-who gave birth to this

who gave birth to this

she must have hated him,
for giving her me.
bashful youth,
how did you bring yourself sir,
to be with her?

she must have hated him,
for pausing her life,
with new life.

she must have grown to love me,
new poetry,
a book of folded pages,
a shelf keep.

still she must of hated him,
cervix to bosom lamentations,
that feeling is awfully familiar.

Who is worthy of the hate,
or do I love them both regardless,
just by default,
the expected thing?

Reconciliation of detachment,
is a haunting thing.
combing the contradictions,
palpating for a pulse,
colour, love and hate blind.

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.