Necessity spawns creativity.
There’s a reason why you’re deprived of things.
You must believe in a wisdom beyond your comprehension.
All that banishment,
all that parchment
is preparing you
for a poetic end.
It’s easy to be infatuated with the idea that you are owed a perfection of practise.
Of being able to sail through your art, your craft, your day to day chores without resistance.
What you deem is the world conspiring against you, is sometimes the world conspiring for you. The value in everything is intrinsic, and for you to realise what you have will require continuous external pressure until that manifests.
-Wesam El dahabi
Nobility has its passage,
and it is not a dragging robe,
it’s dragging your ego in the dirt,
until it is one with the soil of humanity,
until you care not from where truth comes from,
as long as it comes.
If it comes, it comes.
If it doesn’t,
there will be aloe for ink.
Have you ever thought the same,
running away and forgetting your name,
having no identity, no guilt, no blame,
living moment to moment, without shame?
Intimacy is still possible,
with people who hate one another,
this often happens,
when you stare in the mirror long enough,
what’s different then,
in being enthralled and appalled at once,
reconciling and irreconcilable,
in a union of secret eloping with your inner most bits.
Maybe I’m too romantically inclined.
Is it too much to be asked,
to be ruined in mind,
wretchedly unfixed in state,
mad with inability,
scathing walls for a scent of the past.
Ah what a little neuroticism does for the soul.
If you can’t at all be haunted by something,
I fail to see how you could pique my interest.
It’s not that I want to heal you either,
but I do want my own misery to be reciprocated.
That kind of companionship,
the guarded chastity inspite of the allure,
wets the palate with prose.
Find me at the tail end of a rosary,
with sugar breath and a neck that wreaks of agar,
alone with my words,
alone with God.