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.

The self worth lie

Like all things arbitrary,
plucked from randomness,
the end,
never adds up.

The common denominator though,
is you,
and if you want to remove yourself from algorithms,
reduce as much as you can to naught.

Your self worth comes from
un-worth,
zero value,
not from adding mundane and dying things,
it makes zero mathematical sense to add perishing things to your life,
expecting to live.

Arbitrating the arbitrary,
philosophical meandering,
sophisticated prattling,
underlying the arrogance to admit,
You’re nothing!

We’re a perishing thing,
with delusions of being an ever abundant spring.
W.E.
#poetry

match made in-between lines

There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.

But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.

W.E.

hear no, see no, feel all

It owns you.

Play pretend until your last breath,
but you’ll forever be it’s slave.

One sin, two sins, three sins four,
soon, you won’t feel,
you’ll just want more.

Five sins, six sins, seven then eight,
try to pay it off,
it will be too late.

Nine sins, ten sins, and on it goes,
before you can pay it off,
you’ll be someone you don’t know.

It bites, it gnaws,
it’s the cracking jaw,
it reminds you with every chew,
of the reality of you.

The bite that can’t be digested,
purity gone,
by your own hand molested.

W.E.

I’m amazed (and laugh inside) when people take the wrong things they do so lightly, not in mock or jeer, but in pity for the ignorance of what they will inevitably be indebted to. That stuff doesn’t just go away. Try as you may to pretend your conscience is switched off and it doesn’t bother you, deep within, it haunts and chips away at you until it manifests in other ailments.

Sometimes it takes time, but it lurks and waits for the opportune moment to collect and when it comes knocking, there’ll be nothing you can do but admit your folly, your arrogance and ignorance.

Sin is glorified, like one can raise their head in pride for the shit they do, for the hurt they cause and parade themselves as being honest, bludgeoning the word, the meaning, bastardising it and uprooting it from it’s intended purpose.
‘At least I’m honest’, they mantra like being filthy, being vile and being loaded with immorality is pardoned by a simple admittance. Shame? What shame? Shame is ridiculed to the derelict corner of uncool. It’s cool to be a piece of shit these days and wear that like a badge of honour.
You may hear no evil, you may see no evil, as you’ve shifted the metrics of measuring evil, but you’ll feel it all, eventually every last bit of it.

W.E.