I’m attracted to
eyes that have hurt burned into them

Skin that is dry from self flagellation

Tongues that are heavy with words unspoken

I enjoy their hurt, abandonment and silence

But it makes me wonder,
Am I a bad person for being attracted to their woes,
or am I saintly for seeing it.

-Wesam El dahabi

I feel guilty for seeing vulnerabilities sometimes,
but I feel joy when I can express their realities,
to people with a little prose,
show, that they’re in my sights.

When I can unveil the reality of their state,
for the world to see in vivid colour,
and remove the anchors of taboo,
the stigmas of non-acknowledgement,
the stares of non-acceptance.

There is far more beauty,
in the processes of hurt and healing,
than there is in mediocrity and complacency.

And this is how I breathe,
this is how I exhale,
a resuscitation into their mouth.


How to attract wildlife to your soul

Picture taken but edited from

The title read, ‘How to attract wildlife to your garden’.
That is all it took to make me think….

How do I attract humans and animals to my soul?
Do I want to be that garden?
Why am I attracted to the wildlife of humans,
As opposed to the domesticated, the tame?

Me, an outwardly devout person,
Inwardly wildly rebellious.
Outwardly you know me as the layman,
Introverted and distilled, shy, timid,
Overly polite and accommodating.
Inwardly a raging fireball burning of emotive introspection,
Stardust contemplation,
Absorbed observations,
And vanishing realisations.

It seems the only ones who are visiting my flower beds,
Laying in my meadows,
Shading under my trees,
Are the derelicts,
The forgotten ones,
The dark souls,
The heavy hearted,
The spirits departed.
The artists,
The persecuted,
The marginalised,
The shy, introverted and timid, like me.
The people of colour,
The Gays, the Lesbians, the hetro’s even.
The everyone’s, like me.
The kind,
The open of mind,
Because society has become blind,
Unable to see them in the depths of oceans,
They don’t dive to find.
These people, who have no homes,
But the homes inside them,
Nomads to society,
Women, children and men.
They’re the ones who have separated so severely,
From the milk bottle of social engineering,
And want to feed from the bosom of a wild goat,
Drink not from a tap but from a fresh water river,
That won’t allow a bank to contain it or meter it’s flow.
They want to breathe air,
That isn’t polluted with prejudice and judgement,
Fills their lungs with hope and serenity.
They want the sun’s rays to beat their skin,
Without the percussion of skyscrapers interfering.

Maybe it’s ok for me to be that meadow, that garden,
Come wildlife, and fertilise my land,
breed and create more wildlife.

This was inspired by Eliza Waters. Again, all she did was pay me a compliment, caused me to see her page, find a post and send my imagination into wandering.
She has a really serene page where she writes about a myriad of things, takes stunning photography of her property and today, was the source of another muse, funny enough because of her compliment on a piece I wrote about another muse for the day.
Please check her page out at

The picture is hers but I edited to reflect the beauty and colour of wildlife visiting my dark but organic garden.

The Aftermath



I’ll leave a trail of devastation behind
and you’ll still have no one else on your mind

The after taste is bitter,
metallic even,
but you keep a vial of me around your neck,
sipping it,
slowly killing yourself off,
suicidally attached,
visiting me in my dreams,
expecting me in yours.

Barren your house,
it creaks awaiting my grease,
for me to unhinge your rusty doors
and allow my wind to pass through,
just so you can catch a waft of me,
as devastating as I am a tornado,
you long for  the wreckage.

Broken planks and shards of glass,

splintered feet and molten hearts,
is the pain really worth me?