It’s time to stop writing,
when you go from,
finishing each others sentences off,
to wanting them to end.

-Wesam El dahabi.

Maybe I can write through pain long enough for it to go away,
Maybe pain doesn’t get it.

Is it my sentence structure, my grammar, my grief filled quill?
Perhaps it’s pains, comprehension skills.

Whatever it is, we’re not seeing eye to eye,
This platonic back and forth, between pain and I.

You once were impervious to the fault of my prose,
And I ignored the destructive nature of the words you chose.

I took it with stride and a pinch of hope,
And hoped our relationship would blossom and perhaps we’d elope.

Wander off together to the edges of sanity,
I’d give you a voice and you’d bring me tranquillity.

Alas this relationship seems to be severed,
And both it seems at the ends of our tether.

So go, leave me, find someone else to bother,
Don’t you worry, I’ll keep writing, and find someone else to smother.

But I still love you, once tasted, there’s no going back,
I’ve got pages to prove it, once white, now inked black.


grief tastes like


-grief tastes like

Grief, is such a hard pillow,
a tight swallow,
a fiery bellow,
a sorrowful cello.

A cavernous hollow,
a long wallow,
chewing your marrow,
the tattoo of sorrow.

It never leaves,
robs and borrows,
haunts and reminds,
a lurking shadow.

You turn from it,
but it follows,
digs and burrows,
leaves wounds pus filled and yellow.

-Wesam El dahabi

perspective – seeing beyond your SELF

perspective – seeing beyond your SELF

i’ve never wallowed in my misfortunes,
never questioned my lot,
whatever I have or don’t have,
all the broken things,
and mended things,
and things and things,
i’ve kept.
i’m no hoarder,
but herewith, is this mountain of me,
i stand on top of these things,
and see so much better.


Underneath me are my woes, my troubles,
My failures and shame,

Everything I hate about myself,
And all the blame.

And I know, when peoples fingers will fly,
Towards me like sidewards rain,

I’ve yet another molehill to add to this mountain,
And height to gain.

I’ll see further,
And beyond the plains,

I’ll take whatever, add it to my pile,
And improve my reign,

That’s why I don’t fret, don’t wallow,
But invite the pain.






if there is a place to bury hurt
i haven’t found a grave deep enough
if there is a way to wash it off
i haven’t found water salty enough
if there is a way to burn it
there’s no fire blue flame stricken enough

maybe then, its job is to stay
until i become the way


in naivety, we look to hoard the things that weigh us down,
and excise the things that may be our calling.
how do we even know that all this stuff we complain of,
is not in an ultimate wisdom the stuff that is meant to fashion us.


And some music to help the staying process



Have you heard their story?
Pheromones left on Egyptian cotton,
A day’s toll, emptied,
Sponges for sorrow
There’s nothing they can’t absorb,
And they wait patiently for you,
The next night, ready for more.

Maybe that’s why I don’t sleep on a bed,
I don’t want to smell myself,
I don’t want to let go of all my days work,
I don’t want to drain myself of pain,
I revel there.
For years, I sleep anywhere but my bed,
Chairs, floor, a couch, anything that induces discomfort.
I don’t like sleep, so when I do, it is only when the body overtakes me and commands it.
Today I slept for a few hours only, on a bed.
I didn’t smell myself on there,
Nor did I hear any of my stories,
It was just a bed.
Maybe I need to wash my sheets every day!
I can’t stand the image of me and all it represents,
The bed is too familiar,
Too much of an escape,
Why on earth would I want to escape to familiarity?



But I’m glad there is no CTRL-ALT-DEL button.
To wipe away these experiences,
These inner carvings,
Fine etchings,
Subtle tapestries,
Of foetal longing,
Of un-beloning.
Of whitewash atomising,
Of deteriorating autumn leaf,
Melting winter snowflake,
Of magnolia petal bashfulness.
No, I don’t despair my fortune any more,
Nor covet another’s,
Not even death can be rid of any of it,
How can it, when soil returns to soil,
And it reunites the hurt of all mankind.
We’re all created in the pre world as souls, unhurt,
We’re put on this earth to hurt,
So we can fertilise it when we pass,
With our experience.
He who hurts more,
Blossoms the most fragrant.


Sleep (walking) wounded

woundedIf you’re still asking why you’re wounded
You’ve learned nothing

So you think you don’t deserve it?
Who does?
Someone other than you?
Will it be better then?
And if they become the healer, what then of you?
Oh, you’re so wounded,
So walking wounded,
So sleepwalking wounded,
So sleeping wounded,
So sleeping,
Have you healed?
What’s to heal if you don’t welcome the wounds?
What’s to wound if you don’t look forward to the heal?
So many want to be healers and no one wants the visceral thrash.
No one wants the whipping, the lashes, the stoning, the shackles, the chains.
Wannabe healers,
Finding wannabe feelers,
But you’re so wounded.

Longing feels like….


is a sharp knife having its way

It cuts, it carves,
It twists, it halves,
It severs, it starves
At our pain,
It laughs.
This sick accompaniment,
rotting your carcass,
the doing,
of longing,
the strive of us imagining,
back to an earlier time,
to the beginning,
where once was poetry,
once was singing,
where once was joy,
where there was living.
And now…..?
Please let me be,
an inkling,
With my thoughts,
With my memories,
Leave me my longing.

Your pain is your cure

Gather yourself together.
Your lot is sufficient for you.
You needn’t worry about  the shorter straw.
Leave the downpour of fate to find it’s way through the cracks of your soul.
I wish you well, so I don’t want to see you pain through something you should be elating through.

All that hurt, all those wounds, all those scars, they’re not there to punish you, they’re there to make you a monument of marvel, to stand in conviction with your experiences, with your tragedy and show people how to heal.

Those stitches, that broken heart, those endless memories, those haunting dreams, whatever it is that has anchored you down, if you want to cut the chain, share your soul, share your heart, share your mind and watch the people make pilgrimage to you. Watch them find warmth in your comfort, slumber in your bosom.