When life feels like it’s become an intruder,
like it’s holding a knife to your throat,
when wonder, curiosity and discovery,
are replaced by survival, survival and survival,
when the happiest part of your day is isolation,
perhaps it’s time to lift the veil,
and wake up to the reality,
of this prison I’ve accepted,
perhaps I was it’s architect all along.
When breathing feels like it needs permission,
when you can’t tolerate tolerance,
this despicable hijacking of a word,
that now means;
accepting mock, sneer, envy, greed, theft,
dishonesty, lying, cheating, and hatred,
then I am the architect.
If I feel all this, there’s hope yet.
I’d be worried my hands could no longer help,
if I didn’t feel a thing,
if I were numb and accepted,
or didn’t even know the knife was there.
Perhaps it’s much simpler,
and I’m just aching for proof,
yes, men also ache for proof.
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.
Sometimes I feel like holding all the women of the world
how long will it take to make friends with your body?
It’s never enough,
and when it is,
then you’ll migrate to your face,
when that’s mutilated,
you’ll blame the man you conditioned to accept your new appearance,
the man who made you to do it by his fleeting eyes,
his carnal soul,
and I wonder,
who’s the victim,
you or him?
-Wesam El dahabi
Feminism is failing you. Take back your womanhood,
feminism is for little girls,
a ploy to keep you as childish as possible for as long as possible.
You can’t claim to own yourself when you paint and fashion yourself just as society has shaped every product for you.
I’m longing to look at my sisters in humanity with their unmasked faces,
in their real skin,
in the shape that God fashioned them in,
without hardened cheeks, and soulless eyes,
with poetry between their teeth and perfumed souls.
But who am I and what do I know,
don’t let a man tell you what to do.
I can blue with the best of them,
or I can be blue with the worst of them,
the former, armour to cover the later.
But what of the man that can’t string his pain together in anything more poetic than a bottle or a fist?
What of the man that tries to get it out but tongue always ends up in a twist?
Does he beat his heart more furiously, hoping the world hears his silence or illiteracy, muteness or simplicity or is he denied the right to exist?
Because of social stigmas, ignorance of manhood, and checking him off all our conditioned lists?
What is the fibre of your being,
where is the stuff that fashions you,
for some of us,
for the ones who have not stepped a foot outside the home they live in,
but have journeyed inside themselves until their soles are raw,
until our souls are raw,
we’ve learned the art of cutting away veils,
of peeling back layers,
until we find the core of our make up,
them be skills of soul blacksmiths,
of path travellers,
of dust faced journeymen,
who know how to wield their words with care,
or release them like hungry hounds,
I’m love, with war drums.
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,
shifting and shapeless like a shores sands.
-Wesam El dahabi
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,
and in your fingers.