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.
You’re music that drags,
a lyric that begs for the next line,
verse out of turn,
poetry that makes all and no sense.
You’re prose that doesn’t care for order,
rhyme that does what it wants,
you’re meter that causes hearts to skip,
allegory beyond conjure,
a dance of fire,
madness with no cure.
What have you left in all of this mess?
Chaotic and perfect,
disorderly, but oh so worth it,
who cares for things that add up,
where’s the fight in that?
I’ll take my chances with odd notes,
off beats and smudged ink,
a poem on you wrist,
a tattoo on your clavicle,
a beggars desperation.
The ruins of beating a heart until it’s frantic with love,
until it burns your mind to smithereens,
are the ashes of reconciliation with your soul.
It’s always love,
mad, one way love.
You’d want my loneliness too,
if you knew in the midst of it all,
you could always carve up poetry.
if you could write a zephyr onto your breath.
They can’t taste the bile and metal,
or is it a liver punch and ketosis,
is it the fog and swell beneath your eyes,
come, come reach you some more,
what have you got for me,
that I can envy you in return for,
what have you got,
that will arch my back for more?
My solitude is plenty enough for you and I.
Wesam El dahabi
It’s a good thing,
that most men can’t articulate their feelings,
but evolving from hands that dig and bury,
that sew and reap,
so too do they plough the fields of their emotions,
turn them over in secret,
and patiently wait for another harvest.
Sometimes, it never comes,
others, the land remains arid,
or seasons come and seasons go,
and not a fruit drops to the floor,
and yet, they toil on,
much to the merit of their character,
and to the detriment of an ingrate of a woman,
who demands his attention after he has bled his knuckles dry.
Unsatisfied with his sacrifice,
she belittles him, demands more,
secretly blossoms poetry in his soul.
Had she waited, she could have had him whole,
But in haste, she waves her feminist flag,
as if to say she raised herself independent of him all this time,
now she waits for another man, struggling to find his words,
mute, much the same,
toiling with his body to show love,
choking on his verse.