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Someone said,
“You remind me of the sun, how you brighten up my days.”
I chuckled quietly,
wondering to myself
if they knew that the sun burns itself
to keep us warm—
collapsing inward each day,
ever so slightly,
until darkness arrives.
And it is said
that just before that moment,
it burns brighter than ever.
So sometimes suicidality
looks like a smile
shouting “goodbye”
too quietly
for you not to hear it as “see you tomorrow.”
A laugh that’s screaming “I tried my best,”
too softly
for you to not misunderstand it as “I’ll do better next time.”
Sometimes depression doesn’t look like sadness—
more like total stillness
you could mistake for peace.
Sometimes a suicide note
sounds like a poet
reading his own eulogy.
They ask if I’m dying.
I respond, “Aren’t we all?”
Which is to say:
I know I’m not the only one
whose pillows know
the bitter taste of tears all too well.
Who sometimes prays
for death to visit him
like an old friend.
But I heard of the phoenix—
how it burns brightly as it dies,
just to rise
from its own ashes.
I chuckled quietly and said, “Same.”
You see,
most days, life feels like choking.
But I’ve swallowed stones of glass before.
So I say,
“Bring it on, motherfucker.”
I wake up and say,
“Not today, motherfucker.”
This poem is my resurrection.
Love OR Illusion?
Let’s be real for once—
are we truly loved, or is that just our delusion?
For once, I sat down with the myths,
cared for the realisation
that this is all an illusion.
The love we get
is just another deceiving decision
by the people around us,
who say, “We care for your vision.”
And that is to make us
feel like some strange creation,
when we are the ones who truly
created and shaped this provision.
So let them speak,
and have their own conclusion.
For we know, we are enough,
and that is our foundation.
– Iris
In the river of dreams,
I sway and swerve.
A boat tries to keep me
alive and well.
In the river of dreams,
I pray for common sense
to save me
from the river’s depth.
In the river of dreams,
I yearn to swim—
but if I do,
I may never return.
In the river of dreams,
I spit on life.
What good is truth
when sweet are lies?
What if I let this body of water grasp my hand, if I let it caress my palm and I listen to its sweet nothings whispered against my skin as it crawls up my arm?
What if I whisper back my pain as it wraps its cold around my waist, if I let my blues float into its lap?
What if I let the cracks of my soul sizzle in its hold, if I let it drown the burning tears of mine, and let it quench my fire of a heart,
If I let it embrace me loose and kiss me full of cold, if I let it show me its comforting deep chest?
And what if it asks me to stay, to return its generosity, what would I say?
#random
#SammyScribble
In the same realm,
I don't feel the same
as I felt earlier.
The hum of birds,
that once pleased my soul —
now feels cacophonic.
Colour-changing trees
remind me of my stagnation.
Moving winds, swaying branches,
the scent of flowers —
doesn't stir me
the same way.
The lands I roamed,
the cascades I bathed beneath,
the mates I laughed with —
they are nothing now
but dying memories.
Those shattered, blurry frames
reflect my face.
I will not count them
anymore.
After some days,
they'll die in me,
like passion dies
in exigence,
when survival steals dreams.
your soul screams
for the lost prudence.
You have to smile,
for you'll be a grown-up man.
You'll get used to it.
And that's life.
I took away the end,
I erased the period—
left it open,
and my lines stretch forever.
I cut the thread
that looped around my neck—
left it open,
and my pendant took rubies and sapphires.
I severed the line
of dawn and dusk—
left it open,
and my days have no tomorrow, no then after.
But then, what's beneath the shade of night you wear, what do you see in the mirror, when every mask falls off and fades? White...
Your scars, what do they shelter, and what do your thorns protect?Bright White...
Who are you, when you're not making a bed out of pain, when the agony duvet slips off of you under the sunrise?Fade away, burn quietly, soon it will be over and...
Really, you're such a stranger, aren't you?
#random
#SammyScribble
She was the goddess of unseen love—
not the loud kind, but the kind that waits,
that aches,
that stays,
that never forsakes.
Her temple was filled with offerings—
poems slipped between petals' soft sufferings,
prayers tucked into the cracks of stone,
a whispered wish, a plea alone.
But the lines are blurred now,
and her name is no longer whispered somehow.
Her altar lies broken,
her statues turned to dust,
her myths, twisted or erased by rust.
Yet somewhere, in a child's soft plea—
"Please let them love me back," a desperate decree—
something stirs,
a pulse,
a breath that whirs,
a longing caught in the air’s soft purrs.
And that is enough,
tender and rough.
Now she walks the world, forgotten,
her glow too faint for mortal eyes to soften.
She moves through train stations,
where strangers cry behind scarves of old nations,
through late-night buses,
where lovers sit side by side in silences and hushes.
And in scattered flashes,
small rebellions bloom from old ashes—
someone writing a letter by hand,
someone reaching for another’s trembling strand,
someone looking up at the stars,
someone tracing another’s broken scars
like a prayer in the darkened air.
She feels pain—
they do not call for her name again.
She feels awe—
they still love, against every flaw.
She wonders—
is love truly lost in the thunder?
Or simply harder to find
in the aching corridors of the mind?
She weeps,
not in mourning that seeps,
but in wonder so deep.
She fades, the world hums with half-forgotten prayers—
a wish caught on a falling eyelash's layers,
a promise carved into a desk so old,
a breath held before the words are told.
Small, stubborn acts that carry her name,
even when it is no longer the same.
And somewhere,
unknowingly, unaware,
someone writes her name into a love letter—
and she returns,
quietly smiling through her tears that yearn.
If you’ve ever loved without crown or claim,
then I was there—
you just forgot my name.
– Iris
Gifts I Carry
By Barima
I come from a place where
we are each other’s responsibility,
where care is a language spoken without words
and hearts beat in rhythm with the land.
In my community,
a child who is left cold by the village
will burn it to feel warm
and so with stories told with light of the night
And food passed hand to hand
so we warm each other first,
with rituals engrained in our bones.
I carry the gift of listening,
not just tales told,
but to what is held in silence and our hearts
to the pauses that speak of our pain,
and the laughter that carries our bonds and healing.
I bring the wisdom of old
And sharing food, stories and joy
not as charity,
but as communion
a sacred act of love and belonging.
I belong to the people of quiet resilience,
shaped by scarcity,
sustained by solidarity.
We believe in solving local problems
with local assets and local solutions,
because the answers we seek
are often rooted in the soil beneath our feet.
Through learnings,
I offer these gifts,
Gifts of ancestral memory, embodied care,
a heart trained to hold peace
and a spirit called
to heal, to connect,
to restore both people and the land
that cradles us all.
And the way I love is a sin in itself.
But who’s gonna stop me?
I’ve committed no injustice.
Sinners sin—
like the sun spreads warmth.
It’s not a choice.
It’s nature.
Illusion? Please.
I am the grand delusion—
a walking paradox, dressed in truth,
dragging shadows through the light.
I kiss with poison-laced lips,
yet my heart bleeds pure.
Not made to be tamed.
Not meant to be cured.
They pray for my silence—
but I roar in metaphors,
a hymn of the damned,
with petals for scars.
And the sinner?
Anguished again,
because I dared to sin.
But who will tell them
the truth buried within?
That I am the one—
not the curse, but the wound,
not the blade,
but the blood that blooms.
And I...
I will be the victim, too.
“Your God Is Not Mine”
Don’t call it holy
when your hands reek of blood
and your invocations sound like bombs.
Don’t dare kneel
in the ashes you’ve made
and whisper sacred.
You slaughter children
then quote scripture.
You desecrate bodies
then scream martyr.
You build your god
out of bullets and rage,
and wonder why the earth
spits you out.
You think heaven smiles
when you burn the living?
When you trade breath for obedience,
when you crown yourself righteous
with the severed heads of dissenters?
You’ve turned faith
into a weapon,
a mask for cowardice,
a smokescreen for power.
Your sermons are landmines.
Your beliefs
coffins wrapped in flags.
You don’t worship.
You conquer.
And still
you ask why the world hates.
You ask why the skies stay silent.
But even your god
has turned his back,
ashamed
of what you do
in his name.
The blind eye
rests, unbothered,
while the shattered mind
quietly leads the way.
Poetry no longer hums,
but whispers,
and empathy drips
like honey from the page.
The world taught me fear
in fluent tongues,
closed doors, cold shoulders,
dreams buried beneath bills.
But I remain,
a storm with a spine,
raging not to destroy,
but to clear the sky
for something better.
It all begins as such—
when hands can't wield a sword to kill,
when they ache for what caused them harm
but still reach out, begging,
defying sense and rationality.
Fingers weave around the pen,
a ghost of fire extinguished through submission.
Yet defiance pushes at the flimsy surface of complacency,
trying to tear her way out
through two or three spiteful words.
And on days when memories throttle the soul,
fury resurrects herself.
She mounts on defiance,
waging war against the kingdom of "Let Bygones Be Bygones."
For ages to come, blood spills on paper.
Fire licks the remnants of serenity,
leaving in a storm of ash.
For ages to come, chaos presents herself as poetry.
But have you ever seen a wildfire that consumed the earth?
It must give out to water in the end—
and so does chaos, dying with no soul to bury her.
All are occupied by the havoc she left behind.
If humanity withered away,
the world would reclaim her battered skin from their venom
and sigh in healing relief.
So would the paper—
when the ego dies,
and the heart opens in humility to the sanctity of art.
And so begin musings for their own sake.
Fantasies sprout like vines,
and love awaits to be born anew.
The quill glides—an agent,
free from hateful compulsion,
but a spirit connecting the poet with the divine.
The comment reads:
War is war.
Nothing else is war.
Immediately,
I am haunted
by the misery
I demoted to metaphor.
The gut-wrenching screams
I translated to punchlines—
while they punched the air
and everything in between,
hoping maybe their fists
could reach God,
so He could understand
the pain
of a body
dropping next to you.
And all I did
was mic drops at poetry slams.
They were slammed down—
flesh and bone—
by bullets that rained
the way unrelenting storms do,
as if trying to wash away
any evidence
of their existence.
The ground
has swallowed enough of their blood
to change colour.
Their screams—
lost
in the silence of their sorrow
that no one heard,
because I diluted
the weight of their suffering
when I likened my depression—
which was heavy in its own right—
to the slow dimming
of the light
of an entire people.
They used to look at the sky
to gaze at stars—
now they look at the sky
to wonder
if they'll even be remembered.
Most of them—
unnamed and unknown,
balls of potential
unravelled too quick
by the winds of battlefields.
Fingertips
that once knew how to do bale,
now pull triggers
by instinct.
Hearts
that once hid a belief in love
so deep
it would wound even the heavy-hearted,
now pump gunpowder
in loads heavy enough
to reach the
depths of even oceans .
But what else can happen
when humanity abandons you?
This is war—
where kids and adults cry alike,
cries that could haunt even the devil.
And this—
this is a war cry
to poets,
to humans:
Nothing is war
but war.
This is what war means.
Fissure
It is from the irises of my eyes
that the sun begins to rise.
It is from the lace of my lips
that verses take to flight.
It is from the epicenter of my heart
that light rends the sky.
And it is from the asylum of my mind
that molten thoughts flow wild.
"The Ceiling Has Thoughts"
The ceiling blinked first—
said I’d been staring too long.
Time giggled in the corner,
counting backward just to mock me.
My shadow packed its bags
and left a sticky note:
"You think too loud. I need air."
The fan overhead spun secrets,
whispered in Morse code—
I’m not sure if it cursed me
or told me the meaning of life
(too lazy to translate).
I sipped gravity like tea,
watched ants reinvent capitalism
on the edge of my desk.
And somewhere,
in a parallel kitchen,
my toast is still falling
but never hits the floor.
— master
One by one,
Pick your guilt,
Pick your sin;
The reason you can't
Move forward.
#random stress-fueled dream?
She cried to me, asking if what she was burning for was worth it.
And I could only bite my lips through a
"No."
#random
#SammyScribble
To understand me
is to walk a path of thorns
wrapped in velvet,
the scent of roses always fooling the lungs
while the blood soaks the soil beneath.
I do not want to be understood.
I simply exist
as a riddle too consuming
for anyone’s fragile comprehension.
I am not a puzzle,
I am a blackened sun
that will scorch anyone
who dares look too long into my orbit.
To understand me is to unravel
the strings of what you know,
only to see the unraveling
was never meant to be stitched again.
There are depths in me
that drown without warning—
rivers of forgotten grief
that call to anyone foolish enough
to venture past the surface.
The more you peer into the whirlpool
the more you forget
how to breathe.
My heart is a reliquary
filled with teeth—
not mine,
but those of voices I swallowed
out of politeness.
They rattle in the quiet
like relics of a softer violence,
and I polish them with guilt
until they gleam like confessions.
I tell myself
there’s beauty in digestion,
that to consume is to transform
but every night,
I wake with a jawful of prayers
I never believed in.
Daffodils on the Midnight Train
She sat two seats away,
right beside the window,
clutching a bouquet close,
like it might fall apart
if she lets it breathe.
Daffodils, far from season,
wrapped in soft pink paper,
a color she must have chosen,
as if it held the memory of spring.
No one brings flowers on a midnight train.
Not unless they’re going
to say goodbye.
She stared into the darkness outside
as if someone was there,
just beyond the glass,
waiting to meet her gaze.
If she looked hard enough,
maybe, he'd step out from the shadows.
“He always loved daffodils”,
she whispers,
but not to me,
not really to anyone at all.
The petals trembled
every time she spoke,
or perhaps it was just the train
swaying over new tracks.
When we passed a tunnel,
she kissed the flowers,
whispering something
into the petals—
a name,
maybe an unspoken apology.
By the time we pulled into the next station,
she had vanished.
But the daffodils remained,
left on the seat,
staring back at where she had been.
How long can you go on like this?
Washing off the filth of your marks; by making them anew.
#random
#SammyScribble
I wonder if I’ve grown wise,
or simply weary—
the distinction feels cosmetic
when your revelations arrive
after the damage.
But people like us don't get choices,
People like us, who live in the gutter of our thoughts, down the pyramid of those deemed worthy by the era of Gold, in a home of our pain.
People like us, aren't given choices, we are given orders, secret commands we are not allowed to realize.
People like us are fed ideals and morals, we are told we are greedy were we to ask for more, even if it were to shut our grumbling guts.
We are given fire, as a silencing play thing for our fingers and hearts.
People like us, the peasants, the outcasts, are wicked,
We're only allowed to survive, to be the candle whicks of your lively, lovely paths,
People like us, are not supposed to live.
#random
#SammyScribble
Wild Berries
It was summer all over again,
hour-long drives down the unpaved roads,
the cottage on the hillside,
the stream where you rinsed berry-stained hands.
You knew your way around pretty well, every knot in the road, every stone.
You never quite liked berries,
but you picked them for us anyway,
even if the vines pricked your fingers,
even if they nagged you for being so careless.
And when we chatted away beside the fire, you were careful to not let it die and disrupt our conversation.
You talked about when you were younger, about the time you accidentally got arrested all those years ago.
You were a kid once too,
just like the rest of us.
They say you lived a full life, and now your face is in the middle of a black frame.
You'll never collect wild berries again,
you'll never sing me your made-up songs.
I still don't know what grief is and how to make peace with its thorns.
They swear it softens, but what do they know?
To me you're still there.
Because how could the berries still taste sweet without your presence?
And how could the fire burn so bright without your stories?
I was not built
to stand above the rest.
I was never meant
to be seen.
but somehow
the world insists
on telling me
how I should rise
or fade
and I
I just want to be
quiet,
to be unseen
and still
feel enough.
You can hear her from behind the wall, growling, whimpering. You can hear her writhing and whithering.
And even though you can't see her, you know she is trying to stand on her feet. You know, that her fangs and claws are out, reaching, grasping and finding nothing but thin air.
But what you don't know is how to pass that wall, the one the demoness created, not to keep you away, though.
You don't know, so your hands roam the wall, trying to find a key stone, a hidden door, a secret passage, anything.
You know, you might have forgotten, but you still know her. You know you want to be by her.
But you don't know,
How.
#random
#SammyScribble
Something in me is fading
as happens to a river at the estuary—
it's lost:
its desire to stand alone,
to give life to a dying crop.
Dead-catching hum
now
lying dead in its every bit.
“Isn't that tragic, my friend?”
Who says?
“Rivers are meant to drown
in the ocean,
to belong
to the abyss.”
I would rather dry up
at my origin.
Would you?