and a she,
he is you and she is me,
bottled up anxiety,
is a fist and a cheek,
the powerful and the meek,
out cold, and last one standing on their feet,
in the mist of socialising breath, cigar and cheap perfume filled arena’s,
or alone with a street lamp in the street.
It’s seeing the punch coming,
knowing how to avoid it,
but knowing your bound by the rules of fate,
and copping it sweet.
It’s looking your opponent in their eyes,
when done is done,
smiling the smile of knowledge,
both of you aware,
you could have beaten him any time you chose,
but you were stunted,
and bound by what God wanted.
the hue that haunts you,
undecided on black or white,
trying to mix a palette of grey,
is a reluctance to submit,
you are most definitely not in charge.
You can very well have all the foresight in the world,
and knowledge of the sages,
it means nothing,
if you don’t accept,
what is written,
in predestined pages.
My anxiety is an axe murderer,
with a flower in its hand,
it urges me to slay my self,
with ill will and poetic demand,
and bitters and salt,
and honey and malt,
grains of irreconcilability through me,
malleable like mountains, in desert sands.
It’s wanting to read a book,
at the same time as another book,
and another book,
and not a page at a time,
but all the pages all the time,
so you’re defeated and read none of them.
Yes, its a decision to be indecisive,
it’s corrosive, dismissive, yet oh so inclusive,
we can’t filter out what matters,
because everything matters at once.
Anxiety is knowing you have two loaded fists,
unafraid of the world before you,
choosing to be passive,
but beating yourself to death.
It’s knowing the every crevice of my skin,
aching for its touch,
but not letting anyone in,
enticed by, but so afraid of sin.
What world am I living in,
how can I ever win,
when the dichotomy of existence,
lies between procrastination and doing,
smudged prose and is paper thin.
It’s the ambassador, the host of the party,
who invites everyone in,
locks the door,
says welcome, and pulls the pin.
I’ve found you lurking in the shadows,
bullying me to submit to you,
berating and mocking my conviction,
my relent to release my living to you.
I know who you are and pity you,
anxiety, how lonely you must be,
to want to devote all your ambition to me.
There is no home for you here,
I don’t live in yesterdays grave,
nor tomorrow’s dream,
but stuck in the middle with me,
in the present, in the now,
you lay like a wounded animal,
begging for my attention.