digestion

Even breathing will become a sellable commodity soon.
I’ve sat stagnant for far too long,
my lungs have forgotten how to expand,
my heart, how to beat.

My hips complain of rust,
and my back is wailing like the bow of a ship.
It’s time to grow back out of infancy,
I’m happy to crawl before I sprint again.

– morning run reflections

-W.E.

psychologists

It’s business as usual,
as they set their fangs on you,
your cure,
is in your back pocket,
at the bottom of your hand bag.

Your healing, won’t ever come,
but they will manage your numbness,
for a fee,
always a fee.

Show me a psychologist with battered bones,
show me one with a fractured skull,
perhaps lacerations from rape,
with a man’s skin under her nails.

Show me a psychologist,
that hates themselves,
that is afraid to unleash their voice on the world,
because they think it’s too loud,
not loud enough,
too proud,
not proud enough.

Show me a psychologist,
who has used their bare hands to hurt someone,
to avoid hurting themselves,
and then those same hands hurt themselves,
to avoid hurting others……

…..then perhaps,
I will buy into this world of fanciful gasbaggers,
of Pavlov trained dogs of pharmacologists,
slaves of politicians,
sluts and gigolos of share holders.

W.E.

The tearing

 

I should have been a sculptor
I’m so good at carving things out of myself,
severing,
tearing,
cutting away at unneeded fabric,
perhaps, to return as naked to my Lord,
as I was given to my mother,
or perhaps I have become so stained with guilt,
yes, it’s definitely guilt.

I smile then,
whilst everyone is trying to become more,
here I am trying to become less.

-Wesam El dahabi

You’re always being lied to, always.
Stop trying to mend,
stop the pretend,
the last thing you want is baggage sitting on your shoulders,
garbage in your throat,
robotic with answers,
ridden with societal cancers,
finding comfort in the gloat,
yet an empty,
and meaningless bloat.
Start stripping yourself of dignity,
throw your pride to the wall,
flee,
naked if you have to,
before you take your fall.
Your image doesn’t matter that much,
neither does your honour.

dear grief – 19

dear grief,
you’re an echo of abandonment,
ever reverberant,
lasting permanence.

Just when I think I have found my nest,
you’re the wind that reminds me,
nothing is permanent,
what appears full bodied and pertinent,
is just effervescent.

Ahh there goes the nest,
there goes my residence,
you take everything,
storming turbulence.

W.E.