There it is again,
unworthiness and loneliness,
those ever loyal friends.
There’s always the guarantee of silence;
underneath my eyelids,
hearing your sweaty palms ache for a touch,
the ongoing march of my heart,
the lies my mind conjures,
and especially when they all meet,
and truth acts like the reconciliatory scimitar,
and quells all the hurt.
Who would of thought,
they could make a commodity,
out of introversion,
quiet folk lucratively gaining traction,
learning how to hone their art,
until they’re just as loud as extroverts.
shyness and meekness,
Everywhere I look it seems that there is no stone they will leave unturned with their data mining. No small corner of anyone’s world that they won’t bring up to the surface, magnify, amplify and like a multi-level-marketing ploy, spread it around like a fad until they have milked the life out of it.
Fuck I feel so out of place and more obscure than ever.
Tricks of the self,
to the point that if you don’t get it, you starve.
Lying to your heart,
that you’ve made the decision all by yourself,
knowing deeper past that pump,
(that conspires with whatever random thought passes by),
that society doesn’t think much of your strangeness,
your aversion to conformity other than for civil discourse,
uncomfortable with the reality,
you’re unimportant unless you can sing and dance,
unless you can show and prance.
You prattle, we prattle, I prattle,
over and over and over again,
a religion if I have ever seen one,
of worshipping ones self to no avail.
Fruitless, pointless self worship.
severity proves the motivator,
deprivation the muse,
the harder path,
for a writer,
much easier to choose.
There’s no question,
not for a moment,
would we question what to use,
give us what makes us perspire,
and we’ll tie our own noose.
I like lonely things,
no, I’m obsessed with them.
When everyone is chasing the tail end of importance,
clawing at finding semblance,
I’m content to eat the crumbs of their efforts,
or so I tell myself.
Perhaps I love all this solitude,
because it makes me the only isolated thing,
in a world that is so magnetised to each other,
in a backdrop so filled with noise,
it is hard to stand out.
reality looks like an exaggeration,
when you’re used to telling yourself lies,
repentance, such a lofty aspiration,
when sins are such in-severable ties.
where goeth my honour and pride,
how distant we’ve become,
my hands are unrecognisable,
i’m a man broken, begging and undone.
leave me a morsel of myself,
empty a crumb of me into me,
something of recognition,
with heart full of prose,
i beggeth thee.
all i’ve done is plea,
all i’ve done is bitten and swallowed,
until every recognition of who I am,
shifting and shapeless like a shores sands.
-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.