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Right, look at me now, torn and thrown.
Just like how a child gets bored of a broken doll and abandons it, finding something new to entertain his heart.
Torn and thrown, I can not give anything, I can provide nothing.
So maybe, if you would just let me rest, just enough so those bleeding holes in my chest fill up again. Then, I will be better, I will give more,
I will fight more.
No? I can't? So you will not allow it. Okay.
Then just kill me.
Also no? Why? You don't throw away your useless dolls? Okay.
Then...
What do you want?
#random
#SammyScribble
If Only I Hadn’t Met You Then
If only I hadn’t met you
in that hollow space of youth,
when I mistook impulse for truth,
and carelessness for courage.
Maybe the words I threw so easily
would’ve died unspoken.
They didn’t deserve your silence.
Now that clarity comes with ache,
I see you,
not in presence,
but in the quiet where you should’ve been.
Every stillness holds your name.
Every moment I failed to see you,
now stands vivid.
You waited.
You stayed.
I broke things I didn’t understand.
You offered trust,
while I gave confusion.
You were all patience.
I was all noise.
Time doesn’t hand out second chances.
It closes doors without warning.
And I, who see so clearly now,
have no right to knock.
You were right to leave.
You were right to feel everything
I only learned too late.
If only I hadn’t met you then,
when I was still a stranger to myself.
How much pain does it take to make one lose their mind, until they can think of nothing except, "It hurts!" And "Please make it stop!"
Double it, triple it, until they writhe in comfort.
How much guilt does it take to fear recieving "too much" kindness?
Double it, triple it, until shame brings forth loathing along with it.
How much light does it take, to make scars white?
So white, they become invisible.
Double it, triple it, until they burn unseen.
And there she is, my survivor, my child,
That's how she's made.
#random
#SammyScribble
I’ve grown to prefer the hush between us over the weight of your well rehearsed concern.
#Abdo
It would be a miracle, if the hand on your throat stops dragging you down into the blacks of the ocean.
But miracles don't happen these days.
Not to you, at least.
#random
#SammyScribble
I’m tired of being brave.
I want to sleep,
not on a bed,
but in the tranquillity of her lap,
where her fingers
comb through my guilt
and her silence
doesn’t ask for explanations.
I want her to read
the poems I wrote
when I couldn’t breathe,
and make them sound
like something
worth surviving.
I have never been able to do much for you, have I?
I can't brew you a healing potion for your piling wounds and scars or craft a mighty sword for you to ward off the imps setting you on fire. I can't even make you a shield from the backstabs you always recieve.
Still, I want to offer you a drunken night, a dream where you can put your cheek on my lap, and wail. A shut-eye where you can cry ugly until you can't, mourn until you won't, roar until your heart is filled with empty, comforting cold.
I want to offer you few hours of painless sleep, vacant of the filth that sticks under your nails and inside your eyelids during your wake.
It might be just a dream, and a lame one, at that. I know you will eventually wake up from it.
But isn't that how we survived this world so far? How we outlived the scythe of our sweet friend, the angel of death, until now?
We know, that it might never end, so,
Drink with me, my little beast, close your eyes for me,
I won't call you by your name tonight so,
Dream with me, my survivor child, my pretty beast.
#random
#SammyScribble
I used to believe
that writing would save me,
now I wonder
if I only write
to confirm
that I am already lost.
Bowtie
From heat—
I sought refuge in the cold chamber.
From the cold chamber—
I fled to the coffin.
And from the coffin?
Only empty hands
bury the solar system inside me.
Though coffins may be
the cheapest rooms in real estate ads,
no cell is more solitary than a grave.
Please remember us—
all of us—
in a single tomb.
We are buried incomplete
because our bones
are stuck in your throat.
With your umbrella,
you tried to take revenge on the sun.
But didn’t you hear?
Even “sun”
whispers “water.”
From the conspiracy
between rain and sunlight,
grant the dream of a rainbow
to the evaporated hope of water—
now sold in aquariums.
Though bottled,
a state of fish
has been dismantled.
Which fountain
can survive its neck severed?
Where on the river’s throat
do the dam’s fingerprints
vanish in purification plants?
From bruised throats,
a museum of fingerprints has emerged.
Even the observer
has closed his eyes.
These tickets—
which field of vision do they open?
Desire—
drenched
between the eyes and the sea.
From all the temptations
that chased a kite,
only a diamond
remains on the geometry test.
A butterfly
divided the world
between two wings.
For the crime of unusual colors,
it was denied
a colored photograph.
The butterfly’s bright thoughts
escaped the cocoon too soon.
In an age of color extinction,
the colors chose suicide
in black-and-white themes.
I didn’t paint—
but I stretched new canvases
for old paintings.
Photos,
forgotten by memory—
yet one of them
will settle, eventually,
in the frame of our obituary.
As painters and photographers,
we agreed on the truth of faces,
yet clashed
as deeply as our tools.
Still—
our hands
are the latest fashion
in bowties:
designed
to grip collars.
— Aref Moallemi
I no longer ask
what comes next.
I watch clouds rearrange themselves
into answers
I don’t need.
Love will find me,
or I’ll find myself
trying.
Breath, Scars, and Silence
My skin is not smooth—
It is a landscape,
creased and calloused,
folded like a well-travelled map.
The curve of my neck cradles the sun,
even when the skies are grey.
This scar on my knee
is where I learned gravity.
They remember kneeling for answers,
and bruising against silence.
The faded marks on my wrist—
are the memories I stopped trying to erase.
My shoulder holds the weight
of unsent letters, of unkept vows,
of people whose ghosts I’ve kept
long after they walked away.
Ferns unfurl behind my ribs,
and roots tangle in the hum of my heart.
Saltwater collects in my throat,
swallowed like a secret I refuse to speak.
It floats between the tightness of my chest,
weighing heavy with the unspoken,
with everything I couldn’t say,
and the silence that remains.
The curve of my hip sways
to a melody only silence can sing.
The arch of my foot,
like a compass,
knows the escape routes
without any need for directions.
I am stitched together,
by paths I never took,
oceans I had no choice but to cross,
mountains I was lifted to
and, somewhere along the way
learned to call them home.
Maps aren’t always drawn with ink.
Some are stitched with breath and scars.
Don’t ask me where I come from—
Ask me where I've been.
Touch my shoulder,
and I’ll show you a road only my skin knows.
A blade, once dulled by war,
is still a blade.
Its history does not justify
the wound it inflicts today.
You are not absolved
by the origin of your fracture.
Ice does not explain
why you choose to freeze
every outstretched hand.
There is no nobility
in passing down
what once undid you.
To hurt
because you were hurt
is not justice—
it is repetition
without courage.
Bits and tatters, rags and shatters.
Pick them up, they cut your fingers. Still, try to pick them up,
Your precious bits, your bitter shatters, your ragged edges, and your broken tears.
Don't let them go.
#random
#SammyScribble
The day I die,
don’t just bury me in my clothes—
lay a blanket over me,
woven from the poems I bled,
stitched from the letters I wrote.
Let none remain.
Let no eyes read them again.
Lest they knock on my grave,
asking, We found the man
with the name you spoke,
but he wasn’t the same—
where shall we look?
Burn those pages to ash.
Scatter them into inexistence,
just like the man I wrote—
the man that never was.
My fiction
Some roads don’t hurt because they’re empty, but because we keep watching them.
#Abdo
She was not heartless.
just heart-wounded,
again and again,
they called her cold
while handing her matches
in rooms already burning.
Uncovered
And maybe—
the blood had to spill.
Maybe the skin had to split
to let something else escape.
I don’t blame
the hands that left the cuts.
But how do I tell
the one who still brings bandages?
The one who kneels beside me,
gentle hands and quiet worry,
trying to piece me back together
as if I haven’t already learned
to live in fragments?
How do I say—
this one feels better
left uncovered?
How do I tell him
that what he carries is precious—
his tenderness,
his want to heal—
but I no longer carry a heart?
I don’t want to break him
the way I was broken.
So let it bleed.
Let it breathe.
Let this pain be mine—
not something to be fixed,
but something to be known.
Please—
leave it uncovered.
Maybe healing
isn’t in the covering,
but in the letting go.
It dawns with the worn-out, dusty cloth,
a companion more loyal than anything on earth.
Tuning out the voice of a growling stomach
gets easier with years of experience,
and this morning will be no different.
The sun wages war against the early morning cold,
soon to declare victory—
a victory they await each day
to warm their cold-stricken bones.
One lesson they've learned,
an unspoken, informal truth,
is to rely on no one.
Daily bread is their battle to win,
a giant task of survival,
too heavy for a child's hands,
a task that yields only a quarter of its weight
to their empty stomachs.
So they roam the streets,
they roam to survive.
The hands of strangers are their fields,
cruel fields that know no spring,
no summer, no winter—
sprouting cacti one day and mangoes the next.
They’ve learned that if you can’t inspire compassion,
you can shame it out of humans.
So they target couples,
begging as if the man is God.
Ego triumphs, and he gives—
to look good in front of his girlfriend.
They weave their little arms around older women,
pleading for bread,
playing the soft strings of a mother’s heart.
Usually, they relent,
the image of their own children flashing in their minds.
They run from angry men and shopkeepers,
who would rather offer slaps than bread.
They play games with death,
leaping over traffic bars,
saved only by screeching tires—
the equivalent of a day's worth of school and studies.
Café leftovers become a warm meal,
yet they never forget to skip and play chase in the scorching sun.
How could they?
It is still a child's heart that beats in their chest.
Dusk arrives with the worn-out, dusty cloth,
a companion more faithful than anything on earth.
They sleep, praying for slumber to take away the cold,
dreaming of fantasies—
buffets, beds, and pillows under four walls.
Get me the tumbler.
A drink—poison.
Sit with me.
I’ll show you how to take it.
Close your eyes.
Trust me—
you won’t die.
You’ve swallowed this
your whole life
and never asked why.
Haven’t you?
That’s the beauty
of a good poison:
it kills
the part of you
that would’ve asked.
My thoughts are not linear,
they build monuments to scenarios
that never happened,
scaffolded with “what ifs,”
and lit with the dim glow
of imagined consequences.
I am the architect
of every emotional labyrinth I wander,
laying bricks with shaky hands,
then cursing the walls
that close in around me.
You adore the moon
only when it's full and bright.
That’s why I’m afraid—
afraid of being loved by you.
Because who can guarantee
you’ll still love me
when I feel blue,
when I’m not looking alright,
or when I feel like
a disappointment to you?
Let me rot
in your vocabulary—
shove me between metaphors,
bleed me into the ink
until I am
more poem
than person.
I call you grains of innocence
while the fields of your home blaze with truth.
I call you grains of love
as your siblings burn at the stake.
I call you grains of goodness
as your shadow is exiled into the rising smoke.
I name you so, in hope that one day you will grow
beneath the same scorched earth—
the irony of life, how fire’s cruel tongue
leaves behind the richest soil.
There are versions of me
floating in the minds of others,
and none of them match.
I wonder which reflection is closest—
the martyr, the manipulator, the muse?
Even my own gaze
feels distorted by memory and mood.
I change depending on the mirror.
I am every lie I’ve told myself
about who I am
and every truth I’ve refused to wear.
Kindness cannot be taught, only the strongest can wield it.
#Abdo
Will I Ever Be Free?
I wonder a lot, will I ever be free?
From the stares that follow me the second I step out the door,
from the worry that clings to me like a second skin, never letting go?
“I need to be careful.”
“I need to be safe.”
“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”
“Stay away.”
A million thoughts that never stray.
I wear layer after layer, even when I’m dying from the heat.
Why? Because those stares—
they dig too deep, they creep.
They rip away my sense of peace.
Is it me? Am I the one to blame?
Or is it this domination of men that’s always playing the same game?
And the people who keep it alive—
who let it breathe, who let it thrive?
I get questioned for living, for breathing this air,
for simply existing—for just being there.
A caged bird blamed for its need to fly,
while hands build fences into the sky.
So I stay home, lock myself in these walls,
but even here, freedom never calls.
Because cages don’t always have keys or chains—
sometimes they’re silence, sometimes they’re names.
They say, “You’re weak,”
“You fear the world,”
“You don’t want to work, you just want to be fed,”
“You’re running from life,”
“You’re scared instead.”
But no. I can take it. I have all the might.
But did they ever want me to stand and fight?
It’s all a trap—to blur my mind, to keep me lost, to keep me blind,
so I never learn how to truly live.
So I keep taking what they never give.
And when I try, the stares come back again,
like I’m some meal, some prey for them.
Hidden beneath my modest clothes,
yet your gaze still strips, still knows.
Is it the fabric? Or is it you?
My covered body makes you feel things too.
So you keep staring, and I keep breaking—
and you call it normal, but it’s really taking.
Is it me? Or is it you?
Today it’s me. Tomorrow, someone new.
And it’ll keep going. It always will.
Different faces, same cruel thrill.
So I ask—not with hope, but with what’s left of me:
Will I ever be free?
– Iris
ONE DAY LOVE WILL DIE!
Choked by hatred,
she'll ask for mercy,
Showering tears of regret,
guilty she'll always be,
For being alive,
for always being there,
For handling hearts
with utmost care,
All her life
she has served,
Freedoms and battles
she conquered,
And now that she is dying,
you are holding onto her?
Like your hate wasn't
enough for her to suffer!
But she paid her price
for being selfless,
Look, love died again
in hates embrace.
#love
#hurt
#dead
- D's diary
Let my soul become the colour of my nation, like a flower giving fragrance to its soil.
Let my hands rise not for pride, but to lift the broken, the forgotten, the ones without a voice.
#Abdo
I may not be a healer, (not anymore,)
But I want to stay at least, so you won't be both—
Burning in pain and alone.
#random
#SammyScribble
Like shoving dust under the rug, they turn a blind eye,
"Sh! Don't look at her, don't talk to her. It'll go away if you ignore her. It's non of our business, anyway."
#random
#SammyScribble