Stubborn perspective

Your life sounds like a weeping cello,
with a frayed bow,
you strike the bellows of pain with all you have,
assuming you’re making music,
sorrow never makes for fatherly fortress,
all you had to do was change keys,
and your audience would have been different.

I don’t remember climbing your shoulders,
holding you around the neck,
kissing your lips,
or creating vacuum locks between our palms.

But aren’t you lucky, you have a son that prays,
that on the day of judgement you’ll be sitting
on his shoulders,
that has smitten his neck so you can walk across
the sword bridge over hell,
that has honoured your feet by servitude to his Lord,
that on that day, will be pulling you by the hand.

-Wesam El dahabi

Are you as confused as I am?


From my father, I inherited a back.

From my mother, I inherited mercy.

From God, I inherited confusion.

How can I be merciful to a man that knows
nothing but toil?

How can I be strong towards a woman that is
as tender as an autumn leaf?

For God, thank you for the confusion, the only
thing that helped me make sense.


Hands that know how to build

There will be a time,
When you must take to your dreams with a sledge hammer,
To put bread in the belly of your children.

I assure you, those hands, will know how to build again.

Don’t fear letting go of some things for survival,
It is the nature of men to throw their limbs into the fire to warm their children.
A man who wont, is deprived of knowing the very core of his flesh.
Everything of beauty and love, sacrifices.
Men, know the way to the altar.

The hand that loves

beat me5

You could have beat me,
Just once,
To show me you have a hand that loves.

How much of your hand is enough,
How little is not enough?
You left me here oblivious, sifting through what it means to be a man,
loving his children, loving his wife, just loving,
and for the most part, their love found me first and led the way.
But you didn’t show me how a boy loves his father, so how do you want me to love you now that I am a man?
Time is all I have of worth that’s mine. The currency is universal, all children know how to barter with it. You could have paid me with time.

Love for cheapskates


People who say ‘My love doesn’t cost a thing’, are ignorant of the currency used.
People who say ‘Love is free’, are cheapskates who offer a poor product, unrefined, poor in construction, bad quality.
People who say ‘All you need is love’, are peasants of the artistry of life.
People who ‘Bathe in love’, are stench ridden with hypocrisy and haven’t been blessed with the other fragrances of living.
People who sorrow and wallow in the ‘Throes of love’, are void of ever living through it. They have contained love to a being, to a finite mortal speck of flesh in the grand scheme of all things worldly, cosmic, spiritual.


Love is far removed from the prattling of poets.

It lives in the actions of the selfless.

It is a mothers rush to clean a dirty diaper.

It is in her sacrifice to milk her bosom dry, because the babies well being is more important than hers.

It is in a child’s reluctance to let their parent die without dignity.

It is their reciprocity in cleaning them when they are too elderly to notice their dysfunctional bowels.

It is in the fathers blood being spilled on the conveyor belt of labour, so his children can have buttons on their shirts, soles on their feet.

It is in his bowel cancer because he ate comfort food for forty years to curtail the stress hormones he didn’t know are swimming in his bloodstream.

It is in the students labour into the early hours when life forms are dead, just to understand one trigonometry question so he can present it the next day with pride.

It is in the teachers secret tears in the lunch room when the hurtful insults of her heedless students are not retaliated to because she feels their pain yet still wants to give them one idea to carry with them in their life.

It is in the employers oversight to your lacklustre performance for the last twenty years because they know you have five mouths to feed.

Most of all it is in the soil you’ll be buried in that doesn’t spit you back out for your vile arrogance and ignorance all your life.
Instead it embraces you, swallows you whole and makes you a part of it, allows you to fertilise the earth for a flower to grow, so that flower can be picked by an ignorant lover to present to his first heart throb, so we can one day tell him, that’s not fucking love.