When they call you heavy

When they call you ‘heavy’, 
I feel like asking, “Heavy how? Like an anchor that holds a ship amongst turbulence? 
Or like a backpack laden with books and loaded onto a child on the way to school? 
Perhaps I’m a mule, camel or beast of burden that is stubbornly refusing to do another day of work without some rest? 

How exactly am I heavy, so heavy, that you feel so light telling me so?
That it rolls so effortlessly off your tongue, that you assume my heart isn’t also just as heavy?  

Heavy with hurt, heavy with guilt, heavy with rage and remorse, so heavy that it makes me consider all things heavily, and the reason for my heaviness is that I haven’t yet released it onto you or the world.”

You retract, and change,
reorient your words like shuffling cards, but it’s the same deck and now you say, “No, not heavy that way, but like, you’re too much”. 

Again, I ask, “What exactly do you mean? Am I a price tag that you don’t want to pay for, am I a book too thick to consider reading? Perhaps you mean, I’m a plate that you’re too full to even look at let alone eat from. Please, tell me, am I rain that doesn’t cease, heat that is unbearable, or are all my offerings, all that I am, everything I have learned and developed into, is any of that what you mean?”

Maybe you failed to consider a man who has weight will be the workhorse to provide for you if you just offer me enough room to find a semblance of myself, and be the pillow I lay my head on. 

I could be mediocre and get by, I could be just a fly in a room, just there, that eventually annoys you.

Or is being too much, only too much because you want to cut me down, is being too heavy a veiled cry from you for me to slow down, be less, think less, heart less, because you don’t want to do any more, or you just can’t tolerate the pain of seeing someone engage with their entirety, whilst you offer…… nothing?

Because, if you prefer, I could be too little, and I could be a weightless thing.

Wesam El dahabi

Echoes of who you are

I don’t know how to show you except by telling you.
Whilst the act of doing is better than the act of saying,
that’s only because people don’t know how to say.

But what if I showed you the way,
with words connected carefully,
weaved intentionally,
delivered in a bouquet,
as lyrical ballet,
and show you how to stretch your skin tight,
so your heart can beat right,
and the club that beats it,
is your soul set alight.

There’s no room for a dishonest soul.
I have to gather myself together and fight me with me.
Pit myself against myself.
Fuel both and ignite them so they combust and turn to vapour.


Broken ones

broken ones

And there she stands with all her fragility.
Eyes sunken,
Collar bones salty,
Shoulders broken,
Skin, silken,
Life unspoken,
Hardly a sight to miss.
Reserved sorrow,
Elegant bones,
Poise, you can’t dismiss.
But the loud painted canvas,
Of neon sign familiarity,
Piques you.
Whilst her tragedy,
Well worn war paths,
Escape you.


The heart; the merciless dictator


The heart;
The orchestrator, the curator,
The beater, the drummer,
The hummer, the plumber,
The cheater, the fleeter,
The reverberator, the perpetrator
The instigator, the insinuator,
The hater, the traitor
The heart; the merciless dictator

What will you do when it stops?
Perhaps it is not a bad thing that it stops.
Did you know that it is the first thing created in a human being, before the brain even, before your nervous system. But how? Doesn’t the nervous system control the heart? Isn’t the brain the control centre for everything?
If that were the case, the brain would be created first, but it is not.
That is a scientific fact. Impossible to contest, yet scientists still detest, they protest, they fight their souls, with God digress.
So there it is, the first thing created, in the belly of the mother, and there it nestles for nine months, countless beats comforting it.
The dee-dum, dee-dum
perpetual drum,
the soothing hum,
is the tongue,
of its communication,
with mum,
of life’s elixir sung,
of the last trumpet blown,

the last bell rung.
When the soul is torn,
the body is flung,
six foot soil bath,
mixed with dung.
Hope your deeds are there,
for flowers sprung.
On your grave top,
to reach the sun.

The Elixir 10 – Strong Fragility



My most haunted and beautiful moments were not in the times I was most strong, I have endured battles of the physical, mental and spiritual kind and they mean nothing to me. I’d fight them all again without fear, they taught me ought else but rigidity and harshness.

The moments I treasure most and gave me the ultimate strength of character, resolve, bravery and poise in the face of devils are the ones where I was most fragile.

From them came my art, came my brutality, came my savagery and came my subtlety.

Words flowed when I was broken, not mended.
My soul developed when I was downtrodden not when I was upright.
My heart grew fonder when it was annulled not when it was coveted.
My body became stronger when I fasted, not when I ate.
My ego was destroyed when I starved it, not when I gave it what it desired.

Brute strength served it’s purpose but the real strength came through fragility, that’s how I elevate in learning and understanding.

Be fragile, be vulnerable, let your guard down, everyone can fight, but learning to take the blows is what makes beauty.


Listen to your heart – literally!


Sometimes I cover my ears, not to only drain out the noise,
But to hear echoes of my heart beat reverberate in cavity amidst my poise.

Be still and hear the deedum, deedum,
Listen to waves of blood rush through vein canals hum.

Only to riddle myself with a disorientation,
I’m a drummer boy and can’t hear my composition.

The inner score, rhythms and BPM,
The temperament of soul from which temper/tempo stem.

I cover my ears to give me introspection,
Where I’m heading and my souls direction.

Try sinking into a bath tub, ears under water,
You’ll again hear your heart and know where your thoughts are.

Try running up a hill until your lungs are on fire
And you feel your pulse getting higher and higher.

Know then you’re alive and you were never far,
All you had to do was to listen to the meter of your heart.


Not kidding, sink your ears under in a bath and hear your heart beat.

Sometimes you have to just make it a physical thing, when you can’t hear what it wants spiritually.

Nothing brings closer the meaning of you more than being deprived of oxygen and hearing your heart race to fill your lungs.

Physical culture should not be about moving your body through space for carefully selected comforts. It has to be a war against your ego, pushing boundaries to make you feel alive.

The love that can destroy you


If you cannot suffer the pain,

You have no business falling in love with an artist.

Through song, writing, paint or any medium,

The pain inflicted is of two types:

If they love you,

It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally

If they hate you,

You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.