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.

dear grief – 21

It will pass,
I keep telling myself,
but it is an ocean in a goblet,
the wine is sorrow, without vignette.

Incisors,
fine steel having it’s way with the meat of you,
until you become one with it,
and take to your own ruin.

It has no end,
when you are ridden with guilt,
constantly burrowing,
ever the wallowing,
crying over the milk you’ve spilt.

W.E.

again and again

again-and-again
I’m the conversation filler
the space between your wine list,
and your drunken sips,
the gaps in your soul won’t last long,
just befriend me,
find me splayed out before you,
a convenient meadow you can selectively pick from,
when the rustle inside you says,
speak up,
but the coward inside you says,
don’t step out of line.

I’m the opinionated man,
who is palatable because I mince my words,
to sonnets in your ears,
a bashing they may be,
but your fetish of chain and whip,
of bleeding lip,
is stronger than your fear.

I’m gender neutral too,
the bullseye on my back appeals to both,
it’s easy for most to confuse passive with pussy,
relaxed with pushover,
indifferent with naive,
trusting with gullible,
and run with their whims,
through my flesh,
until they muster the courage,
to stand alone.

At that point,
I’m the thing they discard,
like it was them all along,
they sang their own song,
and they were wronged,
it doesn’t take much,
they all run back,
before long.

But by then,
I’m a prison,
it’s gates they can’t pry,
and buried inside them,
they know why.

W.E.

Immortal comprehension

immortal-comprehension
Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your  neck would be smitten if you divulged.

Whilst we write,  at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.

No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.

If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.

W.E.

Introversion forty three

superhero

Your silent treatment is not my kryptonite,
stillness shall only grow my resolve,
you can’t harm me by your shunning,
I will catapult all that is inside into servitude and solace.

What a gift you can give me, by ignoring me.

It’s not by chance that the imaginations of writers of comics, and superhero folklore all flock to the idea of self contained and secretive introverts who are superheros.

Where does your art come from, your science, your music and innovation?
Where do the things you take for granted get thought up, who’s minds are busy at work whilst others bodies are busy using up the privileges they take for granted?

It is a rare occasion you’d find an extrovert at the helm of creation, innovation, invention and deep thought. It is rare you will see art that lasts for centuries coming from their souls. They’re just not built that way.

Next time you see a quiet person minding their own business, smile, don’t disturb them if they don’t smile back, don’t feel ignored or any less, but smile and know there is a process in place, and some of us find it hard to divert our attention so easily.

W.E.