Quiet rapport

I’m patient like that.

Where others will demand and hold you to account,
I know vulnerability waits for a soul to be ripe with sincerity before it spreads itself,
before it undresses.

I know that if I bottle my anxiety and show a face of indifference,
I run the risk of losing many,
but the ones that see with the eye of their heart also know me from a thousand thousands.

I’m patient like that,
because I know where I’m from and how I’ve travelled to be here is beyond just forty two years of worldly existence.

I’m not just matter and that’s what matters,
but I never let that matter to the point that it’s all that matters.

We matter said no one of intelligence and worth except who think their lives are but a series of what people owe them.

I’m still patient for them.
Waiting for their poems to undo themselves.

I’m always a poem away from myself.

W.E.

introversion -sixty four

Oh the thought,
of being twice inside myself,
unrecognisable to my eye’s eye,
so alone I can’t ever know anything but the depth of a pale stare,
of everything that was the colour blue,
turned to a blank whisper of semblance.

Nothing,
no remembrance,
except He,
amongst the perishables,
a recanting syncopation of heart pulse,
and counting litanies on phalanges,
in that epiphany of knowing,
that the decorative’s of this world are non existent,
the simplest of pleasures,
be it the breath of an infant,
or a ground coffee bean,
irrelevant,
as you reconcile with your innateness,
that is, to deny being source-less,
and lose the amnesia you had,
clear the fog of being mad,
that your endless chase to be seen,
stopped you from seeing what deserved to be seen,
and being madly instead.

What bounty He might be,
if I only took my allotted place as I should,
forge my soul with fire, hammer and fire,
until the mere mention of it cuts me down.

W.E.

when you’re enough for yourself

I’ve tried my hand at amicability,
but I much prefer loneliness.

The dispute you have with yourself,
between wearing a mask for the sake of social harmony,
or keeping social harmony,
by removing yourself to loneliness.

I’ll take the later thanks.

Wesam El dahabi

backed into a corner

Having too much reservation will do that to you.
Having so much to say but being sensitive to others may hinder your ability to actually say it. There you are, mouth swollen with things you want to give birth to, and you abort, you self abort, just for the greater good.

But there is no feeling good about an abortion, a part of you is dying after all.
Perhaps the withholding has a positive outcome if you can channel it. All my stillborns manifest into a calmer expression. Perhaps the patience allows a bit of simmering, a bit of editing before I release something incoherent.

It’s a nice way to deceive yourself, that being quiet is worth it.

W.E.

10,000 hours of introversion

See free s

 #and s

I’ve done my 10,000 hours,
in so many things,
that I don’t know what I want to be any more.

I’ve written words,
my ticket most likely to hell fire,
fought until it is now second nature,
beaten the skin of a drum with fervour,

  • and now hear, see anrsnd feel everything,
  • in rhythm and meter,sc

everything, everything, everything.ss

I’ve served, oh howss I have s4erved,
the appetites of men who cannot get enough,d, ex x t5 es
oddly, I never served a woman stricken by the same addictions.
Fattening their wallets,
fattening their bellies,
giving them pieces of me,
at the expense of my own dreams.

I’ve fixed and broken things,
mechanical things,
until pulling apart,
and putting back together,
is default,
I always want to know the crux of things,
the crux of me,
mostly,
sometimes, I leave scars.

I’ve been alone,
in probably the longest calculation of man hours I can fathom,
for myself at least,
that there is my legacy,
of nothingness.

I’ve done 10,000 hours tenfold,
actually 344712 to be exact,
of that, I can easily be classed as elite,
but that is not what I hold my head high with,
that is not what I want to pass on to my children.

Is that what I want to pass on to humanity?
How, to perfect being alone?

I can calculate every waking hour I’ve been alive,
even if were spent in activity,
even with people,
and relegate them all as being alone,
because, I was always somewhat disconnected,
outside of my body looking downward at what was transpiring,
even when alone,
I’m away from myself,
outside of myself,
viewing this mass of man hours,
of waste, sinew and coagulation,
trying to figure out,
contrary to what I believe,
if I am THAT alone,
I haven’t mastered introversion,
until the second self ceases to exist.

Perhaps my children will want the same aversion,
perhaps this is old, old money,
a pass down,
nay, an inheritance of immeasurable proportions,
and like an ungrateful child who didn’t establish it,
I am squandering its value.

Is this a sellable commodity,
teaching others how to comfortably be alone,
or is this a sacred relic,
I should choose who I pass on to?

Perhaps, I just haven’t done enough hours to figure that one out.

W.E.