Tag: prose

Erasure is easier

 

 

I’ve driven myself insane with aspiration,
and now without anxiety or misstep,
at the drop of a hat,
I’d wipe all I’ve become conditioned to know,
if it meant a moment with divinity.

In other words,
a maturing thought that pulsates,
that is the catalyst to accelerated achievement,
will have to mean erasure.

A vanishing if you will,
from myself,
this self that does nothing but accumulate waste,
until the toxicity becomes default.

The dragging nature of growth,
doesn’t appeal,
as time juxtaposes my reconciliation,
and mocks my milestones.

Time is having its way with me,
and disappearing appears to be,
the only way to disarm it.

Ironic that I’ve become,
the ammunition against myself,
in the same breath,
poison and antidote,
at odds,
in the minds courtroom.

Some call it schizophrenia,
perhaps bi-polar,
a thousand more names and labels,
man will forever find an excuse,
for dealing with their state.

Still, erasure is easier.

Wesam El dahabi

connection

I often question my aversion to groups,
and distrust in closeness,
and then I remember,
it’s rejection, that’s built my walls so high,
made my tongue fancy with wit,
my hand flowing with writ.
The reluctance to vulnerability,
has furnished my soul with all the excuses,
of why I crave to be close enough to catch your scent,
yet distant enough for you to long for mine.

This connection I crave,
is nothing more than a muse on crack.

Wesam El dahabi

rainfall

The heart can dry up,
even the most moist tongue,
uttering litanies of thanks,
uttering wanton prose of need,
is quietly begging rainfall,
to stir the seeds that lay dormant,
because we have a desire to be content,
and we know we can’t get it with stuff.

I’ve thus found it easier,
fought myself at both ends of my wit and found,
it’s not hard to be wet with contentment,
when you’re bathing in gratitude,
when you’re drowning in gratitude,

Alhamdullillah, wa shukr lillah

W.E.

introversion – sixty one


The most noble aspiration, is to serve.
You do realise, I’m at my most selfless,
when I am alone,
there, my servitude is exemplary.

I’m untouchable in my outward expression,
insofar you allow me to cave inside,
I’ll repay humanity what I owe it,
left to my cocoon,
watch me bloom,
watch me soon,
I’ll come with an array of colour and magnificent flutter,
please allow me the room.

W.E.

introversion – sixty

 

It comes in throes,
it reaps before it sows,
irrespective of season,
uncaring for reason,
pulling at the clutches of your existence,
it reminds you,
loneliness is all you know.

Why then,
try your hand at social contracts,
and the social ever contracts,
until the squeeze makes you feel,
like you don’t feel at all.

W.E.

 

Something that has become lost on my brothers


Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.

How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.

I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.

There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.

I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.

W.E.