-mend

mend

-mend

let the knife have its way
that is what patience is
-W.E.

And the knife can come
in many forms of hurt
but the way, is to remain silent
and to introvert

A partner, a child
a brother or parent
money, material, whatever
it’s still heaven sent

To grow, to become
to solidify like cement
you have to be willing
to be broken, torn refashioned and bent

Refusing the cut, the sever
the pain and darkness
shows naivety and arrogance
leaves you the confused mess

Mend by allowing
the wound to expose
and become wisdom
experienced, and one who knows

With the healing, traverse
and find others like you
who are bereft and broken
hold their hands, show them how to get through

-W.E.

The scent of you

fragile
You smell of fragility

-W.E.

And what does fragility smell like except,
The naked body longing for clothing,
Or the pomegranate of heart bursting and ripe,
Fists, lowered into open palms.

I smell you because I have lived with the perfume,
I know it is as tender as incense stick ashes,
Unforgiving of yourself for the smallest of mistakes,
Chipped tea cups cutting your lip.
-W.E.

I’m finding it hard to keep writing now. This past week, I put brakes on myself.

My aim is to share parts of me, small parts as I coax myself into believing it is ok, some people may need to read some of my words, my thoughts, my heart. But now the weight of burden rests heavy on me.

I am feeling guilty for feelings being aroused in some people that illicit hurt, pain or remind them of suffering, vulnerability or fragility.

In the conundrum therefore I am, of deciding whether or not I keep sharing at the expense of hurting people in the process of identifying sensitivities in myself or to stop sharing and keep writing to myself only, perhaps one day mustering the courage to see if anything I write may be worthy of a wider readership.
But I apologise in advance if for whatever reason I made you hurt, suffer or cry.
It was never my intention to purposefully hurt.
W.E.

Inspiration to live

inspiration to live

Hope,
Is waking to  lung full of love,
Of morning mist inhalation,
Fresh with dew of inspiration.
-W,E.

 

She breathes in hope,
Imagining it an energised butterfly,
Dancing between her rib cage.
Each time it brushes against her insides,
It gives of itself and releases love,
Unfamiliarity, curiosity, inspiration,
Excitement and wonder through her whole being.

Thus, she looks forward to her next breath.
-W.E.

Can you guess who this is to?

Write to heal, heel to write.

heal and burn3

I can’t write……
Amidst such warmth, I can’t write.
I burn, I burn bright.
Engulfed,
In flames, alight!
And there I am,
I never knew,
I was such a sight.
There’s no more fight,
There’s only flight,
No wrong or right
And now,
I can’t un-write.
-W.E.

When the Prophet Abraham threw himself into the flame, he did so in full trust in his Lord, knowing well his enemies had stoked it just for him, raging and mad as it was, the whole village engaged in the act of building the fire, and still, his conviction calmly allowed his first step.
The Angels of rain were ready to step in immediately and never to allow the Prophet to be harmed, had God Himself not intervened and commanded, “Oh fire, be cool and peaceful”. And to the astonishment of all the onlookers, there he remained unharmed until they realised, this was no man of small stature.
Sometimes, your fire will be your healing, sometimes it will be healing for others.
Your conviction in your path will determine your outcome.
Nothing will harm you but your interpretation, how you choose to see things.

I’ve always had self image issues. I look so far deep into myself that I can’t stand not only what is on the inside, but what is on the outside, they’re connected, no matter what anyone tells you, they’re connected. Your inside is a reflection of your outside and your outside a reflection of your inside. To segregate a human into comforting isolated slots is not to see them whole, it’s seeing them, loving them, dishonouring them only in parts. So here I am, thrown into the fire. Perhaps it will burn on, perhaps it will burn out, but for now, what’s in the fire, is the fire.

-W.E.

I’ll tell your story

wounds

Undress your wounds,
Those scars are masterpieces to me.
-W.E.

Scars are the S-a-C-red  AR-t  of  T-radjedy
Show me yours.
I’m not interested in the beach perfect pretty,
Show me the nitty gritty,
The down and dirty,
The pungent stenches of your,
Inner murky.
I don’t care what the tragedy,
Escapism tracks,
Or forced mastectomies.
Show me the hurt of rituals,
Of clergymen and patriarchies,
Honour shaming and forced chastity.
The uncontrollable binges,
The bulimia bellies.
The anorexia bones,
Of beautiful frailty.

I want to see the self harm rail roads,
The severed souls of hysterectomy.
Show me, your tragedy……
Show me what people are reluctant to see,
Let me write it, my pen is fluid in poetry,
Your story I’ll carve into everyone’s memory.
Teach them to feel through their skin,
The scars, the SCART of humanity.
-W.E.

Grow

grow
And you thought you arrived?
There’s work yet to be done,
There’s earth unturned,
Hands yet to hold,
Hearts to mend,
Mouths to feed,
Souls to sooth,
Bellies to fill,
Eyes to dry,
There is,
You.
W.E.

Be in it until your last breath,
Even when you feel your soul rise from your belly,
Through your throat,
Witness it rise out of you,
Learn from it,
And be a witness against yourself.

This dedicated to my father who is currently going through things I don’t wish to divulge.