hueman

hueman
My anxiety is a trap,
the battle in the middle of the ring,
me against myself,
knowledge and ignorance,
and the middleman trying to make them touch gloves,
is the black and white referee.

He’s black and white for a reason,
pardon me,
he’s a he and a she,
he is you and she is me,
bottled up anxiety,
is a fist and a cheek,
the powerful and the meek,
out cold, and last one standing on their feet,
in the mist of socialising breath, cigar and cheap perfume filled arena’s,
or alone with a street lamp in the street.

It’s seeing the punch coming,
knowing how to avoid it,
but knowing your bound by the rules of fate,
and copping it sweet.

It’s looking your opponent in their eyes,
when done is done,
smiling the smile of knowledge,
both of you aware,
you could have beaten him any time you chose,
but you were stunted,
and bound by what God wanted.

In essence,
your anxiety,
the hue that haunts you,
undecided on black or white,
trying to mix a palette of grey,
is a reluctance to submit,
knowing,
you are most definitely not in charge.

You can very well have all the foresight in the world,
and knowledge of the sages,
it means nothing,
if you don’t accept,
what is written,
in ages,
in predestined pages.

W.E.

seeing ahead

seeing-ahead
I know what is to come,
and the lack of fight in me,
makes me a coward.

How else can I stare,
with certainty in my heart,
at what has transpired ahead,
knowing well,
the said and unsaid,
and drag my self to the pace of indifference,
gaiting along,
baiting the futures song,
and still commit all this wrong.

We have the lore laid out in front of us,
the law above and around us,
and still we shy from our fate,
ignoring God,
but in our ego placing full trust.

We’re a special kind of stupid,
to be given all these gifts,
only to tear open the wrapping,
and spit in the face of the Giver.

W.E.

Introversion forty four

introversion-forty-four

 

You’re only as attractive as your last sale.
And humankind struggles to put together an identifiable model of acceptance,
fear, the most successful sales pitch is not only pitched by the sales people, it is pitched by the purchaser, and so the foray of beings so desperate to sell themselves to others as worthy will ironically buy up whatever it is to sell themselves and stay attractive in the eye of the shopper. Most people are shoppers, they can’t help it, they’re conditioned that way.

From birth, the sales pitches begin, you’re bombarded with the messages that you need to purchase stuff to be worthy.
Men, rush to appear dominant, successful, ambitious and driven, women too are buying them same. Women rush to appear beautiful and attractive, physically appealing, whatever it takes, men too rushing to much the same.

Fake lips,
fake eyes,
fake cheeks,
more lies.

Bleached teeth
fake breasts,
fake beards,
fake chests.

Fake money,
fake status,
fake tans,
fake lashes.

Financed cars,
psychologist appointments,
wannabe stars,
perpetual disappointments.

Feathered eyebrows,
both she and he,
blind hearts, dead souls,
physical eyes but they cannot see.

This drudgery,
this misery,
this dichotomy,
of the world being raised on consumer culture,
thus everyone trying to sell ‘me’.

And yet here I am,
a spanner in the works,
here to tell you,
sell nothing,
and consider yourself dirt.

W.E.

We is

emption-is

Emotion is;

The gentle tap,
of the heart on intellects door,
reminding it to stop with analysis,
and feel more.

The mind is;

Just a melting pot,
for all that you know to settle,
just a holding spot,
whilst the world tests your mettle.

The heart is;

Where whirlwinds of emotions,
go to confide,
where secrets are kept,
either come out, or hide.

The ego is;

Such a heavy burden,
and insidious reasoning,
only when subdued and slayed,
can come your awakening.

The body is;

Just a vessel, container,
a carrier for all,
whatever your size,
buried, whether grand or with shortfalls.

The soul is;

Innocent and free of,
all of the above,
pure and intact,
only attracted to love.

So where are you,
in your mind,
in your body,
in your heart and soul,
where is your ego,
are you parted or whole?

Do you even know,
whatever you trick yourself to believe,
will be denied when time comes,
and your soul replays, and your mind retrieves.

On that day, you’re mute,
tongue tied and can no longer lie,
that day that is coming to us like an arrow,
when we die, try as you may to deny.

Wesam El dahabi

the stupor

the-stupor

Look at your feet,
struggling to find cadence,
a balancing act of blame,
and forgiveness.

Won’t you hear my cues,
of devotion and hypocrisy,
as I met out my mettle,
with fervent jealousy.

I puncture  my reality,
so you can see we’re all filled with holes,
so you can stop assuming you’re complete,
that you’re burdened with displaying whole.

There’s no need for all this,
for the bathe in the mud of your thoughts,
know that all this prattling and nonsense,
is a trap, in you’re ego you’re caught.

Drink then a goblet,
a flask or a barrel,
numb out your self,
with sobriety of truth,
knowing it’s your ego that quarrels.

W.E.

Anxiety bomb

anxiety-bomb
My anxiety is an axe murderer,
with a flower in its hand,
it urges me to slay my self,
with ill will and poetic demand,
and bitters and salt,
and honey and malt,
grains of irreconcilability through me,
malleable like mountains, in desert sands.

It’s wanting to read a book,
at the same time as another book,
and another book,
and not a page at a time,
but all the pages all the time,
so you’re defeated and read none of them.

Yes, its a decision to be indecisive,
it’s corrosive, dismissive, yet oh so inclusive,
we can’t filter out what matters,
because everything matters at once.

Anxiety is knowing you have two loaded fists,
unafraid of the world before you,
choosing to be passive,
but beating yourself to death.

It’s knowing the every crevice of my skin,
aching for its touch,
but not letting anyone in,
enticed by, but so afraid of sin.

What world am I living in,
how can I ever win,
when the dichotomy of existence,
lies between procrastination and doing,
smudged prose and is paper thin.

It’s the ambassador, the host of the party,
who invites everyone in,
locks the door,
says welcome, and pulls the pin.

W.E.

softer

softer
Softer
Haven’t you hardened enough,
haven’t you let the embers of social engineering,
burn your soul into an ashen vapour,
forged the steel of your heart,
engulfed yourself inside yourself until you are not a self,
any more.

What attracts you to have such a square jaw,
and a callused tongue,
I do not ever remember the mother of my mother,
the mother of hers, nor the mothers of my ancients,
ever being so hard.

Woman, bend your mind and break it’s back,
it has traversed you away from all that is pure,
it’s no wonder I scare you so,
I remind you of what you could have been.

W.E.