kinaesthetic

Sometimes I feel like holding all the women of the world
and asking,

how long will it take to make friends with your body?

It’s never enough,
and when it is,
then you’ll migrate to your face,
when that’s mutilated,
you’ll blame the man you conditioned to accept your new appearance,
the man who made you to do it by his fleeting eyes,
his carnal soul,
fetishly fleshen,
and I wonder,
who’s the victim,
you or him?

-Wesam El dahabi
Feminism is failing you. Take back your womanhood,

feminism is for little girls,

a ploy to keep you as childish as possible for as long as possible.
You can’t claim to own yourself when you paint and fashion yourself just as society has shaped every product for you.
I’m longing to look at my sisters in humanity with their unmasked faces,

in their real skin,

in the shape that God fashioned them in,

without hardened cheeks, and soulless eyes,

with poetry between their teeth and perfumed souls.

But who am I and what do I know,

don’t let a man tell you what to do.

#stigma

I can blue with the best of them,
or I can be blue with the worst of them,
the former, armour to cover the later.

But what of the man that can’t string his pain together in anything more poetic than a bottle or a fist?
What of the man that tries to get it out but tongue always ends up in a twist?
Does he beat his heart more furiously, hoping the world hears his silence or illiteracy, muteness or simplicity or is he denied the right to exist?
Because of social stigmas, ignorance of manhood, and checking him off all our conditioned lists?

W.E.

daily chores


Feels like,
I’m waiting to tell myself a secret.

A justification of sorts,
that I know something and won’t spit it out,
because it’s better for me.

I’ve enough sins,
to remain mute for the rest of my life,
frozen lips,
perchance a heart that’s thawed,
the only conversation,
the only scorn and ridicule,
I impose on myself.

I’d much rather a heart moving,
full of perpetual remorse and regret,
than a tongue wagging,
comfortable in the ignorance of it’s flutter.

Wesam El dahabi

dear grief – 22

dear grief,

folding for you is as easy as decomposing,
dying in winter as opposed to dying in summer,
folding linens because the last thing you want to leave
behind is more mundane work for anyone,
but a scent of you that lingers on a collar, even after
fabric softener has fought is war with the sun,
folding your hand, because you never seem to have the
right cards to win this game,
folding the last poem, the last stretch of prose you have,
fighting in a language you can’t express yourself in,
folding your arms, chasing warmth, as the breeze reminds
you and frightens you of cold that’s yet to come,
folding the earth over you,
so that we fold over you,
and they fold over you,
and all folds over you.

W.E.

image source: http://www.madisonartery.com/buy-madison-art/single-autumn-leaf/

wonderless, wanderless

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,
small, intolerable,
stuck,
and in your fingers.

W.E.

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.

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