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 vulgarity,
accepting idiocy,
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.


Teach your children how to be alone

I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,

I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,

if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,

plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.

There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
conformist, sheep-like,
and in pain.

It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
of inability,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.

It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.


Missed chances

is a man who walks past,
whilst you sit behind a glass window wandering what if.

It’s a woman that sits fast,
whilst you rush past the glass window, ignoring what’s within.

Maybe the glass needs breaking,
perhaps you need to step outside yourself,
perhaps you need to crawl inside yourself,
or is it, you’re infatuated with looking at yourself?

-Wesam El dahabi



Delusional critics,
self appointed,
in the egocentricity of being above others,
by the mere fact they can string a sentence together,
lured by the fetishes of their ever rattling minds,
that what they decipher is actually a cipher of intelligence,
so like an excavator,
indiscriminate in it’s destruction,
they will not relent,
nor admit,
drop to their knees and submit,
that what they know,
is minuscule.
The more they ‘learn’,
the further from comprehension they become,
instead, as the great sage said,
‘The more I learned, the more ignorant I became.’
There is no shame in admitting,
after learning, after being enlightened,
of just how ignorant you were.
Life then,
is nothing more than learning to undo the superiority of knowledge,
we’re conditioned to believe,
makes us better than others.
True knowledge is not being able to find fault in everything you read, hear or see,
the truest knowledge is finding fault within and being consumed with gaining more knowledge to unveil even more of your faults.
An impossible obsession, reserved only for the humble and meek,
unconcerned with the glory and praise of the world.

Wesam El dahabi

The downfall of a sharp memory

If there’s a thing I don’t like about humans,
perhaps I could say it’s their memory.

I hate a memory that cracks like a whip,
the memory that has no empathy.

Even mercy resents it,
ever reluctant to caress their face.

There is no comforting glance,
not even a silken tongue can mend your ways,
if your memory whips and cracks,
ever a temper, ever ablaze.

Reluctant to let things go,
not a detail is left out of your recall,
they ache for your forgetfulness,
a hint of succour, release from your thrall.

There’s no pride in itemisation,
of every past thing said or unto you wrought,
how sage-like, how noble,
is the forgiver, who reduces memory to naught.

Wesam El dahabi

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.


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