I want to be thick in the air,
a droplet from my lips to yours,
I thought every poet wants that.

Lit and writ with obsession,
swollen and stillborn confessions,
my life, so dull,
I haven’t even the imagination,
to make it up.

I often imagine what it would be like to give birth,
seems my most apt resemblance,
yet why does it feel like I’m mocking myself?

There’s only disappointment,
disapproval and resentment,
a cold and calculated agreement,
that I’m unworthy,
and don’t deserve a second look.

And it is this inhumane barbarism,
yet a clever humility,
that is the fire in our belly that makes us write.

We’re savages against ourselves,
and heal with the ointment of prose,
the more destructive the soul,
the greater the verse.

The greater the curse,
the more poetic of line,
water and aloe,
for brimstone and blue flame.

I want to be thicker than just in the air,
but God created me with an unapproachable face,
in retrospect,
perhaps to afford me more time to myself.

And so,
whilst this thickness is as seductive as the sun thawing my skin,
the path chosen for me,
is the one within.

Dissipation seems to be the ordain,
evaporation much the same,
a quiet fade into the atmosphere,
a touch of your senses much to your oblivion.

A whisper in the back of your mind,
that gnaw, knowing that you’ve heard this before,
from the aspiration of thickness,
there I am,
mutated to an anchor in your consciousness.


introversion forty eight


I’ve tried my hand at common man,
and before, sat with the sophisticated,
yet repeatedly I find myself in no man’s land,
mute, disconnected, alone and antiquated.

There’s no place for me, between him or her,
no back, nor bosom to find,
otherwise, I’d be shackled, though social, to monotony,
perhaps amongst you, though an imprisoned mind.

So I recluse and find measure in simplicity,
in unsophisticated and lonely ways,
this, I’ve realised is an introverts path,
and I shall live out, humble to my end days.



If you don’t move, you’re pungent.

The irony is,
you need to experience movement,
at its extremity,
to realise the importance of being void of it all.

If you take movement, to be purely physical,
you’re yet to grasp just how much you don’t know,
and are stiffer than you realise.

Your body, mind, heart and spirit are longing for things you’re depriving it off, under the faint notion of faux-choice, intellectual prattling.

You’re not choosing, you’re just ignorant of how things work.


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,

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,
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.


The zip code of nostalgia

The zip code of nostalgia

Take me back,
to when  mud flaps hung off cars with one screw year round,
when waking up in the morning was the default,
because the excitement of a new day was too much to contain yourself in comfort,
besides, squeaky spring bases of beds always sunk you down into discomfort.

Take me back,
to when you’d tip toe to the living room,
to turn on a rotary dial TV,
whose clicks you’d try to muffle with your jumper,
so you could sneak in a cartoon or two,
before you loaded up on a sugar and milk laden breakfast.

Take me back,
to when holding your mother’s hand,
walking to school was not uncool,
but squeezing back and forth was a competition,
of who loved who more.

Take me back,
to classrooms where teachers greeted you with cheer,
with the rank smell of sandwiches in the bin lingering near,
an appetiser to get your work done,
so you were allowed to go out at recess,
and breathe the playground bins instead.

Where football on gravel, bloodied knees and palms,
were signs of a game well played, badges of honour,
where you always had at least one fight per recess,
enough to keep you on your toes knowing,
soon your number might be up to test yourself.

Take me back,
to when a nugget was introduced to the world,
and it wasn’t so laced with MSG,
where kids eating them might get fat, but not ADHD.

How about when report cards were hand written,
and words like conscientious were still written,
and ‘shows potential’,
meant you just warded off into a trade and made money,
whilst your friends remained at school,
still trying to sound out words,
still handing in assignments, hand written.

Take me back,

to where carving on desks was in,

words relating your ongoing suffering,

like ‘I’d rather be dead’,
oh that’s right, you can’t,
because the zip code of nostalgia,
is a number of a place in my head.


match made in-between lines

There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.

But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.


don’t touch me

I’ve never been fond of massages.
Perhaps an aversion to being touched.
Where along the path of me,
did I decide that fighting,
would be the best way to ward you off.

Maybe God heard my pleas,
and broadened my shoulders,
thickened my trunks,
squared my jaw,
and expanded my heart.
Gave me speed without warning,
strength in absolutes
and beyond the pale of comprehension.

Maybe he gave me a stare without warmth,
detachment from everyone save myself,
so I wouldn’t need anyone.

I’m comfortable inside,
I know the intricacies of my body,
and how to manipulate them,
yes, that’s it,
that’s why I have no need to be touched.

I’ve met many people who enjoy massages,
and I can’t buy it as leisurely,
nor therapeutic on a medical level,
save for the battered and bruised,
save for the incapable and disadvantaged.

I think their need to be massaged is a need to be touched,
touched because they cannot delve deep inside themselves enough,
to touch or change their own physiology, their own psychology.

For the last month I have endured through injuries I brought upon myself,
for pushing boundaries I’ve erected through  negligence.
I wanted, so badly to ask for help,
to relieve myself,
but for one reason or another, I didn’t.

It doesn’t matter,
it’s gone,
but what it brought with it has remained,
and deepened my rift from humanity.

I’m not afflicted,
perhaps pensive,
and utterly irreconcilable,
perplexed by societal discord,
nay, rather their disconnect,
with themselves,
with the need for absolutes,
with the need for truth.

Perhaps they need to be touched so often,
because it is a recharge of what they lack,
instead of becoming a perpetual, self charging being,
they’re happy to dilute who they are with others,
infection even.

– Wesam El dahabi