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Who holds the ink that writes the story?
Who sharpens the quill that carves halos and horns?
Is it the one who wins,
or the one who survives?
The one who speaks first,
or the one left to rot in silence?
A hero is a villain draped in applause.
A villain is a hero who lost the war.
History is a stage,
and the script bends
for the loudest voice,
the highest bidder,
the hand that wields both sword and scroll.
So tell me—
when the dust settles and the statues rise,
whose sins will be sanctified,
whose virtues buried?
"PEOPLE"
Sometimes, I want to treat them as they treat me,
cruel, calculating, hollow.
To shatter the smiles they flash at me,
to drown their voices that silence mine.
They drip poison over me,
weaving their venom into every breath I take,
every touch I feel, every glance I catch.
They feast on wounds they carve in me.
But that is not me.
I do not cut with their knives,
I do not burn with their fire.
Instead, I wish them abundance,
all they ever craved, all they envied in me.
Let them be rich in dreams they stole from me,
drenched in joy they swore I’d never taste.
Let them die without hunger,
so when God brings them back to life,
they stand for their account
no excuses left,
only the weight of the wounds they carved into me.
#Abdo
Held only in thought
And I never saw him,
Yet, somehow, I knew.
When I finally beheld him,
I wished for time to stop,
for the sun to set in quiet surrender,
for the wind to roam free,
carrying the whispers of his presence.
And the leaves?
I wanted them to fall upon him,
a silent welcome, a soft embrace.
The butterflies, stretching their wings,
spilling colors onto his skin,
painting him in hues so beautiful
that even the sky would envy him.
And the clouds—
they would cradle the wounds
I unknowingly left on him,
offering rain as a gentle balm.
Now, time stands still.
He does not move,
lashes swaying with the breath of the wind,
his eyes deep, dark, and blissful,
like the ocean at night.
I guide him to sit,
and in the silence,
I watch him as much as I want.
No voices, no chaos—
just a feeling too vast for words.
Without reason, tears slip free.
My fingers trace his lips,
coaxing a quiet smile.
I brush back his hair,
letting the moment linger in my hands.
Then, I take out my camera,
capturing him, capturing this.
But this earth—
this restless, hungry earth—
has no control over him.
Rain begins to fall,
wrapping him in crystal drops,
turning this moment into poetry.
And yet, I steal more glimpses,
holding onto something he doesn’t even know he’s given me.
Maybe I will treasure it,
hide it deep within my heart.
So innocent.
So untouchable.
But time stirs again.
His fingers move,
a sign—a warning—
that I must leave before he sees me,
before the moment slips into reality.
One last glance.
A silent question:
"Is this wrong?"
No.
No, it is not.
But can I hold him?
No.
That would be wrong.
So I turn away,
vanishing like a breath in the wind.
Will he remember?
Perhaps not.
But in his hands,
I have left something beautiful—
a gift unnoticed, yet profound.
Maybe someday,
we will meet again,
in a time where I do not need to steal moments,
where I do not need to make him
a sculpture of a living body.
Maybe then,
I won’t have to leave.
Story end.
These words I write, they can't kill me, can't spill my blood.
But,
They can quench my soul sometimes, and sometimes they set my veins on fire.
The words I write, sometimes kill me a little, and sometimes they kill me a little bit more.
Just not by daggers.
#random
#SammyScribble
The Wolf in a Sheep’s Fleece
They were meant to be the effigy of remorse,
the totem of repentance.
I sheared their skin, but it wouldn’t warm me.
I ached for its softness, but it wasn’t wool.
Instead, I ran under the full moon—
fleeing the wolf beneath
all the cunning “forgive me”s
and the sly “sorry”s.
An economic decision, born of scarcity,
a shortage of honest character—
false advertisment for a show
that wanted to consume all my time,
without substance to deliver.
To Be Loved Is to Be Dead
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then do flowers bloom for me,
Their petals laced with pity,
Their fragrance heavy with regret.
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then does my father’s warmth reach me,
Not through touch, but through sunbeams,
His love, once cold, now painted in gold.
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then do my friends remember,
Calling my name in voices soft with sorrow,
Yet they buried my heart while it still beat.
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then does my mother hold me,
Her whispers tremble with the love I once craved,
But I no longer feel the weight of her arms.
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then do they come, not out of love, but duty.
Was I ever more than a burden?
Or just a fleeting thought dressed in mourning?
To be loved is to be dead—
Only then do I see infinity in his eyes,
The love I once begged for now spilling in silence.
Does he whisper my name, asking me to wake?
But it’s too late.
Too late to feel, to hold, to know.
I am only a memory in their minds,
And they—simply human.
Because to be loved is to be dead.
So, what do I do?
Without my warmth, and even deprived of my ice?
What do I do now,
Without a guiding moon, or the company of my own thoughts?
Without my mountain, without my Lily?
Who, should I ask?
Or,
What,
What do I ask?
#random
#SammyScribble
Quite Vows of a Child
They say a parent’s love
is the purest form of love one can find.
But what about a child’s love?
A love that’s silent yet strong,
carrying the weight of gratitude and understanding,
and the unspoken promise to give back
all that was given to them, everything.
A child may never say it out loud,
but they know—
they know of the nights their parents stayed awake
worrying about tomorrow,
of the times they smiled through their pain
just to keep the home warm,
of the dreams they let go of
so their child could chase theirs instead.
And so, when a child dreams of success,
it’s never just for themselves.
It’s for the mother who wore the same old clothes
so they could have new books.
For the father whose hands grew rough
from years of hard work
so theirs could stay soft.
For the ones who never asked for anything,
but deserved the world.
A child carries this love like a promise—
a quiet vow to give back,
to bring the laughter that once faded,
to make sure their parents never feel the weight
of struggle again.
Because no matter how much time passes,
how far they go,
A child might never say it,
never find the right words,
but deep inside,
one of their greatest dreams is to
one day look their parents in the eyes and say—
"It’s your turn to rest now.
Let me take care of you."
~ The Poetry Room
From Ashes To Strength
You have fallen,
shattered into a thousand pieces,
scattered across the floor
like forgotten memories.
No hands reach to gather you,
no voices whisper which parts to save—
this is your choice,
your moment.
Breathe.
The breaking is done.
Now begins the quiet storm of healing,
where strength is born in silence,
where pain becomes power.
You will leave behind
the smaller version of yourself,
the one who bent to fit where she did not belong.
No more shrinking, no more sorry.
This is your rise.
Wear your scars like a crown,
each wound a testament
to the fire you walked through.
You are not who you were,
and you will never be that girl again.
Step forward.
Not as they expect,
not as they wish—
but as YOU.
Unapologetic. Unbreakable.
Alive.
Now go.
Show them what you’re made of.
"You didn’t break—you transformed. Now step into the strength that was always yours."
Time as a Villain
What if time isn't a healer, but a thief with soft hands?
It comes quietly,
not with a scream but a whisper—
slipping through cracks in your fingers
as you hold on to what was.
They say time heals,
but have you noticed how it forgets instead?
Faces fade, voices dull,
memories lose their color like old photographs.
It steals your innocence
and leaves you wise,
but only after taking
what once made you light.
It rearranges your heart
without asking,
turns love into longing,
and joy into nostalgia.
You age in its arms
not because it holds you,
but because it lets go
of everything you were,
piece by delicate piece.
Time doesn't come to fix you—
it comes to rewrite you.
And sometimes,
it writes the ending
before you’ve read the beginning.
Still, we thank it.
Still, we trust it.
Because what else can you do
when the villain smiles
and promises
to make it hurt less?
— master
2:33pm,Saturday
"You tell a different story to every person you meet. Who are you?"
"What they want me to be."
"Your deceptive ways make you proud?"
"I don't apologize for how I chose to protect or repair. I can be a villain or a saint. I can play a part but I can never be known. Now some might see that as tragic but let me indulge you in the sweetness of being alive like me. You never have to make sacrifices for anyone ever again."
Because you were no longer mine,
the poems stayed.
But they didn't feel like beauty anymore—
they felt like you.
And maybe that's the cruel part—
poetry doesn't forget.
It remembers everything
I tried to leave behind.
Even...
the way you looked at me
like I was more than just
a collection of broken pieces.
But I was, wasn't I?
A puzzle missing parts,
trying to fit into a picture
I didn't understand.
And I broke you.
Not because I wanted to,
but because I didn't know
how not to.
So maybe poetry is beautiful,
and maybe it hurts,
because it is the only thing
that tells the truth
when I can't.
I slept with my questions for many moons,
not anticipating answers,
but accepting the unknown.
Unwilling to search for meaning,
comfortable in mystery—
not adoring it,
yet not fighting it either.
I slept with my questions,
but today I rise,
my head lighter.
I've found no answers,
but the questions are gone.
And if being broken, names me evil, calls me wicked, and throws my neck to the claws of the rest of the world.
Then what, so be it.
Then their blades will find my shattered limbs repaired with steel, it'll find my smashed soul mended with stone.
Let them show me, what their swords are good at, when they meet my words.
#random
#SammyScribble
Do not bid me goodbye, do not clasp your hands for my safety. But stay away a little, for I'm afraid of turning blind.
I'd rather wage wars with these claws against my flesh and drown deep my thoughts of a home.
As long as this black fire remains in my mazes. As long as it never surfaces and catches a glimpse of your smile.
#random
#SammyScribble
She does not whisper
riddles by candlelight,
nor murmur omens
in trembling tongues.
She rips the future from the mouths of the slain,
pulls prophecy from the marrow of broken kings,
reads fate in the blood that pools beneath their ribs.
She has never been wrong.
She has seen cities kneel
before they rise,
heroes rot before they are named,
thrones crumble before they are warmed.
She does not pray,
does not plead—
she only watches,
knowing the ending
has already been carved into time’s brittle bones.
They come to her, desperate,
offering jewels, kingdoms, their very souls—
but she does not barter.
She tells them the truth,
and they call it a curse.
She tells them their fate,
and they call her a liar.
But when the sky partitions,
when the rivers run red,
when the war horns wail like grieving gods,
they remember her voice.
And by then, it is far too late.
"This Evening Feels Different"
The air is lighter tonight,
or maybe it’s just my heart,
finally free from the weight
it carried for days without asking why.
The market hums around me,
but it doesn’t feel like noise.
Not tonight.
Tonight, it blends into something softer,
something almost alive,
as if the world has stopped pressing down
and started breathing with me instead.
The wind is colder,
or maybe my skin is just more awake.
Maybe I am more awake.
Every inhale feels fuller,
like I’ve been half-breathing for too long
and only now remember
what it means to take in the world.
I want to smile—
not for anyone, not for any reason,
just because I can.
I have no one beside me,
but that doesn’t stop my feet
from moving through the streets,
as if they, too,
want to feel the night unfold.
Tonight is different.
And I don’t need to know why.
I just need to feel it.
~ rahul
#poems #poetry #prose
A Superhero’s Lament
He once dreamt of capes and battle cries,
of villains falling at his feet,
of people chanting his name in streets
where shadows feared to linger.
He was a child who wanted to be more,
to hold the sky in his hands,
to be the shield between the weak and the world,
to bear the weight of justice—
until he did.
And now he sits on the moon’s cold surface,
staring at the Earth he swore to protect,
wondering if it ever protected him.
No one sees the scars beneath the suit,
the weight of a world that never asked
if he could carry it.
No one hears the silent screams,
drowned beneath the applause.
He saved them all,
but no one saved him.
And so he whispers to the empty stars—
"It would’ve been better if I was never chosen.
Better if I was never born.”
— master
One day,
I will turn this silence into sonnets,
this pain into poetry,
this ache into art.
But today,
I let my pen rest—
let it grieve
the way I do.
You were just a heart, that lived long enough, to need to build a wall.
You were a flesh that experienced enough, to have to wear steel.
You were a soul, that felt lost enough, to wander a path forsaken by the others.
You were a precious child that grew enough to unlearn how to love.
That is why this castle of bones was born,
So that it can contain a survivor like you within.
#random
#SammyScribble
The Flagbearers of Morality
They hoist their flags high, embroidered with virtue,
waving righteousness like a war cry,
as if their hands were clean,
as if their tongues had never dripped venom.
They chant of purity while
treading on bones,
their halos welded
from stolen gold,
their laws carved from the sins they pardon in themselves.
They speak of justice,
but only for the obedient,
only for those who kneel in familiar ways.
Their fingers are inked
with verdicts,
their lips stained
with half-truths,
their mercy measured in obedience,
their wrath swift for the unbowed.
They do not lead—they hunt.
They do not judge—they brand.
And when their chapel tumble,
they will call the dust a rebellion,
never their own ruin.
I'm so tired,
let me rest.
I've written enough,
no more next.
The weight's gone,
off my chest.
Now I stay,
still and restless.
The pen hangs,
on my desk.
Let it sleep,
let me rest.
– Iris
My Rome wasn't built in a day.
There were times I never thought I'd have a Rome at all,
when rubble was my only home.
But when it stood tall, I reveled in its glory,
pushing against the stone that dared to pierce the clouds.
My Rome wasn't built in a day—
but it fell in one.
And it fell so many times,
until the crumbling pillars learned the language of collapse,
hitting the ground in a familiar mantra.
"The stone was strong, but still bound to me—
a human of flesh, so weak."
"An Offering to Oblivion"
I carve open the chest,
hands slick with the remnants of devotion.
The heart trembles in my grasp—
a wretched thing, still pulsing, still pleading.
But it does not belong here. It never did.
So I take it far, far away,
to the place where even the wind forgets to whisper.
The desert’s ribcage yawns open,
and I press it deep into the cracked earth,
where no roots will take hold,
where no rain will ever come.
Let it wither. Let it shrivel.
Let it forget how to beat.
Let the blood turn to dust,
and the dust scatter into nothing.
But I am not done.
I sever each vein, slow and deliberate,
cut deeper whenever it dares to stir,
until the sun bleaches it hollow,
until suffering is all that remains.
Even the vultures will not come—
there is no flesh left to feast upon,
only a relic of lost longing.
And when I finally turn away,
leaving it to rot beneath an indifferent sky,
it will remain—an offering to oblivion,
a sacrifice to silence.
And still, I will mourn its death.
Because you are the reason behind my scorched eyes.
"Oblivion does not take offerings—it only waits."Читать полностью…
So you wear these thorns proudly, and you accept this inviting hand.
Then you dance together with the reflection of yourself, to the music of the hollows singing to your tears.
Because you know, this pain does not look better than it does on you.
You know, you have always been the only perfect mannequin to display it.
#random
#SammyScribble
Mumma, if I weren’t your daughter,
I’m sure you’d be happier.
You’d be free to chase a life
That never steals your blissful smile.
Mumma, if I weren’t your daughter,
You would be something else—
An unstoppable dandelion, dancing with the wind,
No tags, no chains, no weight to carry,
Just you and your world, untouched by stress.
Mumma, if I weren’t your daughter,
I know you’d be on a peaceful train,
A journey just for you—
No ties, no calls, no responsibilities,
Only the quiet hum of your own happiness.
Mumma, if I weren’t your daughter,
You’d be a butterfly, weightless in the breeze.
No morning rush, no endless work,
No exhaustion pressing against your dreams.
Mumma, if I weren’t your daughter,
You would be something more,
Beyond these four walls,
Beyond the hush of long nights and hurried mornings,
Beyond the quiet sacrifices you never speak of.
Mumma, your daughter never tells you
How much she sees—
The struggles in your silence,
The weight behind your smile,
The dreams you buried for the sake of love.
But I will live for you.
I will chase the dreams you let go of.
And I know—when I do—
You will be the happiest person in the world.
Yet, in every life, in every world,
I would choose to be your daughter. Always.
Sleep is a deceipt.
It is a lie disuised as resting your eyes,
while the bood-dripping truth is that it is some form of escapism.
It is a state where you see the light in the darkness-
the light they warn you not to go to when you’re dying,
and you’re reaching for it.
But you can’t quite seem to grasp it.
For the moment your skin brushes against it,
repulsion crackles like static,
and you are flung back a thousand miles back to your starting point.
You glitch in the dark in the radio killing silence of your solace, contemplating.
And so you reach for it again,
it throws you back,
you reach,
it throws,
you reach,
it throws,
it’s a never-ending loop spinning, spinning and spinning until you collapse into a black hole.
It sucks you through galaxies, spitting you in a nebula, while you choke on celestial stardust.
You just sway there, drifting weightless like a feather, and they call it “rest” but your bones knows it’s just rehearsal for the grave.
And then a comit strikes and you jolt upright, gasping.
And the comet has already cratered
into your fragile heart.
Your eyes that were once stellar suns now stare onto the ceiling,
desperatly wishing that it could crumble down so the comet can return.
And so you feel heavy, burdened throughout the day
until the time comes for the resting of the eyes.
What if we feared happiness the way we fear pain?
Would we flinch at laughter,
brace ourselves before a smile,
hesitate before stepping into the light
as if joy were a fire waiting to burn us?
Would we sabotage moments of peace,
run from love before it could hold us,
pull away before warmth could settle in—
just in case it didn’t last?
Maybe that’s why we do it anyway.
Maybe that’s why we ruin good things first.
Because losing happiness hurts more
than never having it at all.
— master
I do not love you in halves,
not as a passing thought or a borrowed moment.
I love you the way the river surrenders to the ocean,
the way the earth bows to the sky—
completely, without hesitation.
If love is a temple, then you are the altar.
If love is a prayer, then you are the name on my lips.
I do not seek signs, do not wait for fate to guide me.
Loving you is my worship, my faith, my offering.
Love is not a question for me.
It is the answer, the vow, the surrender.
And if the world unravels, if time forgets us–
still, I will love you.
Still, I will be here.
Forever kneeling at the door of your heart.
– Iris