of having it beat out of you,
if you listen intently,
you’ll hear it,
your want will turn into your breath.
I adore your poise,
your pose, and your noise,
that is, your lack thereof.
How orchestral is your quiet,
majestic is your silence,
this deafening and drumming of nothing at once,
this wonderful humming of quiet and calm.
I’m mad I say, deeply mad,
obsessed with ears that listen,
and a mouth that’s mute.
The beautiful picture is by Hossein Irandoust
Perhaps once upon a time my soul met his in this abyss of pre-world obedience and silence.
I’m infatuated by his work to say the least.
If your spasm to do,
is not stronger,
than your spasm to speak,
or even think,
then you are involuntarily living.
You’re merely a collection of material markers,
your spirit, has not been tamed enough,
to learn the wisdom of temperament,
and the power that comes with serving,
nor the control that falls into your hands.
But manhood has been washed away,
into the abyss of in-definition,
to appease the lazy.
Your affinity to help,
must be stronger than your affinity to judge,
using ones hands or other abilities,
should be at the battlefront,
as opposed to looking from afar.
-Wesam El dahabi
Feeble is the mind,
of he who thinks they posses the power,
to effectuate the outcomes of time,
as if to say they control its ravages or its fortunes.
In that comprehension,
they are bound by simpleness,
and we are obligated to remind each other of,
to point clearly to its draining nature,
and how anxiety and depression,
are both born of it.
Come then my brother,
know well my sister,
sons and daughter,
to what will offer you comfort and peace,
from times shackles be released.
Wesam El dahabi
I was only a boy,
when I learned to swallow my voice.
I kept mute,
not because I wanted to be silver tongued,
but because I wanted to be musk breathed.
that it was merely my presence
that would lure them to me.
a mouth full of silver,
and a bellyful of musk,
my absence keeps them as far as possible.
is a burden,
the antithesis to my sanity.
And yet I am obliged,
to be utterly in service,
ever the servant.
more than what my heart can contain,
with intensity that only tames with violence
and I taper my temperament,
to continue to be unnoticed.
My youth has a reoccurring theme and what echoes the most is its ordinariness. Contrary to clichéd thought, I believe ordinariness in those primitive stages of growth are what allow imagination to thrive.
One doesn’t need a wretched childhood or an upbringing that dances around psychological trauma to be creative or inspired, to be able to achieve a goal for the pure satisfaction of completion.
Sometimes, its all that emptiness, and freedom to roam as wildly as possible in your own world, inside yourself, with no threat, nor external persuasion that allows you to comfortably nestle into a unique niche and make sure the world knows just how extraordinary you are.
mischief seems to be the only way,
to overcome antiquation,
to ensure, there is a muse for tomorrow
-Wesam El dahabi
the inspiration only comes,
when it’s quiet.
I’ve driven myself insane with aspiration,
and now without anxiety or misstep,
at the drop of a hat,
I’d wipe all I’ve become conditioned to know,
if it meant a moment with divinity.
In other words,
a maturing thought that pulsates,
that is the catalyst to accelerated achievement,
will have to mean erasure.
A vanishing if you will,
this self that does nothing but accumulate waste,
until the toxicity becomes default.
The dragging nature of growth,
as time juxtaposes my reconciliation,
and mocks my milestones.
Time is having its way with me,
and disappearing appears to be,
the only way to disarm it.
Ironic that I’ve become,
the ammunition against myself,
in the same breath,
poison and antidote,
in the minds courtroom.
Some call it schizophrenia,
a thousand more names and labels,
man will forever find an excuse,
for dealing with their state.
Still, erasure is easier.
Wesam El dahabi