Dear grief – 26

Dear grief 26,
I haven’t seen Dad in three years,
this morning, before dawn,
I got to smell him,
and hold him,
and feel his silken strands of hair on my face.
It hurt so much more than I thought it would.
I wept, and thirteen hours later as I write this,
I weep.
It’s taken my eyelids this long to break their silence,
my throat, this long to burst from its cage.
Now there’s rage,
shame, not guilt,
that I didn’t bow more,
kiss your hand more,
massage your feet more,
just a whole lot lack of more.
Waves of hate inside me,
towards me,
and there’s no recompense,
no console.
There he is abundantly graceful amongst God’s servants and here I am drowning in sin.
There really is no rest for the wicked,
that gnaw of your soul,
taking notes,
like a stenographer of your deeds,
tattooed in your heart,
beating between your lobes,
ringing,
reminding,
that grief is not ‘a thing with feathers’,
it’s a fucking jumbo jet with engines ablaze.
Fuck, I haven’t cried this much in a day ever.
You’re the best fucking man I’ll never be.
W.E.

introversion seventy two

When did my skin become real estate for anxiety,
and this world fool me to its allure?
When did my tongue choose the way so cowardly,
and my way become so impure?
My lips haven’t moved, and tongue hasn’t faltered,
yet still I’m victim to mediocrity,
my hands are frozen, my heart become hardened,
left bereft and abandoned without cure.

W.E.

introversion seventy two

 

Living in the past is depression,
in the future; anxiety,
in the immediacy of satiation,
ingratitude.

You assume fulfilment,
and forget it causes mediocrity.

You question your predicament,
and envy the comfort of others.

Where is your recognition,
of all the lowly and base things?

Your demands,
spat with ingratitude,
have become shackles around your ankles.

Had God willed, he would give you in your entirety to the world and you could not contain your condition, and beg for pardon to be returned to being a recluse.
Don’t assume your condition is bad for you, it could be that it is saving you from worse.

W.E.

Power hungry ignorants

 

To beg to be understood,
to pant and pander for the approval of people,
is akin to sleeping with dogs.

The world and all that is in has no value,
so what then of the opinion of its inhabitants?

Only the feeble wait for recognition.

I have no patience for those who prostitute their character in favour of status.
Nor those who like children wait for every praise,
I don’t care an iota for myself,
what then makes you think I would care for you?

Leave this wayfarer alone,
leave him abandoned and in search,
lost in the wonder of discovery,
alone in solitude,
drowning in reform.

-Wesam El dahabi

Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.  – Abraham Lincoln