You won’t get what you want without first offering something to the world.
The idea of default entitlement is ludicrous and shows the futility of your understanding of the world you live in.
I often have to pull myself away from people who are stuck in the rut of holding people or the world hostage, that is literally and figuratively pointing a gun to their head or a knife to their throat forcing them into guilt by holding them to an unestablished standard that they assume is owed to them.
You don’t deserve a single thing, not even respect if you cannot demonstrate your worthiness of respect or that thing.
The chronological order is that you must first put out value to receive it.
The world always reciprocates in kind and if you are too shallow to see it, whether literally or philosophically, then at the very least it will fill you with contentment that you have exhausted yourself in courage and nobility to achieve those ends.
How did mattering, become everyone’s obsession,
all these people vying,
fighting each other for emptiness.
It’s beyond a family,
or world pastime.
default to masquerades.
with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
what makes them pang for more of you.
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.
I’m stirring with prose,
speak only in gushing aloe to me,
ink me a letter that wreaks of agar and leather,
pained in cinnamon and crimson,
but let it be tender,
like a lash falling,
let it be real,
rolling thunder calling,
whisper your dialogue,
a silk worm crawling,
cut to the marrow of me,
a scimitar mauling.
Where are your words you claim to heal with,
that float like perfumed dew drops,
that soothe and hurt and clot?
I want your words to clot,
if it means silence until you find the right ones,
the right way,
or if it means violence with everything undone,
be aloe with what you say.
You become larger than you are,
swollen with vernacular and prose,
happy to contain and implode.
You empower yourself by having so much to say,
but in dignity holding your tongue,
by making knowledge your staple,
and sanctifying it all in your lungs.
A hold of breath,
a pause before a thought,
reducing yourself to rubble,
your ego, to naught.
All this plenitude inside,
fit for kings and queens,
quietly content, utterly observant,
hidden and unseen.
I can blue with the best of them,
or I can be blue with the worst of them,
the former, armour to cover the later.
But what of the man that can’t string his pain together in anything more poetic than a bottle or a fist?
What of the man that tries to get it out but tongue always ends up in a twist?
Does he beat his heart more furiously, hoping the world hears his silence or illiteracy, muteness or simplicity or is he denied the right to exist?
Because of social stigmas, ignorance of manhood, and checking him off all our conditioned lists?
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,
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,
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.
What is the fibre of your being,
where is the stuff that fashions you,
for some of us,
for the ones who have not stepped a foot outside the home they live in,
but have journeyed inside themselves until their soles are raw,
until our souls are raw,
we’ve learned the art of cutting away veils,
of peeling back layers,
until we find the core of our make up,
them be skills of soul blacksmiths,
of path travellers,
of dust faced journeymen,
who know how to wield their words with care,
or release them like hungry hounds,
I’m love, with war drums.
I’m waiting to tell myself a secret.
A justification of sorts,
that I know something and won’t spit it out,
because it’s better for me.
I’ve enough sins,
to remain mute for the rest of my life,
perchance a heart that’s thawed,
the only conversation,
the only scorn and ridicule,
I impose on myself.
I’d much rather a heart moving,
full of perpetual remorse and regret,
than a tongue wagging,
comfortable in the ignorance of it’s flutter.
Wesam El dahabi
Disconnect, seems to be the only thing that lingers,
familiarity like pulse, like breath,
like work beaten out of your forehead,
all that relieves, all that comforts,
only ever a wish, despondent,
a reminder like a splinter,
and in your fingers.