E-nvisible


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.

W.E.

bile


But I wouldn’t be in the slightest inspired,
nor would my flesh spoil from the smallest of nicks,
like I’ve never taken a lick,
never taken a kick when I’m down,
been around,
found,
and been unsound of mind,
aching of body,
restless of heart,
anxiety filled with bursting liver rage,
and yet patient,
enjoying the parchment and blood,
still,
like a sage.

None of it without the bitter bile that spoils the meat,
steadies your hand,
tempers your knife,
suits you up,
to die with dignity,
and take a bite of this life.

W.E.

Missed chances

Opportunity,
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

Introversion fifty

Shame,
has revealed itself,
come full circle and taken ownership.

Little did I know
for forty years,
it’s been my fuel,
so, I don’t feel shame for my shame,
I feel gratitude.

That it was the catalyst to change and improvement,
the fuel for the fire in my belly to strive.

I wonder then,
perhaps all this underachievement,
is nothing more than a lack of shame,
a blame game,
ideologues twisting, conniving to paint the sane, insane.

Entitlement leaves us as beggars who attack the hand that feeds us,
bereaves us of the companionship of loneliness, of sadness.

Aye sadness,
that gravitational thing,
I can’t be sad any more without an invocation of discomfort.

I’m not uncomfortable.
people want me to be, but I’m not.

They want my sadness to speak,
to be reclining,
to give meaning to a prying person’s existence.

These filers of discomforts,
bent of make me fit between their binders,
some people choose the strangest professions.

They should try shame and sadness,
they’d have far more desire.

-Wesam El dahabi

Unless a psychologist convinces you that you have condition that needs a psychiatrist, that needs medicating, that needs monitoring, that detaches you from owning yourself, or God forbid feeling any pain.

illiterate

 

Delusional critics,
self appointed,
fixated,
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

Unliking yourself

What do you find at the end of it all,
at cutting out bits,
attaching more,
trial fits,
Frankenstein gore.

Alot of loneliness,
inside loneliness,
inside an outer display of comical amicability.

Buoyant temporality,
until the newer version of you,
drags the older down,
to stand on his shoulders for a breath.

Fucken savages we are.

W.E.

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.

W.E.

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