It’s time to stop writing,
when you go from,
finishing each others sentences off,
to wanting them to end.

-Wesam El dahabi.

Maybe I can write through pain long enough for it to go away,
Maybe pain doesn’t get it.

Is it my sentence structure, my grammar, my grief filled quill?
Perhaps it’s pains, comprehension skills.

Whatever it is, we’re not seeing eye to eye,
This platonic back and forth, between pain and I.

You once were impervious to the fault of my prose,
And I ignored the destructive nature of the words you chose.

I took it with stride and a pinch of hope,
And hoped our relationship would blossom and perhaps we’d elope.

Wander off together to the edges of sanity,
I’d give you a voice and you’d bring me tranquillity.

Alas this relationship seems to be severed,
And both it seems at the ends of our tether.

So go, leave me, find someone else to bother,
Don’t you worry, I’ll keep writing, and find someone else to smother.

But I still love you, once tasted, there’s no going back,
I’ve got pages to prove it, once white, now inked black.






if there is a place to bury hurt
i haven’t found a grave deep enough
if there is a way to wash it off
i haven’t found water salty enough
if there is a way to burn it
there’s no fire blue flame stricken enough

maybe then, its job is to stay
until i become the way


in naivety, we look to hoard the things that weigh us down,
and excise the things that may be our calling.
how do we even know that all this stuff we complain of,
is not in an ultimate wisdom the stuff that is meant to fashion us.


And some music to help the staying process




let the knife have its way
that is what patience is

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




some people seem to have been created
for the sole reason to agitate others.

I digress,

perhaps to also kindle the fires of hell.

‘it’s just a joke’
how funny it is that the fire stake you use to taunt with wit
will be your stoking stick in infernos pit

I guess as tough as my shell may be
it’s there to protect the utter fragility I am inside

You assume the joke you pass
is a testament to your wit
humour laden
you laugh on your own
and I
as usual
on my own

You assume the slander
the stories you made up in your head
the ones you so easily spread
that you allowed to fester,
ever the molester,
are true
never mind…
you’ve made your bed

Now sleep in it!

Know that your weakness
your utter bleakness
will be your lot
forever alone
you’ll never have my nearness


Seriously, wtf did I do except offer utter sincerity towards you,
for you to think you can just spread lies about me,
assume things about me, make up stories, gossip, backbite, lie, manipulate,
incite others against me.
What part of me is it you want before your wit will be satiated,
before your lusts invigorated
before your content and liberated
liberated away
discarded be my way
it’s better than being
the ball between your rackets
for another day.

Your hurt, hurts.



You’re not even dead yet,
And the sorrow of a Duduk flute plays the genocide.
The mutilation your life caused,
A love of a father so misplaced.
Something generations deep,
Keep it in the family, it’s tradition.
The sorrow belts through speakers all day,
Artificial sound, for artificial love for artificial death.
If the flute were here with me,
I would be stricken with grief,
Torn clothes naked into the streets.
Where the extremes of extremes meet,
Obliterated, reconciled, refined, rewound.
Found, unsound, set free and bound.
Asleep, awake for who’s sake, who’s sake?
Feed me, clothe me, buy me, forget me.
You want me to feel you now, you want me to see.
Bathe in your wallow, tick off your misery.
Swallow your hurt, make it a part of me.
You left me dry all this time, soil just wont soften
Hurt is a fist full of clay, over your coffin.


But I’m glad there is no CTRL-ALT-DEL button.
To wipe away these experiences,
These inner carvings,
Fine etchings,
Subtle tapestries,
Of foetal longing,
Of un-beloning.
Of whitewash atomising,
Of deteriorating autumn leaf,
Melting winter snowflake,
Of magnolia petal bashfulness.
No, I don’t despair my fortune any more,
Nor covet another’s,
Not even death can be rid of any of it,
How can it, when soil returns to soil,
And it reunites the hurt of all mankind.
We’re all created in the pre world as souls, unhurt,
We’re put on this earth to hurt,
So we can fertilise it when we pass,
With our experience.
He who hurts more,
Blossoms the most fragrant.