I wrote you a love letter
Do you want to know what hiding anxiety and depression look like?
Try an erattic pulse, forgetting to breathe, anticipating the worst and soothing that only comes through the reassurance of intimate connection.
Try looking at the relentless gym goer, the man obsessed with providing the best life he can to his family, or even extend an eye of empathy to the war mongers who see no healing except through expressing how much they want to kill themselves, by curating outwardly creative, yet deceitful ways to justify killing others.
And on the topic of suicide, how do they hide, those suicidals?
We hide in prayer, in worship, in devotion to something larger than ourselves.
You may think strangely of the above, but if you allowed yourself deeper reflection, you’d realise, that we have to stop pathologising these things, and rather see them as symptoms of not extending every last fibre of our being to a cause.
Not expressing the immense tapestry of our abilities onto the world and releasing it in creative and artistic splendour.
It’s the soul taking you to account, the inner knowing, that voice that speaks to you and again is not a stigmatic label like schizophrenia nor a disorder of any fashion, it’s that buzzing, that noise that won’t go away, urging you into action.
Anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts and a whole host of concocted psychological disorders are just by-products of unfulfilled potential incessantly knocking on your door. It’s the gnawing consciousness ear bashing you, soul crushing you, so that like cardamon, you release a fragrance.
Don’t be sold on these ideas that are hell bent on categorising you and lulling you into inaction and the comfort of a diagnoses (read: excuse). Rather, understand them as cues to spring into action because your soul knows you are capable of more.
So see all my efforts and exasperation as just answering the call, as a reluctance to procrastination, as a fulfilling of a Godly command, to realise our fullest potential in total and utter gratitude.
Wesam El dahabi
The hue of desperation
Desperation is such an ugly dress,
beneath it is the reality of disloyalty,
gnash the silence with the opioid of your fetish,
oh what an incredible appetite you have my dear,
incisors and nails,
acting all frail,
your ego needs to set sail,
and there you are,
in the thick of men’s hands,
ever on demand,
and all it took,
was a rejection of,
a painting you,
a showing of,
telling you where you stand.
Be well with your dress,
or take it off,
you’re naked anyway,
why on earth would the pit of your fire burn with such rage,
if indeed you want this veil,
if after all, you indeed are frail.
Perhaps the frailty you express,
is a need to undress,
perhaps it’s nothing more,
than feeling the hands of your father hold you like you exist.
is a man who walks past,
whilst you sit behind a glass window wandering what if.
It’s a woman that sits fast,
whilst you rush past the glass window, ignoring what’s within.
Maybe the glass needs breaking,
perhaps you need to step outside yourself,
perhaps you need to crawl inside yourself,
or is it, you’re infatuated with looking at yourself?
-Wesam El dahabi
I want to decorate her soul
with a bouquet of bewitching
but my hands are tied
leaving me mute and itching
My tongue is lit
with rhyme and resin
the knot of doubt
Expression and love,
I’m shackled, I’m placid
I’m raging in noose
all I want for you
all I try to do
of no use
Bring your disorder,
and I’ll bring my anger,
perhaps we’ll revolt each other,
Does it take one,
uglier than the other,
to acknowledge how vulgar we both appear?
Does it take,
fear to persuade,
to see past,
There’s nothing nice,
about two people playing niceties,
just to pass through necessities.
rising up to the subtlety of fine character,
is what is needed,
that you are not sick,
nor am I angry,
but we’re both lazy.
-Wesam El dahabi
Art: KwangHo Shin – Untitled
It’s time to stop writing,
when you go from,
finishing each others sentences off,
to wanting them to end.
-Wesam El dahabi.
Maybe I can write through pain long enough for it to go away,
Maybe pain doesn’t get it.
Is it my sentence structure, my grammar, my grief filled quill?
Perhaps it’s pains, comprehension skills.
Whatever it is, we’re not seeing eye to eye,
This platonic back and forth, between pain and I.
You once were impervious to the fault of my prose,
And I ignored the destructive nature of the words you chose.
I took it with stride and a pinch of hope,
And hoped our relationship would blossom and perhaps we’d elope.
Wander off together to the edges of sanity,
I’d give you a voice and you’d bring me tranquillity.
Alas this relationship seems to be severed,
And both it seems at the ends of our tether.
So go, leave me, find someone else to bother,
Don’t you worry, I’ll keep writing, and find someone else to smother.
But I still love you, once tasted, there’s no going back,
I’ve got pages to prove it, once white, now inked black.
which home are you making
at the expense of the home you’re wrecking?
and this societal approval, selfless offering
senseless offering, nay, hurt covering
perhaps all this time
we begin the process of exiting
the minute our hearts are broken
and we can’t do this thing
because it hurts too much to sing
discord of no drumming-
-heart we’re wrecking
but our houses look so pretty
props and posturing
ah you homemaking, homewrecking
on we endure the suffering
Ransom for freedom – 5
Just when you think you’re finally getting into a groove,
I’ll disrupt your flow and change your mood,
Corrupt your soul and drain your hips,
Leave you gasping for just one more sip.
I don’t tread on anything but the earth lightly,
Everything else I vice grip tightly,
Squeeze the essence of you, leave droplets to drip,
Chaffed and stained, bloody lips.
But that’s what you’ll need to leave the ground,
Earthling no longer, spiritual bound,
Let me re-write, I’ll compose a masterpiece,
Torment for now but everlasting peace.