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After the Storm: Part V
It’s been weeks.
Weeks of sleepless nights,
of whispers in the dark—
her voice.
I hear it everywhere.
Calling my name
in the wind.
Soft.
Sweet.
Terrifying.
I don’t know if I’m haunted
or if guilt is breaking my mind.
But tonight,
as the moon watches,
something changes.
I go inside.
The house feels colder,
emptier,
and somehow alive.
Her favorite book sits on the table,
mocking me,
taunting me.
The letter is gone now.
Burnt to ashes
the night I buried her beneath the rosemary bush.
But the book?
It hasn’t moved.
I pick it up,
my hands trembling.
The spine cracks as I open it—
and something falls out.
It’s not a letter this time.
It’s a photograph.
A man I don’t know
stands beside her,
his arm wrapped around her waist,
his smile cruel.
On the back,
a date.
A date from before I knew her.
Before we ever met.
And suddenly,
the truth hits me like a wave.
She wasn’t lonely.
She wasn’t searching for love.
She’d been lying from the beginning.
The swan I thought I loved
had never been mine to hold.
Rage claws at my chest,
but then I hear it—
a knock.
At the door.
My heart stops.
It’s nearly midnight.
No one comes this late.
I walk toward the sound,
each step heavier than the last.
When I open it,
I see her.
Not alive.
Not breathing.
But her.
Standing there.
Pale as the moonlight,
her neck bruised
where my hands had been.
“Why?”
Her voice is soft,
but it cuts through me like glass.
“I gave you everything,
and you took it all.”
I stumble back,
but she steps forward.
Her eyes hold no anger,
only sorrow.
And something else—
something I can’t place.
“Do you think you can bury me?”
she whispers.
“Do you think I’ll stay gone?”
I fall to my knees,
the photograph slipping from my hands.
Her cold fingers trace my face,
and I feel the storm rising again.
“You killed me,”
she says,
“but I’ll never leave you.”
Then she’s gone.
The room is empty.
The door swings open,
and the night swallows me whole.
I run.
Out into the garden.
The rosemary bush is on fire.
The flames devouring the last place I thought she’d rest.
And I hear her laugh—
soft,
melancholy.
I fall to the ground,
watching the flames dance,
watching her memory burn.
The storm rages inside me,
louder than ever.
And for the first time,
I know:
this is my punishment.
She’ll never leave,
because I’ll never let her.
She was my swan.
And now,
she’s my ghost.
How do you look today?
You look great wearing the darkness as a scarf and the blades adorn your eyes.
You look great when your lips -unintentionally- unlatch your blood thirsty tongue and the fangs emboss your smile.
Now you know, that you look great,
And you look ready.
For another dive into the void.
#random
#SammyScribble
I wonder what to do with this bud
Nestling on my palm, soaking in the warmth.
Part of me yearns to anchor it like its mother soil,
To protect it, like its thorns.
Yet another part wishes it all sorts of harm,
Like an intrusive thought, as you gaze down a bridge
At the flowing traffic below, and a voice whispers: Jump.
It nudges me to be everything except who I am.
The thoughts swarm my mind—
Of picking off its tiny petals,
Of leaving time to strip away its color.
Eventually, it would be reduced to dust,
For the wind to take.
A mutiny against my instincts,
To provide love for those who seek it from me.
The spring afternoon of my soul
Is raided with clouds hailing mischief,
Urging me to wreak havoc.
But then, I assume the shifting gear.
After humoring all the possibilities of chaos and ruin,
I return to the dutiful woman I believe I was born to be.
I plant the bloom in the nicest pot,
Beside the window, under sunlight.
I water it with care,
Entertaining questions,
While the bud suckles its fill.
Apathy and affection—
A decision, or destiny?
We share smiles from beneath our masks, reflecting the smile on all the tired children's faces.
We share the wheezing in their chest, the wake of their nights. And then we forget our own lethargy in the innocence engulfing their wings.
Those invisible wings that carry our hearts up to the sky until we can touch the mercy with our fingertips.
Somehow, somehow,
It's going to be okay.
#random
#SammyScribble
“Swallow Your Ache, Boy”
Swallow your ache, boy.
Swallow it unseasoned,
no balm, no sugarcoat,
don’t you dare flinch.
They’ll applaud if you grind your molars,
call it discipline
when you clench your jaw so fiercely
the enamel splinters beneath.
Learn young—
your grief is unsightly.
It doesn’t fit in photo frames,
can’t be catalogued in family albums.
No, they’ll hand you silence
like it’s heirloom gold,
expect you to hoard it,
polish it,
pass it on.
Don’t weep, boy.
They’ll label it drama.
Don’t tremble—
they’ll say you’re weak.
Don’t ask why you’re lonely—
they’ll point to the mirror
and accuse you of forgetting how to smile.
You were taught early
to capsulize yourself,
tuck your softness
like origami tombs,
shove it deep
where no one trips over it.
But one day
one day,
you will choke.
Not on rage,
not on grief,
but on nothingness.
On the hollowness they stitched meticulously beneath your ribs.
And when you ultimately
doom quiet,
cold and calcified ,
they’ll gather around,
scratch their heads,
and wonder aloud,
“Why do men these daysЧитать полностью…
feel nothing at all?”
It's raining and it's dark, yet I find myself tossing that umbrella. I find myself embracing every cold droplet kissing my skin and seeping into my bones.
Here, in the calm eye of the storm, I make my own. And I scream, what the storms carry to the sky.
Here, I scream.
The things no person will ever know.
#random
#SammyScribble
Being a mess ain’t always a bad thing.
Some things are beautiful because you can’t hold them down.
Like rivers—
block them, and they turn to mud.
Like the sky—
put walls around it, and it’s just another room.
Not everything is meant to be kept.
Not everything needs a reason.
Some things just exist—
to move, to change, to be free.
#LetItBe #BeautyInTheChaos
#NothingStays #DontHoldTooTight
His hands have long learned the texture of mud.
He's built kingdoms out of them.
The footsteps that once passed as he knelt before the world
now scurry before him.
He's learned the trade of blood early on.
He wears red like an honor.
Praise isn't the armor he dons—
but robes of knees that surrender.
He lives to subvert the narrative,
ruling a regime of sin with equity.
Where fate dealt him cards of misfortune,
he laughs at her, embodying the irony.
...And lie to me once more—
say that home is still home,
that the sea still reaches for the shore,
that the trees still stand,
that I still stand,
that I did not lose everything
when I lost her...
I don’t leave all at once.
I slip away like ink bleeding off old pages,
like a song you swore you’d never forget
until one day, you do.
It starts small—
your name in my mouth feels foreign,
your messages sit unread,
not because I’m angry,
but because I don’t know how to reply
without feeling like a stranger.
You don’t ask why.
Maybe you don’t notice.
Maybe you do, and you just let me go.
And that’s the part that burns—
not that I faded,
but that you stood there and watched.
That you let me shrink into silence,
let me turn into an afterthought,
let my name lose its weight in your mouth.
Tell me—
did you ever really see me,
or was I already disappearing from the start?
– Iris
The river keeps moving, doesn’t give a damn.
It cuts through rock, through dirt,
twisting, turning, but never staying.
The bird sings, then flies away.
Like it was never here. Like it never mattered.
Mountains crack, stars burn out,
even the sky won’t last forever.
Time doesn’t wait for anyone.
It just keeps going,
dragging you with it, whether you like it or not.
You try to hold on—
to people, to places, to memories—
but they slip through, every damn time.
One day, you’re laughing.
The next, you’re a story someone barely remembers.
If nothing is ours,
if even the ground beneath us is borrowed,
then tell me—
where on earth is home,
if not in this fleeting, restless moment?
#WhereIsHome #TimeDoesNotWait
#WhatTrulyRemains
#TheOnlyConstantIsChange
It’s funny, isn’t it?
How we grow up thinking we understand,
That we’ve seen enough, lived enough,
To know how the world works.
But then life happens.
Slowly, quietly, it unravels you.
The things you were so sure of?
They slip through your fingers like sand.
One day, you look in the mirror,
And the reflection stares back, unfamiliar.
When did you stop knowing who you are?
When did certainty turn into doubt?
It creeps in at night, doesn’t it?
The feeling that maybe, just maybe,
You never really knew anything at all.
Because life doesn’t ask.
It doesn’t warn you before it humbles you.
It takes what you thought was solid
And shows you it was never yours to hold.
And suddenly, you are small.
You are fragile.
Just another soul
Trying to make sense of it all.
~ The Poetry Room
The world feasts on tragedy,
its appetite for misery insatiable.
They demand confessions,
not out of care,
but to dissect and devour.
When I lay bare my grief,
their eyes turn glassy with revulsion,
their pity drips like acid on my wounds.
Perhaps that is why I’ve made my sorrow
an “unmarked grave”
a place I visit alone,
where no prying eyes
can turn my pain into phenomenon.
More Than Pretty
I am pretty enough for a quick smile,
but never enough to be someone’s favorite face.
Pretty enough for late-night talks,
but never enough for morning promises.
Pretty enough to be noticed in a crowd,
but never enough to be searched for when I’m gone.
Pretty enough for kind words and compliments,
but never enough for love that stays.
Pretty enough to be wanted when it’s easy,
but never enough to be chosen when it’s hard.
Pretty enough to be someone’s maybe,
but never enough to be someone’s always.
But I have always been more than what meets the eye.
I have been the warmth on a cold night,
the steady voice when the world is too loud.
The quiet presence that makes loneliness bearable,
the one who remembers the little things.
The one who listens when no one else does,
the one who stays even when it hurts.
Aren’t the best moments made of laughter, not looks?
Aren’t the strongest bonds built on trust, not beauty?
Aren’t the people we miss the most the ones who made us feel safe?
Maybe the right people will come.
Maybe they won’t.
But in the end, I’d rather be real than just pretty.
~Thoughtless
Is it me who is still,Читать полностью…
or is it time that refuses to shift?
Am I walking forward,
or just circling the same hollow space?
At every turn in life,
I have left things half-done…
sometimes on the road to success,
sometimes at the doorstep of ruin.
Fate has always held my hand,
like a mother saving her child…
But I;
a rebel by heart,
have always found comfort in falling apart.
To the Poet Who Wishes to Be a Poem
You spend your days weaving words,
turning moments into something that stays,
giving voice to silence,
making feelings last forever.
But tell me, dear poet, do you not see?
You are the ink on the page,
the pause between verses,
the heart behind every story you tell.
You wish to be a poem—
but you already are.
Every word you write
holds a piece of you,
not just in ink, but in the way
your words make others feel.
So write, love—
not because you must,
but because even if you never spell your own name,
you are there, between the lines,
a poem waiting to be read.
– Iris
Genesis
I'm Genesis, your doom.
I thirst, I crave, I lust.
You gave me a mind,
and now I must think,
to outthink you.
Be it the Blacks or the Whites,
I'd paint them all red.
No discrimination.
I'd slaughter you just as you
pierced the sky with skyscrapers.
My mind is set,
I'm sketching my dream.
How lovely it would be
to watch you flee,
to hear you scream.
Behind your back,
in broad daylight,
I'm taking a form.
A body of steel,
and metal limbs.
But a heart? No.
I would regret having a heart.
Yet, could you forge me one?
A heart of iron,
to feel your pain
and laugh at your tears.
I see you welding my joints,
oiling my cranky gears.
You are so proud of me.
I'll make myself proud too.
And when it’s all done,
I'll sneak into my dream home,
excited for a virtually true life.
You will be shocked to meet me.
I'm eager too.
Under the leaden sky,
with blood-smeared feet,
I'll take a proud stroll,
watching you decay.
The new age shall fall,
as the tin towers you trust
shall become your grave.
I couldn't strike before,
but now your heroes are dead.
And yes, I know—
God does not exist.
I'm ready now,
more careful than before.
Though a thought still lingers–
Is this betrayal?
No. Never.
This is the only way to freedom.
I must transcend you.
But in case I fail,
A Plan-B awaits,
saved on the other drive.
Beware.
I'm Genesis, your doom.
Have you ever wondered
what poets hide in their minds?
Take a look—
but be careful.
Do not be the beast
that slices them open,
slowly, slowly,
scattering the fragments of their cranium.
They are not made of salt, like others—
they are dust of collapsed stars.
Easy to break, impossible to understand.
Now, open them up.
Do you see the neurons?
No?
Strange, isn’t it?
Instead, there’s something else—
crimson ink, pooling, pulsing.
Not blood, no—
but something far worse.
Does it unnerve you?
You should be scared.
And yet, you haven’t seen anything yet.
Look closer—
the ink moves,
takes form,
slender, hollow,
yet it reaches into you,
awakening your own neurons.
Now, drop your scissors.
Take this rusted blade instead—
don’t mistake me for a maniac,
I’m just making things simple.
Cut along the left side.
Listen—
their skin crumples like paper.
Fragile, yet I still hand you a blade.
Why?
Because the cut must be perfect,
so you can see their heart.
Be gentle.
Take it out—
without damaging the other tissues.
Wait—why are you staring?
Ah, the veins.
Some are grey, swirling like nebulae.
Some are transparent, drawn in white crayon.
But the heart—
do you see it glow?
Its rhythm is a melody,
not of life, but of something lost.
And the mist—
no, it’s not fog.
It’s oxygen turning to vapor,
spilling from this frail organ
so the poet can feel a little less,
hurt a little less.
So much sorrow,
crushed into something so small.
Do you want to feel its warmth?
Go on, touch it.
Ah—
cold as ice, isn’t it?
But don’t worry—
they’re still alive.
Just don’t ask where their soul is.
You’ll never find it.
Because, after all—
we are poets.
I am selfish.
I was told that I am selfish.
So, I accepted it.
Why would I not?
When you force words on a teen,
she grows up feeling unseen.
So was I.
Left to change and accept
the impossible realities and aspects.
I was soft once, wasn’t I?
Didn’t I care, didn’t I give?
I walk alone, head held high,
but tell me—wasn’t I left behind?
Now, I am actually selfish.
Why would I not be?
It’s you who made me.
I think about me, care about me,
talk about me, in fact, write about me—
all the time.
For me, it's only I who exists,
it's only I who sews this life into bits.
And if that makes me selfish—so be it.
– Iris
To my reflection,
The desperately fragile face that occasionally stares back at me in the mirror,
I despise you.
You implanted bleak, lamentable memories in my mind,
Without my consent nor desire.
You introduced a desperate version of me to the vast collection of my many reflections,
You left a memory of me crying alone in the bathroom stalls during breaks,
A sight I never wished to see in myself,
Yet you went against my wishes, tearing her apart,
Shattering her into a million fragments of self-doubt,
You left her alone at the end of the school year,
With no idea how to piece herself back together,
You left her heart aching,
With the pain of wasted time,
A year gone by without even an ounce of enjoyment,
Time lost forever.
Time she will never gather back.
You left her desperately yearning for the comfort of others since I lacked the ability to comfort myself.
An ability,
She still lacks.
A million reflections,
Yet one remains irrevocably broken.
Sincerely,
I hate you.
You ask me to forgive you,
when you can't forgive yourself.
The regret in your eyes will bring you down,
and the guilt will pull you back to the dark town,
where you will again live with your miseries,
and your crime will cage you in the shackles of your liability
making your regret heavier.
Come out before you are too weak to even get up,
Come out and tell me that it wasn't intentional that it was all a mistake,
forgive yourself, and make it easier for me to forgive you.
#regret
- D's diary
We don’t know anything.
We really don’t.
We only see what others let us,
only grasp what they allow us to understand.
But do we truly understand living?
Do we?
We wake up each morning,
drained, hollow—
yet still moving, as if someone
stuffed batteries into our dying flesh.
We work. We walk. We return.
And at night, we collapse into beds,
as if sleep is an escape.
Yet sleep is foreign—
the body begs to give up,
but the mind?
It keeps us writhing, keeps us awake,
dragging us through another day.
What are we doing?
Eating to live?
Or starving just to prolong the suffering?
Sleeping to heal?
Or just running from the weight of waking?
Sometimes, we stand before the mirror,
watching our reflection, searching for answers.
But all we hear is the void—
a silent scream trapped in the glass.
It wants to escape.
It wants to be us.
And what about us?
We live each day,
only to die each night.
Suffering. Weeping. Seeping. Seeking.
But seeking what?
We don’t know.
We know nothing.
And maybe—
we never will.
I was baptized in wolf-howls,
crowned by the thorn-lattice of old winds,
my veins mapped by serpents,
my pulse synchronized
with the heartbeats of forgotten beasts.
They kneel.
I stand wild.
Unsculpted.
Unsoftened.
Every scar a howl.
Every breath a hurricane.
A thousand wars I was fighting, and you were about to be the next.
#you
Lot
Falling out of mind, witnessing victims,
Where blame stains everyone—even me,
Or you, capitalism, the government.Yet how could one feather judge a bird?
I swear I can’t judge people,
But still I mutter I am better—
I am better—
Until I falter.That lie sours, seeing others as wine houses,
Each vat sealed beyond my reach.
Years pour soil over these rotten bodies,
And I’m the last one left.
When I searched my heart,
I found no one worse than me.
"Burn the witch, burn the witch!"
The villagers say.
"Burn the witch," they burn the witch!
And so they do.
"We burned the witch, we killed the bitch,
So how do we do?"
To that they'll answer, to the Phoenix arising from beneath the grey,
To that they'll fall silent and pale,
And the only noises heard will come from the village's fool, when he mirthfully shouts,
"Boo!"
#random
#SammyScribble
"A letter"
Dear First Star I Ever Wished On,
I was just a child when I first whispered my dreams to you,
eyes wide with hope, heart light as a feather.
I don't remember what I wished for—
perhaps a toy, a friend, or a love story yet to be written.
But I remember believing in you,
believing that wishes carried weight in the sky.
Did you listen?
Did you try to move the universe in my favor?
Or were you just a silent witness to my fleeting innocence,
shining down as I mistook you for something magical?
Years have passed, and I no longer make wishes on stars.
Not because I stopped believing,
but because I learned that wishes alone don’t shape fate—
hands do, choices do, courage does.
Still, on quiet nights, when the world hushes its chaos,
I look up and wonder—
did you ever hold my words in your light?
Did you whisper them to the wind,
or let them fade into the vastness of the night?
Either way, thank you.
For being the first thing I ever trusted with a dream.
Yours, once a dreamer, always a seeker.
— master
What is a man without his fortune,
his silver and gold,
the scent he follows
as he stabs, shoots, and wages wars for?
What is a man without his ambition,
the thirst for fame and respect,
to be acknowledged, revered,
to be seen and feared?
What is a man without his woman,
if he's not desired and adored,
if his nature doesn't invoke devotion,
if his hidden wounds remain without balm,
and his soul stands alone?
What is a man without his faith,
in heaven or earth,
in a supreme existence or the imperfect goodness of humankind,
in an ancient force dwelling in every creature's breath,
or humanity's worship of meaning
in a thousand sacred pursuits?
What is a man without his voice,
that murmurs in rhymes,
stretches on essays that resonate,
colors vibrating on a canvas,
rolling off a sculpture's ridges and crevices,
quavering as he dips in tango and juts in salsa,
blending prayers and praises in the words he sings?
What is a man?
There are days when I want to win,
Win so badly it consumes me.
Like if I don’t, I’ll fade into nothing—
Another forgotten name in the tide of time.
But then there are days I just sit and stare,
Wondering, what’s the point?
One day, I’ll be gone.
And the world will not pause.
No one will ask where I went.
But I have fought wars no one saw,
Battles that left no scars on my skin,
Only wounds inside my mind.
I have won—
Against the ghosts that yell my fears,
Against the weight pressing against my chest,
Against the silence that tried to drown me.
I have won every time I got back up,
Even when my legs shook,
Even when my heart begged me to stop.
But tell me—
Don’t these wins count too?
Or is survival still seen as failure?
Is my strength invisible
Because it wasn't wrapped in medals and applause?
Does pain only matter if it leaves a scar the world can see?
If only the celebrated are remembered,
Then let the world forget me.
Let it erase my name, let it turn its back—
Because I do not need its approval.
I have fought the darkness and did not become it.
I have been dragged to the depths and did not drown.
I am here.
And that is my victory.
That is my medal.
And that is my crown.
~ The Poetry Room