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When the night descends,
the mask begins to slip.
The role I master in daylight,
at night, laughs at my script.
I claim to be unshaken,
shouting it through the day,
but in this hollow silence,
I fold like paper, lost to the night.
I boast;
Nothing matters anymore.
Yet on these towering walls,
that old clock with every tick,
hurls my past at my face like a blow.
The face that once ruled the mirrors,
now stares back with hollowed eyes.
The sun let me hide behind veils of pride,
but darkness strips me of my disguise.
If there existed but one soul on earth,
the world—a canvas, half-painted by his foot—
he’d listen to trees whisper,
branches bantering in the wind.
He’d hear the ocean plead for the moon,
waves rising, falling, singing their longing.
He’d watch the clouds embrace,
clinging to the sun’s warmth
until they wept in quiet raindrops.
He’d learn the silent language
of those who never speak.
Grinding ochre into crimson,
diluting it with the depth of the sea,
binding it with the sweetness of honey,
he’d write—
with ink and longing—
of company, of love,
of the majesty of nature,
of loss for something unseen,
yet deeply desired.
He’d pour his grief onto palm leaves,
hoping red would breathe life into another—
a soul he's never met,
but is destined to dream of.
Hope is hurting.
They told me to have hope.
"Hold on a little longer."
"Everything will be okay."
They said it like a prayer,
like an answer to every silence
I filled with my questions.
But I have held onto hope
until my hands bled,
until the thread I was clinging to
cut deeper than the pain it promised to heal.
Since the beginning,
we are taught to trust it.
Like an invisible hand.
They say it guides us through the dark,
leads us to a place where things make sense.
But what if it doesn’t?
What if all this time,
I’ve been following a shadow,
waiting for something
that was never meant to come?
They tell me to believe.
Not because they know the way,
but because they have nothing else to offer.
When words fail,
when comfort runs dry,
they dress up uncertainty
in the language of hope.
"Keep moving."
"Keep believing."
But I have moved,
and I have believed,
and yet everything I reach for
slips right through me.
I watch my world crumble,
brick by brick, dream by dream,
and I am still told to hold on.
Hold on to what?
To another illusion?
To another heartbreak?
To another promise that dissolves
the moment I touch it?
Hope is not the light they claim it to be.
Sometimes, it is the weight that pulls you under,
the voice that keeps you waiting
for something that will never arrive.
And if hope does work,
then I am sure I haven’t crossed paths with it.
And to which,
I am again—not so sure.
I will write someday
when these half-born feelings
cease their restless turning,
when the words
no longer tremble at the periphery of my contemplations.
But tonight,
I let them haunt me quietly,
a thousand murmurs tucked beneath the skin,
aching for a voice
I cannot yet give.
He isn't someone with whom you cross paths with and don't even notice, he is someone whom you smell in the empty corridors, he once walked in.
He doesn't roam around with fakeness hanging on his lips, he stitches bleeding truths over his contour,
He won't accuse you of staring too long, on his flawless face or measured steps,
He isn't the talk of the town, but the one people whisper about,
He's a normal human being who hates attention, who is too hesitant to even look in your eyes, who doesn't care about his looks, who doesn't care about the knives ruining his back,
He is someone you all know,
he is someone you all judge.
#him
#you
- D's diary
A 'witch' you named, a 'witch' you cursed.
And a witch you shall see,
This neck is not for you to slaughter, these wrists aren't for you to shackle, they're mine to use.
And I shall use them well, in setting your souls on fire, with the wood you so kindly prepared for me.
I will shackle your minds and squeeze them open, with the chains you so humbly graced me with.
You refuse to see, then I shall make you watch,
I shall show you,
The price of my blood you thought you could spill.
#random
#SammyScribble
I'm your baby.
You call my name, and I come running, not because I have to,
but because your voice is gravity, pulling me home.
You give me that look,
the one that cracks my armor,
and I smile, not like a man who’s conquered,
but like a man who’s found a reason to surrender.
You take my hand,
pull me through roads that try to push me back,
and I let you, not because I can’t walk alone,
but because I’d rather walk with you.
You hold my face,
your hands warm against my skin,
and when you whisper, "It's alright, baby,"
the war inside me quiets.
I am a man, scarred, stubborn, proud,
but I won’t mind if I’m your baby.
You are not making me weak.
You are simply loving me
in a way that makes strength unnecessary.
#Abdo #29
I find your voice a little softer, shaking meekly when you ask something for yourself, as if hesitant of being too demanding,
I've been witnessing you being too helpful going out of your comfort to be there for someone, do you fear being selfish, love?
Do you forget or do you deny your needs so that someone else gets to have what you deserve to have?
And do you not realise that your wishes are as important as the needs of your loved ones you feel responsible towards?
#hope
#reminder
“The Genesis of Her Tears”
It begins with her eyes, doesn’t it?
Not the way they sparkle in rays or dart with cleverness
but the way they flood,
a betrayal of gravity,
each tear tumbling
as if the universe has failed her.
And you’re standing there,
this hollowed-out parody of a man,
with hands that don’t know how to touch without
shaking,
a voice that turns to dust
before it can form even a
clumsy comfort.
Her shoulders quake,
like a typhoon you can see
but never stop,
the kind that washes away
everything sturdy,
everything you
thought you built for her.
And you—
you stand as still as a tree
in the gale,
roots frozen,
useless,
while the wind pulls at her soul.
Your words trip over themselves
before they even leave your throat,because what could they possibly do?
What could you possibly do?
Her sobs don’t just sound.
They invade.
A war cry for a battle you
already know you’re losing.
You reach,
but the distance between you
isn’t made of air.
It’s thicker, crueler, a chasm
carved out of your
inadequacies.
You think of all the times
you promised her—
and how you were certain those promises
would be enough to shield her
from pain.
But promises don’t heal.
They don’t stand like armor
between her and the world.
And now, they’re just broken, brittle memories
trampled under the weight of her tears.
She doesn’t say it.
She doesn’t have to.
You see it in her trembling hands,
the way they clasp and unclasp as if looking for answers
you don’t have.
You’ve never felt so small,
like a single grain of sand
beneath the tide,
watching her crumble
while you remain
this pitiful statue,
an idol of all the ways you’ve failed her.
You wonder
if she hates you for this.
If she’ll look back on this night
and remember you not as the
man who tried,
but the man who stood there,
useless,
while her world shattered
around her.
But then again,
it doesn’t matter, does it?
What you feel doesn’t matter.
Her tears burn hotter than your self-pity ever could,
and you’d trade everything—
everything—
to see her smile again.
And so you try,
desperate and clumsy,
a child reaching for the stars with broken fingers.
You try to tell her you’re here,
you’re not leaving,
but the words falter,
because you know she
deserves more than your presence.
She deserves answers,
and all you have are excuses.
“There is no worse feeling,”
you think,
than watching her break
and realizing you’re no hero,
just a man too small to save her.
But still, you whisper,
half to her, half to yourself:
“Don’t cry alone.Читать полностью…
If I can’t save you,
at least let me drown beside you.”
“Verses That Refuse to Bleed”
There is a monster inside me,
all teeth and claws,
gnawing at the walls of my skull,
dragging its nails down my throat,
shoving its hands into my ribs,
rummaging for words that do not exist.
I sit before this blank page,
a white slab of mockery,
a morgue drawer for all the
things I cannot say.
I bleed ink, but it clots before it
touches the paper.
The letters choke themselves
out before they are born.
Every sentence writhes and
dies in my hands,
a stillborn thought,
a corpse of a phrase.
I want to scream in metaphors,
but they crawl up my throat like
insects
and I bite down,
crunching on syllables
until my teeth are coated in the taste of unfinished poetry.
I stab my pen into the page. Nothing.
I claw at the margins. Nothing.
I try to carve words into my skin,
but even my blood refuses to spell.
What do you do when the
words betray you?
When they fold their arms and turn away?
When they become “Judas” in
your mouth,
kissing your lips only to leave you empty?
Somewhere,
a poet is drowning in verses.
Somewhere,
a writer is setting fire to their own pages.
And I am here,
choking on the ashes of a story
that will never be told.
To those listening, the void whispers,
"Two kisses, one day,
Blue Bird sings, a tale of stupidity and carelessness,
In a single hazy night, with drunken smiles, roaming hands and purple neon lights.
Lavender is in the air, out of its field,
Defiled angels are on the streets, holding their own leash.
Two kisses in one day,
Two shots from one hand,
Interlocked arms, dizzy thoughts and sweet, crushing bites,
Dreams are high, beyond a normal sight.
The Lavender laughs, the Angel smirks.
Two, in one night,
A crazy witch, a maddog,
In a single moonlit night."
#random
#SammyScribble
The mirror sighed today,
It’s tired of watching me search for someone who isn’t there.
.
~ rahul
#poetry #poems #prose
"Yesterday, I Broke My Pen"
Yesterday, I broke my pen.
Snapped it in half like the silence I could no longer bear.
Ink spilled onto my fingers,
like the words I had swallowed for too long.
It wasn't just a pen—
it was the weight of everything unsaid,
the burden of unspoken thoughts,
the pressure of a mind that never rests.
For years, I let it write stories
that weren’t mine to tell,
poems that rhymed but never felt right,
letters that never reached their destination.
But yesterday, I broke my pen.
And in that moment, something shifted.
Not just the ink, not just the plastic—
but the fear of writing my own truth.
Maybe today, I’ll pick up another,
not to rewrite the past,
but to finally, finally write as me.
— master
Late-night 28feb.
I'm sure the butterfly looked ugly in her cocoon,
wrapped up in such a way you'd think of death
before imagining flight on colorful wings.
It must have been pitch black—I can only assume.
But after countless mornings
and rainbows following storms,
she got to see beauty for the rest of her life.
So I'll hold on to that hope:
a beautiful, warm morning will precede this night.
I'll hold on to the hope
that this night will come to an end.
This Is Me Saying Goodbye
I observe the spectre of past
In rainbows and in oil spills.
The lights dissolve into a sea of colors
Of green, blue, and red.
I fade with them.
I sigh my words onto the windowpane;
You eye the silent poem written there.
On nights like this,
Even breathing becomes a task.
I hold your hand,
But it is the hands of a war you're holding.
You watch me cry the tears of a lifetime.
There must be a way out.
They want to see the best version of me, but I am afraid that if I let go of the one I am today, I will be nothing but a body.
#short
#life
- D's diary
She was walking, proudly on the road,
when her sandal broke, the one she adored.
In the middle of the street, she stood, lost.
Embarrassed? Yes, of course.
Yet more upset, as her favorite was gone,
leaving her standing, unsure and withdrawn.
"What should I do? Go back home?"
Her thoughts ran wild, her feet like stone.
The road got busier, her state grew messier.
With a deep sigh, she picked it up,
staring at it like fate gave up.
She slipped off the other, left both behind,
muttering complaints as the world stayed blind.
– Iris
"Apparently, once you're a monster, you never stop being so.
The claws you came to adopt, are now your hands,
What do claws do?
They cut."
#random
#SammyScribble
Let's say I'm the type of lady you're looking for.
The one who's silent, soft-spoken, innocent.
The kind who smiles politely, never speaks too much,
never takes up too much space.
You'd think I'm gentle, easy, kind.
Maybe even fragile, by design.
But inside—God, inside is different.
Inside, I'm something else entirely.
A little cruel, a little selfish, a little too in love with myself.
I watch people and feel nothing at all,
I listen to their stories and pretend to care,
but truth be told, I’d rather not recall.
I smile, nod, say all the right things,
but I know I’m not like them.
I don’t want to be like them.
Their world feels dull, their light burns dim.
Maybe I was born this way.
Or maybe I just decided at some point
that love is a game I don’t want to play,
that kindness is a mask I wear each day.
Either way, you’ll never know.
Because I’m exactly what you want me to show.
– Iris
They said, don’t meet your heroes—
you’ll see their humanity,
and their weakness might not be as appealing
as when they stood on the pedestal you built.
But why do I try to fit into every narrative?
Why do I chase a checklist
as if my existence depends on ticking all the right boxes?
Why do I want to be enough—
and more—
in a competition that doesn’t exist?
Why do I assume my life is under scrutiny,
that I was born to please everybody?
Who took my Nos, my I can'ts away from me?
I struggle to step away from the racing track,
from jumping through hoops—
but for whom?
Who is standing at the finish line?
And for how long should I run—
when I never even chose to be their hero?
The world wavers between chaos and coherence, a paradox I have learned to cradle rather than resolve.
I question the architecture of fate—does it sculpt us, or do we chisel it into shape with trembling hands?
Doubt hangs back like mist on a river at dawn, yet beneath it, the current surges forward, relentless, determined. I have seen ruins bloom with wildflowers, silence birth symphonies, and despair halt open to let the light in.
So, I hesitate, I analyze,
but I also walk—because even skepticism cannot deny the quiet insistence of possibility.
"I don’t want this—goodness!" she spits.
"May the heirs remain in the abyss,
The prodigies of the stars,
The kin of the night,
And the servants of the moon.
Why must one yield to the other,
When two can coexist?
On the hem of my ancestor's robe,
The realm of my heart,
Let there not be a flicker of light,
A drop of life,
Nor the trail of the vine.
May it remain
A beacon of its ethereal descent."
I have seen men destroy
themselves for love.
I have seen them kneel before it,
offering their dignity like a lamb to be slaughtered.
What is it in us that craves
such suffering?
Is it not enough to be burdened by life?
Must we also throw ourselves into the abyss of another’s affection,
knowing full well they will leave us there?
I have thought of love as salvation,
but now I see it as the executioner.
And yet—
some part of me still reaches for the rope.
I'd rather stand in the open field
And get burned by the scorching sun
Than go underground and hide in the dark
Untouched by its caressing warmth.
He twiddles with the pen with the grace of the ocean meeting the shore, velvet-smooth words on standby, ready to spill with the black ink at his command. And when he wills them to materialize, his thoughts take on bodies of immense beauty, jerking tears from all who see them. The multitude of hearts that follow the trail of his golden metaphors, in awe of his graceful renditions, do not know the truth of his trade. It is all an experiment—how far from the truth can his art stand? How unlike him could the creations of his hands be?
~inspired by the red flag poet.
Will it heal you
if I apologize,
for the scars
I never gave.
- Priyanka Metha
“Some voids are too vast for wording, too quiet for anyone to notice.”
Читать полностью…
Do you have things you don't want to forget,
Things you're scared to forget,
Because then it means,
Losing the sight of an already blurry path?
I do.
Are you afraid of oblivion,
Because then it means,
Fading out of everything that matters?
I am.
#random
#SammyScribble
Will you be able to love me,
For what I am, for who I am, for all of me?
Will you be able to love me,
For my ever changing nature, for my deteriorating pieces, for the broken and fading fragments of me?
Will you be able to love me,
To hold my hand, and smile at me in a way you don't smile to anyone else?
Will you be able to love me, to hold me,
When I can't do that for myself?
#random
#SammyScribble
I was the moon when I first met Zizam.
At least, for her, I was born as one.
I did not argue, for if she called me her moon,
then a moon I would be.
Shy, dull, full of battle scars,
I hid behind the earth so no one would see me.
But she—my Sun—insisted I emerge,
so she could luminate my surface.
The earthlings adored me,
too foolish, naive and slow,
never knowing she was the divine light
that made me glow.
She was warm, gentle,
while I was cursed.
Cursed of touches—
for my fingers dried every flower.
We were in the same sky,
surely were, but never together.
I was a storm; bewildered, and reckless,
she was the autumn wind; soft, and flawless.
I was born to wreck, and to be torn apart,
she was made to caress human skin,
a touch, enough to soothe a beating heart.
While others closed their doors,
shuttered their windows tight,
afraid of my ruin,
she reached me instead,
held me, kissed me, embraced me,
to playfully swirl around me.
She completed me.
Had it not been for the wind,
what good is a storm?
But my winds grew too strong,
too violent for her melodic voice,
too deafening for her laughter.
She has to leave—
or she’d be wrecked too.
For she was the gentle wind,
and I was born to destroy.
She has to leave,
and I was born to be destroyed.
Yet, even now, when I rage across the sky,
I swear I can still hear her—
a whisper in the wind,
distant yet sublime,
I call her name,
trying to hold her,
one last time.