EslamDabank
21/M/Bethlehem, Palestine
A writer|Poet|An artist. / Contacting info: Facebook: Eslam Dabank | Instagram: Eslam_Dabank | Gmail: [email protected].
Forcefully, feed me this love.
No. No need to ask about my consent,
my mood,
whether I'm fine with tasting this reconnection,
whether I desire my suffering to be sweet,
salty, bitter, repulsive;
It is the love that no lover is fed into by choice.
So, ravage my core with your cruelty,
I am content; fleeing holds no allure;
Rip into my bone cage until rats seek refuge within;
until they are disheartened by rain seeping through;
Like was I.
The patient is not faulted for their ailment,
even if they induce it intentionally,
and even then, it is understandable;
For this love acts as both affliction and antidote.
It is a certain drowning, Tick Tock;
I repel rescue; no one need attempt it now;
In the days to come, no one shall be blamed for this choice.
Take me eastward until we reach the west;
There, the sun feels icy;
the breeze, refreshing;
Transport me far beyond the confines of yearning,
The confusion of longing;
Let me encounter your childhood, your aged self, and youth;
Let my wrinkles serve as your rollercoaster;
I'll bear your weight as you frolic;
And there you are; simply laughing.
Incinerate, burn, lose all our maps;
so thoughts of return dare not surface;
until regret looms, yet repentance remains elusive.
We're distanced;
and in this, lies a joy hidden from the eyes of owls;
Beyond the raucous cawing of crows;
Say that I snore;
then depart,
And leave me to harvest wheat from those hills.
Jan 10, 2024
Jan 10, 2024 at 8:00 AM UTC
For the first time ever; I truly do not care
if you, him, or her wished me a happy birthday;
But, I wouldn’t mind if you did. Though it is fair;
I am one of the lesser friends; I am a boring play;
A play so fake; I am of made up characters,
Sometimes I am the flattering villain in smiles,
And at times I am a copy of the Westerners,
At others, I am gullible, yet I never am;
I pretend to be; but I am miles away,
For interesting I am not; so funny at least be,
Says my brain; for maybe they will remember,
That my birthday was today; It is an endless plea:
I always remember and prepare pages of wishes,
For almost everyone, but all I get is 4 days late
One liners sent out of guilt; to stop the guilty itches,
Not out of care, love, or from genuine friendly state;
I deserve it; for again; I am merely a boring play;
A paradoxical headache of weird introverts,
And annoying extroverts; I barely even weigh,
To a normal person; I am made of endless alerts;
Alerted, focused, attentive; all on your acceptance;
I am what I feel you want me to be; a nice man,
A racist gangster, a diplomatic figure; I am resemblance,
I resemble everything I see in you and scan;
I am stardust that was never meant to shine,
I am a thread; intertwined as I feel pleases,
I am a road with temporary signs; I am grapes;
For you I squeeze myself into juice; or ferment
Into wine; I am a fake play where you write scripts,
I submit, because all I cared about is receiving,
A birthday wish. On that one day in the entire year;
I do not want even want gifts; because when you don't,
I feel like I am ceasing to exist; slowly deceasing
from everything that we were: teenagers ambitious,
WhatsApp stickers collectors, School runaways,
Kids deceiving; it feels like I am dead; for the dead
Do not receive birthday wishes; I feel peerless;
A white beans *** lidless, a body complete limbless,
A walking sickness, a moving flesh in stillness,
unpardoned by my faux and obvious silliness.
I do not care about not getting birthday wishes;
But I cannot not overthink what it means.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 4:25 PM UTC
مُر عليّ بالخيال ولو خطأً، أمرُ عليك بالدم كلهُ والفؤادْ،
مُر والخصام بيننا أنا، أمرُ عليك والعقل للولع بانقيادْ،
أكتب لي والكلام أسودُ، أردُ عليك بالألوان والإنشاد،
أكتب لي والبرود فيك، أردُ عليك والقارص افتقادْ.
عِدني أن تقتل، أو تقتلني، ألقمُ لك الحشو والزناد،
عِدني أن تخيّبَ مهجتي، وهي تكفيها لهفة الاستنجادْ،
أرسم سجنَ جفًا لتحسبني، أدخله وأزينه واليدُ اجتهادْ،
أرسم ليلًا لتغرقني بفراغه، أكون لك بالنجوم إمدادْ.
اكفر بي، اؤمن بكَ والشغف داري وشمعُةُ الاستعبادْ،
اكفر بإسلامٍِ، يؤمن بك أسلامُ وفيه وله أنت العمادْ،
أدع عليَ، يكفي أنّي على شفاهك كنتُ ابن الأوغاد،
أدعُ عليّ بالموتِ، أسعدُ بلقاكَ ونحن للنار وقودُ وحصادْ.
كتابنا صلواتٌ منصوصةٌ بالفرارِ، وأنا وحشُ بعد الأمجاد،
آيات يرتجفُ الأنس لها، وأنا كنتُ للنعيم هذا مرتادُ،
لي بركةٌ، نورٌ واشتعالٌ، له شقاء، ظلمات وكل الانخمادْ،
لي خبزٌ، حنينُ غربةٍ، وتهللُ، لهٌ عفن، آهات ومنفى البلادْ.
وما فائدة المنارة لمن كان لعينيه ملح البحر عمًا وأوتاد؟
وما بالنار لتوقدَ طاولةً شتاتًا بالأرض وفيها تربةُ ورمادْ؟
وما الدعاءُ لقارورة ٌ دونَ روحٍ، ما الدعاء للأجسادْ؟
وما بالمطرِ بالاسمنتِ؟ أيلدُ؟ وما موتُ الهيامِ بالابتعادْ؟
اخلف بما وعدت الأكباد، ضمّد كذبًا شقوق الأسيادْ،
أضرب بما في الأغماد، أضرم فيّ أملًأ جل الأحقادْ،
ولكن أعلم أن الحقيقة ألحادُ، وللرشد أنا الاستبدادْ،
أنا العناد والفساد، أنت الاضطهاد، الجراد، والجلادْ.
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 6:01 PM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.
A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.
Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.
By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.
Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
The one the poor has not, but does the fool.
Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.
If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.
In the heart deepened with old repression,
That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.
Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
On this planet whose population is in slices.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 5:18 AM UTC
Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing,
Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love,
From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.
My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his,
“Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says.
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble,
In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.
His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth,
It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth,
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass,
May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.
My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men.
The men, women and children, who will lead us all,
Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.
She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun,
But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone,
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell,
The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.
Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here,
They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere,
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.
They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs,
They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs,
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing -
Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing.
Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers,
Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed.
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain,
but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
The morning star defied the godly beam of divinity:
The star feeding the vines of evil embracing bodies,
Saying “no” since the grand affliction, to the trinity,
It is Morningstar; the devil - Courage he embodies.
Nameless angels envied the free one of the chain,
Light and of light they were, yet the opposite beats -
Beats in their hearts - jealousy and wrath remain,
In the servants with no will in their celestial meats.
An upholstery of fragile sins to test the son was.
He stood for the fire, and O! Flames hurled upon,
Banished and loner, the voice of every lost cause,
In the streets, skins and days that cease to go on.
How shall we and he defend not the selves created,
With a consciousness ideal and stark, by the almighty?
The almighty himself, who selfishness in us dictated,
We, makers of evil, goodness and charming Aphrodite?
He fell, greeting the stars, wavering a throne above,
And shedding a ****** tear for a sin in the creation.
A sin with no faulty one committing - the sin of love,
Self love, the “sin” Morningstar fought for its liberation.
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 6:02 PM UTC
In the heart of the city of peace, a sinful act occurs:
Blue bruises of love beautify my neck, just as hers;
Colouring this grey canvas of gloom with divine thuds,
It is then, when they rush into us: the filthy bloods.
Stain me with sins, and paint in white over me vigorously,
Let the gods who created us, design our hell rigorously,
Let knees rumble, red eyes tumble, and virtues stumble,
Stumble into a chaotic loss of heads: a loss humble.
Aug 28, 2021
Aug 28, 2021 at 7:39 AM UTC
Cultivators of silent corpses seed plague, in the ignorant,
Across webs of lust and greed where they will bleed, and pray.
In the motley virile fictions they intoxicate the disempowered,
Dominating with illusions and indoctrinated stories where they prey.
What feared is the interpretation of the vice, not the tyrant,
That is when, history becomes a weapon to, a future, portray.
In writhing thickets of hair the salt of the vengeance is ambient,
Each who was indulged within false Utopia will then repay.
On wounds, salt, time will pour, for the witling faded poor.
That is when, we rinse our papers and end this spurious play.
Scripts to them are art to perceive to what benefits and sells.
Nations are blocked with blind belief of man but not the superior,
While rulers control their puppets, and puppets drug with pills.
Doubting and standing against is remote, it is the ulterior.
With words and malice they steer heads, and penetrate the cells,
Building their heaven upon our hell, where we stay the inferior.
Imprisoning the gospel truthfulness in themselves, the rotten cells.
The times of miracles are over, and prophecies are fulfilled,
but freeing ourselves from mendacity would be our grand miracle.
Salvation is waking up from a fancy dream, and a truth spilled.
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 9:52 AM UTC