Write,
with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
Share,
what makes them pang for more of you.
Drip feed,
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Even then,
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.
W.E.
Like all things arbitrary,
plucked from randomness,
the end,
never adds up.
The common denominator though,
is you,
and if you want to remove yourself from algorithms,
reduce as much as you can to naught.
Your self worth comes from
un-worth,
zero value,
not from adding mundane and dying things,
it makes zero mathematical sense to add perishing things to your life,
expecting to live.
Arbitrating the arbitrary,
philosophical meandering,
sophisticated prattling,
underlying the arrogance to admit,
You’re nothing!
We’re a perishing thing,
with delusions of being an ever abundant spring.
W.E.
#poetry
-unveiling
An aversion to being known,
not unlike a lure to being unseen,
neither here, nor there,
not even in between.
Your eyes fail you,
if you can’t close them and see all that I am,
your heart betrays you,
if you’ve settled on my confines, your hologram.
I’m not yours, his,
hers nor mine,
I don’t belong here,
there, nor in any time.
Hybrid, morbid,
acid and livid,
alive, breathing,
spirited and vivid.
Most people are not brutal enough,
to punish themselves to the point of harm,
a sadism of pain,
to appreciate how alive they are.
The most honest experience I’ve tasted,
is that dishonesty seeps from my marrow,
perhaps here,
there is hope yet,
perhaps in this pool of maim,
this wound licking orgy,
is where I can relish in narcissistic pride,
mortality clenched between jaw and jugular,
that I have something left that resembles a sensitive heart.
And it’s precisely that sensitivity,
that keeps me from you,
worlds apart, worlds apart.
I have no interest in lending,
a fibre, nor borrowed time,
regrets have become,
an easily avoidable past time.
W.E.
It’s easy to find out how expendable you are,
just put a price tag on your time,
and watch them flee.
Nay, it’s not your price of expendability,
it’s actually how much you bought them for,
and lately, I’ve found out,
that I can pay most people extremely little money,
to fuck off out of my life,
by putting some arbitrary value on mine.
-Wesam El dahabi
What is this infection swarming us.
How ironically appropriate,
that the language we settle for,
colloquially acceptable rhetoric,
spells out our ailment with utter clarity,
yet defunct of language we are,
have been robbed and deprived of it,
from institutions and corporations,
from media and social discourse,
until we settle for the diagnosis,
that mocks us.
We then take pride in being ailed,
all hail, all hail,
the self descriptive fail,
all wail, all wail,
humans have set sail,
lost at see to no avail,
scattered paths, with no trail,
we’re never going to lift this veil,
with souls and characters so frail,
when never to the truth do we travail,
when dignity is always for sale,
when we give up on language,
and into the coffin, drive that nail.
Everyone wants to be famous,
even if it means they’re viral,
what a punitive thought of ones self.
W.E.
Attraction
I’m attracted to
eyes that have hurt burned into them
Skin that is dry from self flagellation
Tongues that are heavy with words unspoken
I enjoy their hurt, abandonment and silence
But it makes me wonder,
Am I a bad person for being attracted to their woes,
or am I saintly for seeing it.
-Wesam El dahabi
I feel guilty for seeing vulnerabilities sometimes,
but I feel joy when I can express their realities,
to people with a little prose,
show, that they’re in my sights.
When I can unveil the reality of their state,
for the world to see in vivid colour,
and remove the anchors of taboo,
the stigmas of non-acknowledgement,
the stares of non-acceptance.
There is far more beauty,
in the processes of hurt and healing,
than there is in mediocrity and complacency.
And this is how I breathe,
this is how I exhale,
a resuscitation into their mouth.
W.E.
-origami poker
i’ve folded inside myself so many times,
and i’ll probably do it again.
i’m naive like that,
assuming everyone needs a card or two.
i can’t poker face for shit.
if i have a set of cards, i’ll show them.
if my hand is empty, will you share yours?
W.E.
not many people have what it takes to straight face you,
to warm embrace you,
with sincerity enough,
to efface you.
i melt towards those people like chocolate on a tongue,
stuck on a palate,
after-taste lingering in me.
i’m loyal like that.
if you treat me with an ounce of kindness,
i don’t forget,
so it utterly shatters my entire being,
when i reciprocate in kind,
and through the abased nature of narcissist privilege,
you assume i have to give you more than my loyalty.
another part of me too sacred to touch,
a place I hate about myself so much,
but you want to appease your fetishes with.
how easy it is for them to chew my flesh,
back-bitten with disregard and repress,
slander me, without shame you undress,
the unfamiliarity of who i am and oppress.
i’m but a stranger to them, not even a piece of bread,
nor glass of water, have we shared,
yet still, my honour, my name, my being
lied against without care.
i won’t forgive you until you acknowledge your doing,
come clean with the poisonous seeds you’ve sewn,
and come out of the skin of the snake you own.
i’m a recluse by nature,
but did you think you could bite me with your poison,
and I not develop my own venom?
take these words instead as a final bouquet of peace to you,
come clean,
or i’ll lay the last bouquet on your graves, ey-vallah.
and it will not be by physical means at all,
i’ll raise my hands skyward and your whole progeny will cease,
be buried in your womb.
W.E.
figment
i’m tragically obsessed with you,
the tragedy being,
you don’t exist,
and I have to love to death,
bits of you,
I see in others.
W.E.
And I’m leaving behind a murder trail.
Victims who don’t even know it.
They’re satisfied with bits of me too.
In the end aren’t we all hunting bits from everyone,
to be able to conclude on our deathbeds,
to console our hearts, just before the soul departs,
there is no such fucking thing,
you should have been content with what you got fool.
W.E.
The lowest form of identity
is patriotism
-W.E.
A belief that the name of a continent of birth defaults you to to practise prejudice against someone who’s own default steers them in the same but perhaps opposing manner as you, as if to say the purpose of humankind is to wipe each other out, of course in the name of grand old patriotism.
And politicians, governments and media are well aware of this, so they strip you of your true human identity, blast you with chemicals as soon as you leave the womb, myriads of injections, make your mother believe she doesn’t have the strength to do what a woman’s body is designed to do, cut you by force from her belly, and if she is lucky to deliver you naturally, cut the umbilical cord whilst it is still pulsating the love and nurture from her, a symbolic gesture of what lays ahead.
The chemical bombardment of drugs, food laden with toxins, water rancid with disease, an education model parading as liberating, a wolf in sheep’s clothing of the ulterior dumbing down of the masses and entrenching you in a separation from your true self, until you know nothing but this masquerade of what it is to be, to know your origin.
The severing of you from you begins the minute your fathers loins thought about finding a fertile home in your mother, both of them too, carrying the blood of manipulated and numb to the core beings, mindlessly obeying, worshipping the state and the system over what is truth and what is real.
And you…. well you have your patriotism, a golden stamp on your hand of your obedience to them.
Drape your shoulders in their flag,
tattoo their anthems on your breast,
congratulations, you’re not a patriot,
you’re bereft.
W.E.
Everybody talks about ‘the insider secrets’.
What they mean is, the secrets of a certain group of people.
Nothing insider about that. They’re just comfortable in their cliques.
But what about the outsider secrets?
The inner workings of an outsider…..looking inward.
I stand on the outskirts of belonging,
Looking in,
That aching,
Do you know what it feels like?
Longing,
To fit in?
Around and around I spin,
Looking for a gate,
Into the whirlwind,
Of conformist fitting,
Beanbag cushioning,
Wanting,
To be in your surrounding,
To be amongst the music,
But I can’t sing.
My guitar has no strings,
My flute, only sorrow brings.
But I have heart,
Maybe I can play those strings,
Ironically, born with a prolapse,
But on it keeps drumming.
Even when doctors told me,
No more fighting,
You’re risking,
Your life,
Stop training,
Stop exciting,
Stop racing,
The very thing,
That keeps me living,
Imagine that, my solace,
Is my undoing.
Eventually,
I returned to writing,
Poetic exfoliating,
Detoxifying musings,
Soul scrubbing,
Heart shining,
Sometimes, shitty prattlings.
But I give you my offering,
Here on the altar,
Slaughtering,
Everything.
Society was never welcoming,
But because I tasted your bitterness,
I won’t reciprocate,
I’ll instead be,
A streaming,
Gushing,
Flowing,
Spring.
You’re all welcome,
To my inner stirrings,
My spirit dwellings,
Slow sips please…..
I don’t want you choking,
I can’t handle drying,
Not ready for dying.
This is what I bring,
My offering,
My everything,
My effacing,
These are my secrets,
They are your secrets,
All you have to do,
Is come out from hiding,
Stop pretending,
It’s not ever an insider thing,
It’s always just,
Human beings,
Looking,
In.
W.E.
lonerloaner 