Introversion fifty

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.

meeting mortality


There’s something beautiful,
in all the overwhelming guilt that it chokes you with,
about making acquaintance with your mortality.

Being subdued into relinquishing,
knowing your time is up,
is the softest anger I have known.

Whoever thought you could weep so quietly,
scream so violently,
and not a single person,
would know your woes.

‘Perhaps it will leave me alone’,
you convince yourself,
‘perchance, I will heal’,
optimism is not your forte,
but, this time, it seems far more suited,
not for your own sake,
but because you hate the very idea,
of empathy towards you.

If you’ve wrestled and lost to mortality,
what use is it having someone else fight your fight.

Wesam El dahabi

Unliking yourself

What do you find at the end of it all,
at cutting out bits,
attaching more,
trial fits,
Frankenstein gore.

Alot of loneliness,
inside loneliness,
inside an outer display of comical amicability.

Buoyant temporality,
until the newer version of you,
drags the older down,
to stand on his shoulders for a breath.

Fucken savages we are.



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.



don’t touch me

I’ve never been fond of massages.
Perhaps an aversion to being touched.
Where along the path of me,
did I decide that fighting,
would be the best way to ward you off.

Maybe God heard my pleas,
and broadened my shoulders,
thickened my trunks,
squared my jaw,
and expanded my heart.
Gave me speed without warning,
strength in absolutes
and beyond the pale of comprehension.

Maybe he gave me a stare without warmth,
detachment from everyone save myself,
so I wouldn’t need anyone.

I’m comfortable inside,
I know the intricacies of my body,
and how to manipulate them,
yes, that’s it,
that’s why I have no need to be touched.

I’ve met many people who enjoy massages,
and I can’t buy it as leisurely,
nor therapeutic on a medical level,
save for the battered and bruised,
save for the incapable and disadvantaged.

I think their need to be massaged is a need to be touched,
touched because they cannot delve deep inside themselves enough,
to touch or change their own physiology, their own psychology.

For the last month I have endured through injuries I brought upon myself,
for pushing boundaries I’ve erected through  negligence.
I wanted, so badly to ask for help,
to relieve myself,
but for one reason or another, I didn’t.

It doesn’t matter,
it’s gone,
but what it brought with it has remained,
and deepened my rift from humanity.

I’m not afflicted,
perhaps pensive,
and utterly irreconcilable,
perplexed by societal discord,
nay, rather their disconnect,
with themselves,
with the need for absolutes,
with the need for truth.

Perhaps they need to be touched so often,
because it is a recharge of what they lack,
instead of becoming a perpetual, self charging being,
they’re happy to dilute who they are with others,
infection even.

– Wesam El dahabi

dear grief – 21

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

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.


Anxiety, the liar

It takes a lot of stepping in and out of yourself,
to know anxiety,
is a host you don’t entertain.
But most don’t travel in deep enough,
or away far enough,
to get an honest view of it all.
Instead, they entertain and feed it,
with the sugar and junk food of being,
with self coaxing,
blurring to a fine film of self loathing.

-Wesam El dahabi