Something that has become lost on my brothers


Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.

How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.

I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.

There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.

I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.

W.E.

 

raise your sons

 

We’re hypocrites,
teaching our children to be humble,
and with the same breath,
showing them how to be attached to things,
this anxiety that we’ve left in our wills,
shall be inherited by them as boulders,
if we don’t quite simply,
practise what we preach,
and release the world from our grasp,
so that it can unshackle us from it slavery.

W.E.

writers block – 4

 

If you need to win the conversation,
you’ve lost the art of communication.

Most people talk at,
instead of to people,
over,
instead of into,
through piercing arrows,
instead of soothing aloe,
and they wonder,
why they are not heard.

And it is no different for a writer,
how can anyone receive your words,
if all you want to do is be read,
if you don’t want to run your fingers through the mind of a reader.

W.E.

deceiving yourself into sanity

reality looks like an exaggeration,
when you’re used to telling yourself lies,
repentance, such a lofty aspiration,
when sins are such in-severable ties.

where goeth my honour and pride,
how distant we’ve become,
my hands are unrecognisable,
i’m a man broken, begging and undone.

leave me a morsel of myself,
empty a crumb of me into me,
something of recognition,
with heart full of prose,
i beggeth thee.

all i’ve done is plea,
all i’ve done is bitten and swallowed,
until every recognition of who I am,
unrecognisable,
shifting and shapeless like a shores sands.

-Wesam El dahabi

illiterate

 

Delusional critics,
self appointed,
fixated,
in the egocentricity of being above others,
by the mere fact they can string a sentence together,
lured by the fetishes of their ever rattling minds,
that what they decipher is actually a cipher of intelligence,
so like an excavator,
indiscriminate in it’s destruction,
they will not relent,
nor admit,
drop to their knees and submit,
that what they know,
is minuscule.
The more they ‘learn’,
the further from comprehension they become,
instead, as the great sage said,
‘The more I learned, the more ignorant I became.’
There is no shame in admitting,
after learning, after being enlightened,
of just how ignorant you were.
Life then,
is nothing more than learning to undo the superiority of knowledge,
we’re conditioned to believe,
makes us better than others.
True knowledge is not being able to find fault in everything you read, hear or see,
the truest knowledge is finding fault within and being consumed with gaining more knowledge to unveil even more of your faults.
An impossible obsession, reserved only for the humble and meek,
unconcerned with the glory and praise of the world.

Wesam El dahabi