Lure

 

I was only a boy,
when I learned to swallow my voice.

I kept mute,
not because I wanted to be silver tongued,
but because I wanted to be musk breathed.

I hoped,
that it was merely my presence
that would lure them to me.

Years later,
a mouth full of silver,
and a bellyful of musk,
I hope,
my absence keeps them as far as possible.

Lure,
is a burden,
the antithesis to my sanity.

And yet I am obliged,
to be utterly in service,
ever the servant.

I observe,
more than what my heart can contain,
I feel,
with intensity that only tames with violence
and I taper my temperament,
to continue to be unnoticed.

My youth has a reoccurring theme and what echoes the most is its ordinariness. Contrary to clichéd thought, I believe ordinariness in those primitive stages of growth are what allow imagination to thrive.

One doesn’t need a wretched childhood or an upbringing that dances around psychological trauma to be creative or inspired, to be able to achieve a goal for the pure satisfaction of completion.

Sometimes, its all that emptiness, and freedom to roam as wildly as possible in your own world, inside yourself, with no threat, nor external persuasion that allows you to comfortably nestle into a unique niche and make sure the world knows just how extraordinary you are.

W.E.

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

I’m never ashamed

 

Dear God,
I refused to lay in my pit of wallowing,
because of Your promise.

I’ve used brokenness and defeat,
to fuel everything beautiful I can learn,
and always relied on my hands,
to guide me to the truth.

The truth that all beauty,
is an indication of one’s inclinations,
and ability to recognise it,
and to remain downtrodden,
is a reflection of one’s low opinion,
of You and Your promise.

This is how I carry myself,
defeat after defeat,
sin after sin,
finding trinkets of beauty,
even in my most despicable state.

I’m never ashamed,
because I know,
there’s far more beauty yet.

W.E.

 

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.

What you can’t see

Necessity spawns creativity.
There’s a reason why you’re deprived of things.
You must believe in a wisdom beyond your comprehension.
All that banishment,
all that parchment
is preparing you
for a poetic end.

It’s easy to be infatuated with the idea that you are owed a perfection of practise.
Of being able to sail through your art, your craft, your day to day chores without resistance.
What you deem is the world conspiring against you, is sometimes the world conspiring for you. The value in everything is intrinsic, and for you to realise what you have will require continuous external pressure until that manifests.

-Wesam El dahabi