Introversion – sixty eight

 

He with the darkest secrets should master silence,
observant with where his tongue may lead him,
treading lightly around the minefield of egotistical swaying,
until all the quiet becomes a guiding light.

It may be that this introversion is the vehicle for my salvation,
it may be that it lulls me into a false sense of security,
the balance of trusting the light and embracing the darkness,
ever so fine a thread.

W.E.

when your armour is made from egg shells.

I work with a man who doesn’t know how to leak,
a suffering man,
boy, rather.

I feel like showing him what his hurt looks like,
perhaps others will feel less pain around him,
he equates strength with dominance,
he needs to learn how to leak,
and let grief be his poetry.

He doesn’t respond to death,
because he makes excuses for life.
he likes to shoot animals,
call it sport,
more dominance,
beating defenceless things keeps him alive.

I play dead all the time,
he doesn’t like that he can’t kill me,
my indifference,
slays him,
his him-ness is lonelier than I am.

W.E.

Funny enough, I’m kinder to him than anyone else at work.

The self worth lie

Like all things arbitrary,
plucked from randomness,
the end,
never adds up.

The common denominator though,
is you,
and if you want to remove yourself from algorithms,
reduce as much as you can to naught.

Your self worth comes from
un-worth,
zero value,
not from adding mundane and dying things,
it makes zero mathematical sense to add perishing things to your life,
expecting to live.

Arbitrating the arbitrary,
philosophical meandering,
sophisticated prattling,
underlying the arrogance to admit,
You’re nothing!

We’re a perishing thing,
with delusions of being an ever abundant spring.
W.E.
#poetry

The truth about my insides #Syria


I’ve found hypocrisy in a mouthful,
guilt in a morsel,
sin after sin, mindful,
and strangely, conveniently,
forgetful.

A satiation of sorts,
severed from thought,
the interstitial,
the residual,
carnal taunts.

Prodding whispers,
and gallant replies,
ego servitude,
smothered lies,
here I am,
there I’m not,
a slave of evil,
matter how hard I try.

As long as my children are safe,
as long as their bellies satiated,
I can mourn in the morning,
and feast in the evening.

And why am I so,
wavering in and out of states,
a haphazardous molotov,
of grief and joy,
sinister ploy,
ignorance and enlightenment,
reconciling at the pull of social deploy.

Here is the battlefront,
the war that rumbles and pulls on desires,
here is Syria,
welcome Wesam to hell,
your insides,
an ever kindling fire.

W.E.

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.

Boring people

boring-people

I’ll never let the monotony of neglect,
lull me into boredom,
persuade me into comfort.

I cannot associate with bored people,
they’re too dishonest to admit,
they’re lazy.

There is always something to do,
a lesson to learn,
a page to read,
a mouth to feed,
a bill to pay,
something to fix.

Fixing myself,
has occupied me,
from the moment I became aware,
of my lowliness.

When my ego stood broad shouldered as I,
cold stared me in the face,
and put up its fists,
I knew boredom,
would become a word that left my vocabulary.

W.E.

smoke and mirrors

smoke-and-mirrors2
I thought about buying a mirror,
nothing fancy,
old, long and slender,
but reflective.

I don’t mind if the edges are chipped,
or if a crack runs through it,
reminds me of myself.

I remember the hours spent in front of it,
a boxer has to stare at themselves for hours on end,
most people become vain when they do so,
not us,
we grow weary,
we see the ugly,
we see the worst of ourselves,
but we don’t wallow there,
we fix it.

We toil with blood and mucous,
acid filling our bones,
muscles imploding with calcium drop after calcium drop,
sweat, stench and metallic tongues,
what a delight, what a treat.

What, you thought we were just made violent?
The act of violence takes a lot of abuse against yourself,
until you don’t recognise a self,
you stop being human,
and start being just a data bank,
with lightening recollection of information,
relevant to the pinnacle of abuse.

So here I am,
stuck at the dichotomy of awareness and neglect,
wondering,
should I buy that mirror,
or, should I pick it up off the side of the road,
and erect it in my garage,
for my son.

Do I want him staring at himself,
do I want him wondering in and out of self abuse?
How does a father reconcile nurture and punishment,
how does a father,
pass on manhood,
and womanhood,
with the same breath,
with the same clenched fist?

How am I to show him,
how to grasp a man’s throat,
and hold dear life between the vice grip of his claws,
recognising the inches it takes before death,
and knowing the look in a man’s eyes,
when their ego is removed,
so as to release your clutch,
and with those same hands tending to roses,
plucking olives from trees,
covering a seedling with enough soil,
for water, breath and light.

How do I do all these things son,
without you looking back,
to blame me for too little or too much?

How do I teach you,
that the purpose of a mirror,
is to stare at yourself long enough,
to see the ugly,
and fix it.

W.E.