Boring people

boring-people

I’ll never let the monotony of neglect,
lull me into boredom,
persuade me into comfort.

I cannot associate with bored people,
they’re too dishonest to admit,
they’re lazy.

There is always something to do,
a lesson to learn,
a page to read,
a mouth to feed,
a bill to pay,
something to fix.

Fixing myself,
has occupied me,
from the moment I became aware,
of my lowliness.

When my ego stood broad shouldered as I,
cold stared me in the face,
and put up its fists,
I knew boredom,
would become a word that left my vocabulary.

W.E.

smoke and mirrors

smoke-and-mirrors2
I thought about buying a mirror,
nothing fancy,
old, long and slender,
but reflective.

I don’t mind if the edges are chipped,
or if a crack runs through it,
reminds me of myself.

I remember the hours spent in front of it,
a boxer has to stare at themselves for hours on end,
most people become vain when they do so,
not us,
we grow weary,
we see the ugly,
we see the worst of ourselves,
but we don’t wallow there,
we fix it.

We toil with blood and mucous,
acid filling our bones,
muscles imploding with calcium drop after calcium drop,
sweat, stench and metallic tongues,
what a delight, what a treat.

What, you thought we were just made violent?
The act of violence takes a lot of abuse against yourself,
until you don’t recognise a self,
you stop being human,
and start being just a data bank,
with lightening recollection of information,
relevant to the pinnacle of abuse.

So here I am,
stuck at the dichotomy of awareness and neglect,
wondering,
should I buy that mirror,
or, should I pick it up off the side of the road,
and erect it in my garage,
for my son.

Do I want him staring at himself,
do I want him wondering in and out of self abuse?
How does a father reconcile nurture and punishment,
how does a father,
pass on manhood,
and womanhood,
with the same breath,
with the same clenched fist?

How am I to show him,
how to grasp a man’s throat,
and hold dear life between the vice grip of his claws,
recognising the inches it takes before death,
and knowing the look in a man’s eyes,
when their ego is removed,
so as to release your clutch,
and with those same hands tending to roses,
plucking olives from trees,
covering a seedling with enough soil,
for water, breath and light.

How do I do all these things son,
without you looking back,
to blame me for too little or too much?

How do I teach you,
that the purpose of a mirror,
is to stare at yourself long enough,
to see the ugly,
and fix it.

W.E.

Introversion is the new black

introversion-new-black

But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.

W.E.

If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

Dear feminism

uzo6

I was wondering where in your confines,
my wife’s spirituality fits,
where her chastity sits,
if at all within your boundaries,
can her need to be free from men and women,
she can exist.

Will her devotion,
you permit,
will her night vigils and devotions,
you allow to be moonlit,
what of her veil, her shroud,
or is it attire you’d omit?

Ahh, her feminism,
for you stops at her outfit,
for you, even for her, unfit.

A word of her spirituality,
she can’t transmit.

Nay, your feminism,
is laced with prejudice,
and is pseudo-liberation,
white only, Holy writ.

-Wesam El dahabi

#justcurious as to how inclusive your mantras are,
if a woman content in her devotions,
liberated in her submission,
to her creator her orientation,
in complete volition,
has a divine addiction,
and is enshrined in her tradition,
she chooses to be abandoned,
from your pop culture couture versions,
devotes to her husband through choice,
would she still be deemed a free woman,
even though neither her husband,
her son, her father or brother has reigns over her,
would you still hold her and embrace her as woman as you?

Believe it or not,
not everyone wants your version.
So don’t be surprised if POC have aversions.

Image by david uzochukwu

Meeting

 

54860b2883f54c73d2cf571a49effc60

Bring your disorder,
and I’ll bring my anger,
perhaps we’ll revolt each other,
into calm.

Does it take one,
uglier than the other,
to acknowledge how vulgar we both appear?

Does it take,
fear to persuade,
to see past,
our masquerades.

There’s nothing nice,
about two people playing niceties,
just to pass through necessities.

Perhaps,
rising up to the subtlety of fine character,
is what is needed,
an acknowledgement,
that you are not sick,
nor am I angry,
but we’re both lazy.

-Wesam El dahabi

Art: KwangHo Shin – Untitled