You ain’t shit (we ain’t shit)

Big goals, huge targets and all that go getter stuff,
the motivational speaker snake oil,
the performance coach mantras,
all do fuck all if you don’t comprehend the reality and meaning of it all.

The purpose of a larger than life goal is to understand your smallness,
not to mantra dumb shit.

It’s to make humility your staple,
to show you how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things.

And here we are,
2019 and cunts with a vocabulary that doesn’t extend past their thumbs are telling you that you matter so much.

Well you don’t,
you’re gonna die and rot with the best of them,
because guess what,
as we said,
the world is bigger than you and doesn’t care for your insignificance.

does that mean you become a hopeless despot?
Fuck no!
Have those fuck off big goals but in the right context.

Know your worth doesn’t mean you’re worth alot,
it means know how worthless you are amongst the sea of other worthless beings that will all find their allotted time waiting for them.

if you want to live your life from one post and feed to the next,
one update and story to the next,
panting for the next drip feed,
then suck it up and eat the pain that comes with it.


Unlearning yourself 

​Hands up if this is default,

hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,

none of this bloat and fodder,

no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,

without an ounce of arrogance,

or delusion,


seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,

you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,

with interest and utter diligence,

with critique and endearment,

trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,

it feels so right to want to sever my head,

there’s too much squawking,

there’s too much vying,

my souls aching to be read.
Picture not mine 

the stupor


Look at your feet,
struggling to find cadence,
a balancing act of blame,
and forgiveness.

Won’t you hear my cues,
of devotion and hypocrisy,
as I met out my mettle,
with fervent jealousy.

I puncture  my reality,
so you can see we’re all filled with holes,
so you can stop assuming you’re complete,
that you’re burdened with displaying whole.

There’s no need for all this,
for the bathe in the mud of your thoughts,
know that all this prattling and nonsense,
is a trap, in you’re ego you’re caught.

Drink then a goblet,
a flask or a barrel,
numb out your self,
with sobriety of truth,
knowing it’s your ego that quarrels.


-compost of being

compost-of-being-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.


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.


Slay me gritty, not pretty


Poets are savages,
taming them,
fatigues their words

-Wesam El dahabi

I have an issue with people,
who try to make their words pretty,
or who only want to hear pretty things.

Dishonesty doesn’t sit well with me.

I prefer gritty, over pretty.

Even if you’re totally opposed to me,
be so, with tenacity and teeth,
with rage and heart.

Slay me with one hand,
and have the bandages ready with the other.

We’re savagely fierce and savagely beautiful.



we’re spiritual surfers
we don’t mind
who rides the same wave
nor do we mind
who reaches the shore first
the surety of our return
is welcoming to all


the nucleus of every living thing
is a longing to return
in the utterness of your smallest breath
is a hope to find and to be found
washed away
in the sea of disarray
our souls are forever
divinely bound

so why do we waste so much time
hunting for what is always there
posing questions
rejecting answers
pretending to care
content in oblivion and unaware

i don’t mind you come on the journey
but be ready for worn soles
this journey of embark
requires a wander into the dark
admitting all your follies
to cleanse your soul


-the marriage of patience and light

12256145816_722a3e81f4_bthe patient passing-the marriage of patience and light

how else can light enter
without you being broken

it may be you despair in hurt
you wallow in sadness
you pain over the cracks in your being
and this brokenness you complain of
is but oblivion to what is happening

light can’t pass through to the crux of you
through any way except the cracks of you
to find hurt and mend you

‘let there be light’ did not occur without ‘let their be life’
your patience is what is being formed
be patient of your patience
and allow light to fashion it’s way around your soul

once it envelops you, can the cracks begin to seal
and you become whole
at that point, you’ll no longer wish to remain sealed
but enjoy and call upon brokenness, if only a fissure


-linen soul


linen soul
-linen soul

does it pain you
that no matter which way I am folded
i remain uncreased

some people won’t be able to handle half of what you endure.
some people won’t be able to handle that you endure it at all.
some people will wish that you endure more so that you break.
others will envy your will, your unwavering resolve.

smile, pray for them,
and remain the sun dried linen that doesn’t fold,
the fresh suds smell perfuming your seams,
wafting past their noses.