Boring people

boring-people

I’ll never let the monotony of neglect,
lull me into boredom,
persuade me into comfort.

I cannot associate with bored people,
they’re too dishonest to admit,
they’re lazy.

There is always something to do,
a lesson to learn,
a page to read,
a mouth to feed,
a bill to pay,
something to fix.

Fixing myself,
has occupied me,
from the moment I became aware,
of my lowliness.

When my ego stood broad shouldered as I,
cold stared me in the face,
and put up its fists,
I knew boredom,
would become a word that left my vocabulary.

W.E.

Introversion is the new black

introversion-new-black

But where were you all,
when we were stuck inside ourselves,
like discarded books on dusty shelves,
now, all of a sudden,
you won’t judge a book by its cover,
want to get to know us,
inside us delve.

For us it’s not a trend,
not a hash tag,
we’ve been alone, discarded,
convoluted, since twelve.

You know, that age,
when we’re meant to bloom and connect,
we’re ignored,
because we internalise and reflect,
we think and dissect,
we analyse and inspect,
we won’t look outward,
nor deflect,
we find the nuts and bolts of it,
like architects,
build from the inside out,
upwards and erect.

So when you see that timid boy,
or that hidden girl,
spare a moment to reflect,
about their world,
before that insult,
before the stigma,
you carelessly hurl,
because one day you’d realise,
through all that time alone,
all that time inside,
they’ve been whipping up their character,
fortifying their soul,
and waiting for the time,
to reveal their pearls.

W.E.

If you’re not one, don’t fake it, we can see you a mile away.

Dear feminism

uzo6

I was wondering where in your confines,
my wife’s spirituality fits,
where her chastity sits,
if at all within your boundaries,
can her need to be free from men and women,
she can exist.

Will her devotion,
you permit,
will her night vigils and devotions,
you allow to be moonlit,
what of her veil, her shroud,
or is it attire you’d omit?

Ahh, her feminism,
for you stops at her outfit,
for you, even for her, unfit.

A word of her spirituality,
she can’t transmit.

Nay, your feminism,
is laced with prejudice,
and is pseudo-liberation,
white only, Holy writ.

-Wesam El dahabi

#justcurious as to how inclusive your mantras are,
if a woman content in her devotions,
liberated in her submission,
to her creator her orientation,
in complete volition,
has a divine addiction,
and is enshrined in her tradition,
she chooses to be abandoned,
from your pop culture couture versions,
devotes to her husband through choice,
would she still be deemed a free woman,
even though neither her husband,
her son, her father or brother has reigns over her,
would you still hold her and embrace her as woman as you?

Believe it or not,
not everyone wants your version.
So don’t be surprised if POC have aversions.

Image by david uzochukwu

balance

balanceCowardice,
has subconsciously become the default,
men and women overwhelmed,paralysed,
submerged in laxity, passiveness and gluttony,
too busy being fed the lie that they matter,
and all that matters is taking care of themselves,
putting themselves first,
and thus they grow,
age, and un-mature,
yes, UN -Mature,
candles flickering barely keeping a semblance of light inside them,
and never develop the character and spine it takes to help others.

Cowardice comes from never being vulnerable,
cowardice comes from believing your own hype,
never taking one on the chin,
just to see what it feels like.

Both the warrior who won’t engage his soul,
and the sage who won’t engage his sinew,
are complimentary cowards,
bathing in faux austerity of  character.

W.E.

dear grief – 5

dear-grief-5
Aren’t you ever the penance,
the saviour for my sins,
giving me a scapegoat,
from all that lurks within.

How dare they look at me,
with all my faults and gloat,
can’t they see this pain,
and tussle with the goat.

This horn and fleece,
this wolf and berceuse,
if ever a wrestle,
to lull and cease.

These dragging feet,
bones that creak,
grip strong, fingers weak,
solid, astute, meek.

And all your cohorts,
a reply to this deceit,
the gathering pool,
where flesh, grey matter and vapour meet.

Ay this grief,
is just irreconcilable,
unpicked,
meat between teeth.

And we all know,
how quick meat rots, and stenches,
hence why this grief feels like
vice grip clenches.

It lingers and lingers,
pungent,
always on your fingers.

Stains your sheets,
you wake up in sweats,
remembering someone,
un-relinquishing debt.

W.E.