Why I have no friends

I don’t trust a man,
who hasn’t tested the edge of his being,
with poverty,
his confidence,
with the threat of violence,
or his resolve,
with solitude and loneliness.

They’re measures,
which every person must pass through,
to determine the fabric or who they are,
to sell the world,
their humanity,
if not the world,
then at least the person you want to associate with.

I guess that is why I am mostly alone,
my yardstick and most of society’s,
don’t measure up.
I don’t reconcile well with the mundane,
nor the flamboyantly sophisticated,
and the people I’m attracted to and they me,
ironically don’t associate with me,
in concentric circles we move to and from each other,
perpetually.

I don’t trust a woman,
who sees being and existence,
through monetary markers,
her metrics of madness,
cannot reconcile with my propensity to violence,
at the drop of a hat,
towards a man that oversteps their mark.
She can be comfortable,
with the cushion of society,
that will constantly break her fall.

She can be seen,
for all that she wants to display,
there are always other eyes,
other hearts,
mine,
will never engage,
always caged.

She has no lashes she can buy or flutter,
no sigh she can moan or mutter,
no breast, she can heave,
nothing to sell me that proves she has a real pulse,
except a wayward gaze beyond me,
and to the creator of me.

Yes, I have trust issues,
and it is not without merit,
ashamed, guilty binding seams,
I let my ability to read people,
way before they commit to me their secrets,
contain me,
but when time and time again,
there it is splayed before me,
it reinforces that I knew well the truth,
and ignored my compass,
my distrust in people,
then becomes married to the distrust in myself,
and that is a knot I can never undo.

W.E.

-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

-spineless

I’m not spineless,
I have an aversion to bullshit.

I’ll cry,
the hot tears,
the ones that have been buried so far inside you,
they can only be as warm as your core,
when,
and only when,
there is no bullshit,
or,
you’ve pierced that part of me,
hurt me to that core.

Otherwise,
you need me spineless.

You need me emotionally detached.

When  your world is upside down with emotions,
and you lose all sense,
Hyper-erratic, out of control,
and running on the wild bonfire of reactionary states,
you need me to rationalise,
to hold my steady hand over yours,
to stop the bleeding,
control your breathing,
and show you the order of things.

And there is order,
always order,
even in chaos,
the order even more so evident.

It’s the reason why chaos can exist.
and I, can swim in both currents.

W.E.

Art: Charcoal and Bone VIII by ~napoleoman

 

The merchant of forgiveness

the-merchant-of-forgiveness

He came like a passing vapour,
embodied with the gift of light and lightness,
the faintest hint of jasmine and sandalwood,
and a buried childhood.

Suppression makes for an interesting man,
a thorough masculinity,
that is more tender than dew on the petal of lemon trees,
and as firm as the roots of date palms.

He held himself inside until he imploded,
it wasn’t diabetes, cancer or kidney failure,
it was a heart that couldn’t contain any more.

He didn’t lose limb and tissue,
but reconciliation and forgiveness faded.

And that was his weapon against you,
he could forgive you,
because he knew by doing so,
he would leave you to your guilt,
to gnaw at you,
to cut you in half,
no one would punish you more than you.

When he could no longer forgive you,
he had to learn to forgive himself,
not for anything he had done,
but his guilt,
his gnaw,
the thing that tore him apart,
was he couldn’t reassure you any more,
that he would be a provider of forgiveness.

Even to his last breath,
he was selfless,
the gurgle of his lungs,
his open mouth,
closed eyes,
soft cold hands,
forgiving everyone in the room.

Everyone was caught up with the spectacle of death,
and all I could wonder,
was how his Lord was preparing his place amongst the elite.

A man once passed in front of the Prophet of God,
the Prophet exclaimed that the man was a man of paradise.
One of the companions, feverish and eager for the works of good,
encouraged by the words and wanton of the fruits of righteousness took it upon himself to follow the man home and pretend he needed a place to stay.
In utter custom and tradition, hospitality was granted.
For three days, the man watched the man of paradise and noted his every move and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Finally on the third day, the companion came clean and admitted that he had heard the Prophet of God proclaim him a man of paradise and that he wanted to know what his secret to attain such a status was.
Perplexed, the man of paradise replied, “As you see, I do no extra activities than the layman, I pray, I fast, I pay the charitable tax, but every night when I sleep, before I lay my head on a pillow, I forgive everyone that I know.”

And that is where my father was,
his childhood whatever it was,
lived inside him until his last day,
and the act of a child,
the ability to forgive and forget so easily,
was his unsheathed sword slaying the hatred in the hearts of all.
He passed, and slayed us all with forgiveness,
there’s no recovering from that.

W.E.

how to sell your soul, the right way

be-stricken

Be stricken,

awe at the slightest of things,
marvel at the greatest,
stop breathing,
to remember breathing,
to appreciate breath,
when it’s meant to be taken away.

Fast,
to savour a morsel,
as simple as dried bread,
or a cup of murky water,

Walk,
to, remind your body,
it has to take you places,
beyond the confines of comfort.

Be broken, be mended,
be full, be apprehended,
be amazed,
that you can still be amazed,
whilst others are fogged up,
in a haze, in a maze.
in a craze, in a daze.

Oh these days, oh these days,
the neglecting of the way,
monotony,
into the abyss of being,
engorged in normality,
triviality, superficiality, conformity,
and you miss,
the enormity,
of the fine and tender,

of being stricken.

Be taken,
awaken,
to a grasshoppers song,
as you sit in summer afternoon traffic,
frustrated,
polluted,
by severance from your environment,
convoluted,
unaware of the beauty of silence,
instead being attracted to the outward violence.

And the world is violent,
when you won’t allow yourself,
to be stricken,
amazed,
blown away into the winds that want to  pollinate,
to allow seeds to germinate.

Don’t wait until it’s too late,
be stricken.

Find the beauty of complication in simplicity,
and the simplicity in complication,
so you can be both the artist,
and the scientist,
the poet and the physician,
the healer and the warrior,
be stricken by it all.

W.E.

haunt

haunt

Before he passed,
grief was not something he left me in his will,
others mourned,
and I couldn’t muster a tear.

So what’s a man to do when his emotions remain idle?
Practicality becomes the default.
Take care of affairs,
make amends,
find a semblance of balance,
in comforting others,
albeit, still emotionless.

I don’t do well in social situations,
and only when I recluse to the comforts of solitude,
did I find the fortunes of his will,
flood my heart and clutch at me with volcanic vigour.

Alone in my car,
alone at work,
alone with a book,
alone in the sea,
suddenly,
I wish I didn’t inherit a single thing,
even a coffee cup becomes a thing of guilt.

W.E.

Immortal comprehension

immortal-comprehension
Some poems are written for the world,
some are just for the poets,
and others, your  neck would be smitten if you divulged.

Whilst we write,  at times to amuse you,
and others to confuse you,
know, the epitome of poetry,
or any art form,
is not to find human muses,
but to be so engrossed in the tapestry of the art itself,
that it becomes the muse.

No longer does a poet need anything but a word to marvel over,
a painter need anything but the coarse ridges of dried paint,
a musician drunk in a simple chord,
to be inspired into their work.

If you’re a poet,
or a writer,
and people are your muses,
you have an expiry date.

W.E.