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.

when you’re enough for yourself

I’ve tried my hand at amicability,
but I much prefer loneliness.

The dispute you have with yourself,
between wearing a mask for the sake of social harmony,
or keeping social harmony,
by removing yourself to loneliness.

I’ll take the later thanks.

Wesam El dahabi

backed into a corner

Having too much reservation will do that to you.
Having so much to say but being sensitive to others may hinder your ability to actually say it. There you are, mouth swollen with things you want to give birth to, and you abort, you self abort, just for the greater good.

But there is no feeling good about an abortion, a part of you is dying after all.
Perhaps the withholding has a positive outcome if you can channel it. All my stillborns manifest into a calmer expression. Perhaps the patience allows a bit of simmering, a bit of editing before I release something incoherent.

It’s a nice way to deceive yourself, that being quiet is worth it.

W.E.

detached

What’s left to do except remove yourself from their company.
If convincing them ends up a story about them,
then it’s a fruitless engagement.
You can’t convince someone about yourself,
if they want to make it about themselves,
neither will you convince yourself,
if you want to make it about them.

Detach

W.E.

kindness is the antidote to loneliness


My book on loneliness was smeared,
here I am,
hoping for cleanliness, to strip away people,
that purge has been likened,
to godliness,
but a page has my fingerprint on it.

In his eagerness to kindness,
the barista stained the side of the cup,
my fingers have become less sensitive,
a mixture of winter and hand cleansers taking their toll,
heedless to wetness,
I smudge a page with Rwandan batch brew,
tamarind, smoke, and I can’t tell what else,
they’re good beans.

This page on loneliness,
now a coffee stained page,
has been made beautiful by the generosity of my barista,
today he sees me,
today,
I’m forced out of loneliness.

W.E.

It takes a total ingrate to continue to withdraw when an act of kindness is brought forward to them. I wanted to be alone, I drove far away just to read and drink a cup or two, but four cups later and my barista taught me why engaging in the world is a higher and more noble act than withdrawing from it. Facing your agony, going against your nature, perhaps reciprocating the kindness on to others, is a higher station.

dear grief – 21

It will pass,
I keep telling myself,
but it is an ocean in a goblet,
the wine is sorrow, without vignette.

Incisors,
fine steel having it’s way with the meat of you,
until you become one with it,
and take to your own ruin.

It has no end,
when you are ridden with guilt,
constantly burrowing,
ever the wallowing,
crying over the milk you’ve spilt.

W.E.