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My heart devoured itself,
afraid, someone might find a
barbaric way to do that.
#short
#heart
- D's diary
There's fire at the tips of her bloody fingers, in the depth of her heart and pumping through her veins.
The fire was roaring in her golden voice, with her hot breaths, across her charred throat, the flames ended up blooming black in her lungs, yellow on her skin, red in her soul.
But all the rain in his words, the rivers in his eyes, the green in his hands, the blue of his whispers,
Were not enough.
What would be enough?
#random
#SammyScribble
Blame You
I really want to disappear,
To a place where nothing is known,
Where rules don’t chain and lines don’t steer,
And when you fail, no shades are thrown.
Unfortunately, this beautiful world contains
The most toxic community ever,
Who only knows to drain our brains
By being double-faced or clever.
I feel empty, I feel lost,
Drained and tired, paying what cost?
They say, "Let people in, don't be afraid,"
But they don’t know the ghosts I’ve faced.
I may act like I don’t care,
Put up a wall and pretend I’m fine,
But what’s going on inside, I never share,
Because this world always leaves us behind.
They say pain makes you stronger,
But all it does is make you numb.
You learn to smile, to play along,
While your heart forgets where it belongs.
Ultimately, I piece myself back together,
Every time a scar adds,
I grow harder to see through.
And though I’ve been crushed and broken more than ever,
The saddest part is—
I will never blame you.
I should have.
But my soul still believes it’s my mistake—
For bleeding where no one wanted blood,
For screaming when silence was easier to love.
~ The Poetry Room
We are like broken stars,
wandering in the vast, cold sky.
And even if someone gathers us,
it is only to watch us fade.
But if fading is certain,
shouldn’t we shine while we can?
#Fate
#Hope #Existence
Midnight swells
a black lung,
inflating around my brittle ribs.
The bed—
a slab where the body rehearses its vanishing.
No footsteps left,
only the insects gnawing the lampshade,
small mouths reminding me
how easily light dies.
And the saddest realization I had was—
That I can’t do it all.
I can’t learn every language,
Speak in a thousand tongues,
Or understand the poetry of every land.
I can’t live every life,
Be a writer, a scientist, a traveler, a dreamer—
Exist in every version of myself I once imagined.
I can’t master every skill,
Nor bring every dream to life,
Some paths will remain untrodden, lost to time.
I can’t set foot in every country,
Get lost in every city,
Or watch the stars from every corner of the earth.
I can’t walk every path,
Follow every dream,
Or chase every version of the life I could have lived.
I can’t taste every dish,
Experience every culture,
Or dance to the rhythm of every heartbeat in the world.
I can’t meet every soul,
Hear every story,
Or love and be loved by all.
And the more I crave, the more I realize—
How beautiful a tragedy it is—
Life is too short,
And I am just one person.
~ The Poetry Room
Who knew, that fire tastes bitter, before it rolls down, making a home out of your throat and chest?
Who knew, it could also go up when you swallow it and burn your head?
#random
#SammyScribble
Eternal Resolve
I wish the tears we shed
would bring change,
And the wailing
that dried our throats
would ease this pain.
We have been patient,
we are patient,
and we will remain,
For losing hope in God
is disbelief's reign.
Oh, land upon which people once cried,
We've grown up by your side.
Oh, land sold by cowards,
you are ours, and we are yours,
and nothing will separate us
except death.
I wish you could see,
at least once,
without the
mirror of words,
between us.
Just once, I,
wish you could
look, touch.
And let this beast
show you,
What its words
fall short of.
#random
#SammyScribble
The Unnamed Envelope
Whoever lays hands on it first,
it becomes theirs.
Yet the fate that follows remains unchanged.
The sender knows this,
but never speaks of it.
For if they knew,
perhaps no one would open it.
I wish my heart had a mouth—
not a metaphorical one,
not a poetic one,
but a tangible, wet,
fluttering mouth
that could yell her name
before my ribs could clamp shut in cowardice.
I would let it slither out of my chest,
yank itself across the floor,
climb onto her lap like a stray thing
begging to be kept.
It would plead,
not in appealing verses,
not in perfumed sighs,
but in the feral, shabby dialect of yearning.
It would say—
“I am his.
I have always been his.
But I do not wish to be.
Take me. Keep me.
Hide me from him.”
Some roses have thorns, and some thorns are crowned with roses.
#Abdo
I'm not afraid of the dark,
nor of the silence,
nor of what lies beyond.
I am afraid of time.
It moves without mercy,
without hesitation,
without ever looking back.
I try to hold on,
to faces, to voices, to places
that once felt eternal.
But nothing stays.
Nothing listens.
Why must time change everything?
Why must laughter grow distant,
why must hands that once held mine
grow frail and cold?
The twenties turn into forties,
forties into sixties,
until the mirror shows a stranger,
until I am left wondering
where it all went.
It’s the cruelest deal—
to move forward,
but never back.
To collect moments,
but never keep them.
To hold onto people,
only to lose them.
I want it to stop.
To let me breathe.
To let me stay.
But time does not hear me.
It drags me forward,
forces me to lose,
forces me to become
a story time will diffuse.
~ The Poetry Room
The one I am with you,
Or the one I am with others.
I stopped asking which one is real.
Because both are real,
But you get the one that appreciates the other one, regardless of its hideousness.
#random
#SammyScribble
When they ask me,
"What’s your deepest fear?"
I open my mouth,
But the words never come out.
How do I say it?
How do I admit that my fear isn’t a possibility,
But my reality?
That I am average,
That I have never been enough,
And maybe never will be?
I try but I fail,
Watch others rise,
Watch them shine,
While I remain
Stuck in a constant pain.
I tell myself to fight,
To push harder, to be more,
But the truth is, I’m tired.
Tired of running in circles,
And still be in that same zone.
So I just smile,
A hollow, practiced thing,
And say something I don’t really fear.
Something easy, something light,
Because I always fail to declare
That I am already living my nightmare.
~ The Poetry Room
Perhaps we have crossed paths a hundred times before
I was the dust your speed swept away, and you, the caravan that never looked back.
#Abdo
When Did We Become Strong?
When did we become strong?
Was it when we raised our voices,
or when we learned to whisper our pain
so softly that even the walls forgot to listen?
Was it when we stood up for ourselves,
or when we simply stood—
not to fight, not to win,
but just to exist, just to breathe?
Did it happen when we wiped our own tears,
because waiting for a gentle hand
felt like waiting for rain in a drought?
Or was it in the nights we ached for rest
but still held others when they needed comfort,
giving warmth even as our own bones shivered?
Did we become strong when we carried burdens
never meant for our shoulders
but still walked forward as if they were wings?
Was it the moment we wanted to give up,
but something maybe hope, maybe stubbornness
made us take one more step?
Or was it when I sat before a math paper,
hands shaking, mind screaming,
tears caught between exhaustion and fear,
yet I still picked up my pen,
still tried, still fought, still believed?
Maybe strong is just a word,
too small to hold the weight of what we are.
Strength is not a single shape, not a single story
it is every scar, every step, every survival.
We are all strong,
in ways the world may never understand.
As I stare into the mirror,
again, again, and again,
my reflection inches closer.
In a breath, she twists my hands—
and I know what she wants.
She has always envied me,
always despised what I adore.
Tonight, she returns,
her fingers brushing my lips,
tracing them like a lover—
until she digs in.
Blood spills,
flesh scatters like shattered pearls.
She has always loved me this way—
broken, writhing, undone.
And today, she wins again.
She steals my smile,
leaves me drowning in pain.
This will never end.
Every time I dare to smile,
she will return,
her hunger deeper,
her plans more cruel—
and she will revel in my ruin.
And then there's those who prefer remaining under their own ashes than going out into a jungle without a lion.
#random
#SammyScribble
My words are as selfish as I am.
If I let them run, they’ll speak of what has been—
What has been done, the horrors, the martyr I’ve become.
They’d rather be stabbed to death by the sharp of my pen
Than be vessels of devotion to none.
They are arrogant—
Expecting to convey what they don’t utter,
Expecting to be given what they don’t ask.
They observe the wrong and immortalize faults.
By far, the most critical entities I’ve come to know.
Are they entitled too?
That must be it—
They’d rather be transmitted telekinetically than exist to beg.
I think of them as a proud nation,
Rioting the streets when the price of their dignity is lowered.
People, they are—
Not just mere assemblies of letters and rows of lines.
People convinced they have the blood of royalty streaking their being.
It takes them a moment to announce death
Rather than be directed by my hands.
"Devotion," they scorn.
"Loyalty," they mock.
"Go and dance your affections into display," they tease,
Knowing all too well how my hips refuse to obey my command.
They offer their image for me to draw,
Saying it’s as generous as they can get,
Knowing well enough that I’m not even acquainted with the brush.
They know I write—
And they deny me their soul
Unless I give them the freedom to exist in the form of their choice.
Mirror beings, reflecting everything that I am—
Arrogant and entitled.
Whose lifeless body will touch the earth,
not as another forgotten corpse,
but as the seed of a long-lost conscience,
breaking through this soil of indifference?
Every moment someone kills another,
with bullets, with bombs,
or crushed beneath their feet,
as if it were their right to do so.
From which womb are you born,
where humanity is never nurtured,
where hatred is the only inheritance,
and life matters only when it's your own?
I just need a restful sleep.
I want to hear no bells anymore,
Bells—what a metaphor!
Siren songs,
fairy tales,
or lullabies,
no more whispers,
no heartbeat,
no ripple in the air—come on.
I just don’t want to hear anything!
Should I trust
my feelings,
my mind,
the pain of the past,
or my heart—
crushed,
ripped,
its hollow ribs
beating for someone
to love me
like a dream?
What’s the chance
I’ll hurt,
or drown
in my own tears
while wiping hers?
If love is pain,
would it matter
whose tears fall first?
Or is the hurt
the proof
that I was ever loved
at all?
Either way,
I'll end up
hurt.
- Achu B
Was my home built upon the abyss? If not, why do I feel like I am walking on the corpses of my ancestors, like their strings pull me by the neck, reminding me, taunting me I am one and the same with them.
Was the place I cherished like a church just a graveyard of regrets? Why do the walls still echo the sound of rebellion and rage, teasing me with flames I had forgotten about, burning me wherever I go, telling me I am just a single thread of the hem.
~don't fight with fate
And once I knew
your favorite color was blue,
I envied the sky and the sea,
and the blue butterfly pea.
And I wished I wore it on me—
a scar, at least, to remind you of me.
Doesn't matter how strong your shoulder is, my head will always be heavier.
Because this loathing weights more than the hammer of Thor, and apparently I'm the only one worthy of bearing it.
#random
#SammyScribble
The flower in my chest
is a slow-motion bruise,
tender as a torn page.
It unfurls like a dirty secret,
whispering my name
in the stench of my soul.
I'll lock it deep,
where the light can't find it.
I call it survival—
this endless crawl through days
that bleed into each other,
but perhaps—
it is just vanity,
to think I deserve
one more breath,
one more chance to matter.
And yet—
I persist.
'Lines on my palm'
I look at them,
at the lines on my palm.
Do they really tell fate?
Do they really tell future?
Or it's just a lie spreading like fire?
I look at them
hoping I could see something,
perhaps a word?
But all I see is incompleteness,
emptiness.
Each curve a metaphor,
each stroke a rhyme,
each end is abrupt,
each beginning a crime.
A few lines are deeper
than any other,
as if they have been screaming
since the beginning,
wanting to convey something.
And a few lines are silent,
as if they have been mute since the start,
afraid they might blabber something
they aren't supposed to speak of.
I look at them,
and no matter how hard I try,
I can't decipher whether this is
a maze we are supposed to solve or just a delusion we ought to ignore!
#fate
#life
#questions
- D's diary
"Each time you come, you touch my canvas with fleeting strokes but you never finish me."
#Abdo