dear grief,
if every soul shall taste death,
then you are its kneading hands,
mourning, the aftertaste,
regret, is the illness that never relents.
I have swallowed you,
even before he died,
but its mourning,
that never leaves my mouth,
regret, that regurgitates.
W.E.
-compost of being
I’ve become so good at recycling regret
-Wesam El dahabi
Take to the soil of your soul,
with a spade so big,
that you cannot miss.
Turn it over,
and over,
until the worms are dancing,
then you know,
there is life left in you,
and there is hope to rejuvenate.
Tend to it with the compost of love,
the hands of truth,
the water of life,
and expose it to be burned with the sun of hope,
and know,
you’re not going to be a garden,
without the grit of time.
W.E.
You hear about people having spiritual awakenings all the time and without discounting peoples experiences, it is safe to say that most are passing through a realm of social fashion, changing the decorum of their being like an accessory.
Spirituality has become a commodity, near hipsterish to negate all things religious and claim a spiritual platform whilst bereft of all spiritual exercises.
The wanting the cake and to eat it too of social conformists, looking for the next hot thing.
This severing, ironically of spirituality from it’s source is only going to lead them into further frustration and confusion and if anything, even less spirituality.
It is a worship of the self with hidden crevices of utter egotism, that their soil, becomes a hardened clay, unwilling to absorb the water of life giving true spirituality.
Sorry to say hipsters, spirituality involves God, which ever route you take, it involves God.
Don’t sit there creating fashionable palettes of what you desire and call it something that it isn’t. Call it what it is, your own creation, it is anything but spirituality, more specifically, it is your own religion, the worship of you.
W.E.
Regret swims in your mouth,
swollen in your lips,
ripe, words unsaid,
pomegranate,
if only a bite.
-W.E.
Hello darkness my old friend,
You’re going to regret,
Summoning me again.
-W.E.
I told you I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched,
Don’t be summoning this darkness, in bone marrow etched.
Shades of black you never thought existed of murky misery,
I have but two extremes, tender love or all out savagery.
Thin skinned knees, marks from prostration,
Every which way you think, you lack the imagination.
To comprehend this shade of ugly, what lurks beneath,
I’m not something of which you want to sink your teeth.
Into, around, not even in the same vicinity,
With open arms they’d welcome me into a mental facility.
I can be led by the finger by an infant,
Or make you regret your very existence.
When I left her, him, it’s always the same,
A trail of regret, devastation and blame.
They want me back, they don’t care for the darkness,
But I can’t, once bitten forever heartless.
Sure, I can write, sure I can rhyme,
Make you think with words, all is fine,
Line by line, entertain you sublime,
But you’d never know what lurks in this fucked up mind.
-W.E.
Prompted to write about darkness that old friend.
Share your darkness, message me a link in this thread.
Written, photographic, music, artistic, anything. Doesn’t even have to be yours, something you like, a written piece, a poem, song, picture, painting.
lonerloaner 