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Answers were a tribe—so welcoming,
and I, a pilgrim thirsting for knowledge.
Scrolls of their wisdom lay like carpets on their floors,
their walls adorned with the ornaments of direction.
Answers spoke, yet I couldn't comprehend.
They signed their words, yet I couldn't understand.
They gathered around bonfires,
dancing their message into the night,
but my eyes darted, grasping for meaning
that refused the altar of my mind.
So now they sing, they paint, they carve—
a language rich, a chorus profound.
Yet I remain among my kind neighbors,
unable to name either question or reply.
You cannot learn what is not your lot.
Believe me, I've tried.
Do you know, that romance isn't what I want from you?
Do you understand, that they pieced together some small things I take pleasure in, and they named them 'romance' against my will?
Do you realize how it turns my stomach around to see how those simple things, my simple things, have been manipulated and printed in our minds under the 'romance' label?
How do I let you know, that I detest romance, I hate how people think it's the only definition fitting for people like us?
Do you know, that if it were the last label left on earth, I'd still rip it apart, stomp on it with gritted teeth and mighty fury?
How do I let you know, that I just want to be soft, to you and to myself, and I just want to receive your softness?
How do I let you know, that I just want to be able to share my kindness with you, even as ragged and tattered as I often am?
How should I tell you, that I still want to be a shoulder to you, a haven you can come to when people incite your wrath and surface your frustration to the top?
What do I do? What about what I have already done?
Have I done enough yet, to let you know, to erase your doubts, to get your acknowledgment, to let you know,
To have you listen?
#random
#SammyScribble
Some days,
I am the crow nailed to the church door
wings splayed in imitation of hope,
a parody of resurrection,
black feathers wilting
like burned paper.
No miracle for the likes of me.
Only the slow crucifixion of existing
where I am not wanted.
There was a time
when the child in me
couldn’t bear to wait
even a minute felt like a storm.
But time,
it taught him gently,
that some things arrive
only when they’re meant to,
not a moment sooner,
no matter how loud the longing.
So he learned.
Not all at once,
but little by little,
with every unanswered question
and each patient silence.
Now he sits quietly within me
not out of defeat,
but choice.
Not because he gave up,
but because he grew up.
He no longer wrestles time.
He walks beside it.
He has become
what he once could never understand
a friend to the wait.
A quieter me.
I have walked through this world
both king and casualty,
crowned in the morning, crucified by dusk.
Some nights, I sculpt the moon with my own hands,
shove stars into their sockets like a jeweler in a rush.
Other nights, I dissolve into the dirt,
a nameless offering to an indifferent ground.
Tell me, which version of me do you believe?
The one that spits commandments like lightning,
or the one that drowns in his own breath?
Maybe I am both.
A divinity that stutters.
A ruin that shines.
I wish happiness was a thing,
so if, I ever lose it,
I would send an army
with a pair of handcuffs and
some chloroform to find it.
And when they find it,
I'll scold it for hours
for leaving me
on the very second
when I needed it the most.
I'll tell it about how precious
it is in my life,
how every second without it
feels like fire against my lips.
How I wish happiness was a thing,
how I wish
I could imprison it all my life...
#life
#happy
- D's diary
I'm not tired, I'm not drunk, I'm not sad.
I'm just,
Losing to the feeling of wanting to be dead.
#random
#SammyScribble
“Inheritance”
I was born with a hunger
that wasn’t mine.
They handed me a dream like a blade
and told me to carve my future
but the metal rusted in my sleep.
Now I chase smoke through iron halls,
where ambition drips
from the jaws of broken clocks.
Time mocks me with its grin of gears—
I run,
and it eats.
I am tired of digging graves
and calling them milestones.
She writes her spells on skin—
yours.
Every sigh: a sigil.
Every bruise: a benediction.
She does not ask for love.
She harvests it.
Ripe. Ruined. Red.
The deeper I dig,
the more I suspect—
there is no origin.
Only layers of becoming,
like an eternal molting
without a final form.
Perhaps I was never lost.
Perhaps there is simply
no such thing
as a finished self.
For every sensation I yield,
I tend to their root—
my heart,
with words that bloom,
as delicate rhymes,
their scented hymns,
filling through gaps,
peeking through my soul.
#hope
#words
You mistook softness
for submission,
and when I bloomed teeth
instead of petals,
you called me cruel.
But I wasn’t made
to fit in the palm
of your ease.
I was the wild field—
untamed, unapologetic,
meant for those
who don’t mind the thorns.
Dear failure
I wonder,
if I am your favourite person,
I might be the one
to whom people come
to seek comfort,
but not in my wildest dreams
I thought you'd be
in that list too.
I didn't realise,
when you got
permanently engraved
on my forehead,
You carry a different aura
with you,
a unique glow,
because wherever I go,
people know you are with me,
Dear failure,
Believe me,
I don't have any
personal grudge with you,
It doesn't matter to me
if you stay with me
for all my life,
I don't have a problem
with your existence,
I have a problem
with your consistency,
Is there a day
when you forget to
welcome yourself in my life?
Because I haven't seen
that day for sure,
Dear failure,
be lazy for once,
sit beside me
and bask in the glory
of the rising sun,
And give me some time
to accept you,
to understand you,
to have your effect
settled in my mind,
Before you come up with
another piece of yours.
Yours favourite
#me
#life
- D's diary
Birthday Cake, or an Early Condolence
On your birthday cake,
you divide your life—
and the slice wears a face
scarred by its share.
A knife on the platter
is your portion—
its ridges
cut through the frosting
so gently,
so much like your skin,
you can’t call it violence.
This isn't contrast—
but distance,
measured and distributed,
condensed into your absence.
From the crowd
riding waves
along the blade’s path,
no one asks:
How did you gather
your wounds
into your voice,
until even your silence
carried cuts?
And why—
with all the pressure
of those scars
pressed together—
was no scream
ever born?
Aref Moalemi
There's claws at the edge of your warm embrace, fangs sleeping on your smiling lips, and there's horns crowning your tired, soft eyes.
And yet,
I beg you, I'll kneel with tears filling my eyes, so please, teach me.
Teach me how to love you.
#random
#SammyScribble
The Act
Prayer—
a clever way
to stare at bloodied hands,
when the killer
attends
the victim’s funeral
in reverence.
— Aref Moallemi
I kissed the night like an old lover,
drank from its shadows like wine.
Loneliness wore a velvet coat—
and I, a smile stitched in decline.
— master
"How do you think people view you?"
A question they asked.
It echoed louder than it should have.
It reminded me
of how much I've forgotten myself—
So much,
I don't even know how I view me anymore.
This isn’t something I’m proud of.
It’s been months
since I looked at myself in the mirror,
and even when I do,
I don’t recognize the person staring back.
I forgot what my eyes look like.
Were they ever bright?
Were they ever mine?
Now, they just seem tired—
tired of pretending,
tired of being open windows to a soul that’s
too quiet, too cluttered, too cold.
I'm not even sad anymore.
I'm just done.
Done trying to make sense of it,
done pretending I’m not breaking.
It’s not dramatic—
it’s just this dull ache
that never goes away,
like background noise
you’ve lived with for so long
it becomes your silence.
I miss who I was.
Or maybe I just miss having
a version of myself I could believe in.
And yeah—
they probably think I’m rude.
Distant and cold.
But I’m not trying to be.
It’s just hard to care
when even your own existence
feels like background noise.
And I don’t care.
Not about how I’m seen.
Not about expectations.
Not even about what I’ll be tomorrow.
Because how can I care
about the world’s view of me
when I can’t even hold eye contact
with my own reflection?
So no—
I don’t care how people view me.
Because I don’t even know
if there’s anything left
to be seen.
~ The Poetry Room
A Garden Without Me
So I'm going away
away from the promises I failed to keep,
to a place where broken hearts sway in silence.
I’m leaving, to end the pain I caused you.
Maybe now
you won’t need to hide behind those veils.
My hands won’t reach for them anymore.
I’ll sit with my silence
and count the losses in this transaction.
Perhaps there’s nothing more costly
than a door forever closed.
But you don’t need to lock it.
I won’t be there to knock.
Let the walls breathe without my shadow.
Let the mirrors forget my face.
Let the air carry no trace of my voice
when you speak your truth to yourself.
I was a storm
that didn’t know how to rain gently.
You were a garden
that bloomed in spite of it.
Now I walk away
not as punishment
but as the only kindness I have left to give.
#Abdo
The Hundred Year Shift
You know what?
Hundred years back—
Just hundred years back,
there were people
who walked this same earth.
Felt the same sun,
breathed the same air.
They had their worries,
their little joys,
their heartbreaks and celebrations.
They fell in love.
They lost it too.
They cried over things
we would probably laugh at now.
And laughed over things
we wouldn’t even notice.
They thought it all mattered.
And maybe it did, for a while.
But they’re gone now.
All of them.
And no one remembers.
Some made it into textbooks,
carved names into stone,
left behind something the world calls “legacy.”
But even they—
their truths, their hearts,
remain a mystery.
And just like that,
we’ve “advanced.”
Our machines are smarter.
Our screens are brighter.
But we still don’t know
how to escape the silence
that comes after we’re gone.
You and me—
we’ll vanish too.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But soon enough,
the noise we carry will dissolve
into the quiet we leave behind.
No one will remember
the way you laughed at midnight.
Or how your chest ached
at 3 a.m. with thoughts you couldn’t name.
No one will care
about the battles you fought
within your mind
while smiling in public.
And what’s wild is,
the same world will keep turning.
Someone else will stand where we stood,
feeling like they are the center.
Just like we do now.
It’s humbling, isn’t it?
To realize we’re not permanent.
That all our noise will eventually
turn to silence.
But maybe, in that silence,
there’s something peaceful.
Maybe that’s permission
to stop trying to impress a world
that won’t remember us.
To feel what you feel.
To live how you want.
To stop rushing toward things
that vanish the moment you hold them.
Because if everything fades—
then right now is the only thing that's real.
So let's live the now,
let go of fear
for all that’s left is here, right here.
~ The Poetry Room
I fell for a ghost in a library—
her breath smelled like old ink and regret.
We read tragedy by candlelight
and forgot how to forget.
– master
I wonder,
will anyone ever truly see my beauty?
Not just the way I look,
but the way I am.
If a writer looked at me,
could he write me without losing
the parts that don’t fit on paper?
The in-betweens. The quiet.
If a painter saw me,
could he capture the stillness in my eyes?
Or the way my presence feels—
like a secret no one’s quite sure they heard?
If a musician listened,
could he turn me into a song?
Would his melody carry the ache,
the wonder,
the magic I don’t say out loud?
Maybe I’m not meant to be captured.
Maybe I’m not here to be understood.
Maybe I’m just meant to be felt—
like a moment you never forget,
even if you never know why.
– Iris
Let Them Bloom Once More
I only want to hold
those dead, dried roses again—
feel their brittle petals break in my palms,
and let the thorns press deep into my skin
until they drink from me,
until the red returns.
Let them bloom once more,
not with love,
but with the ache I carry
like a forgotten gift
they never came back to claim.
Spoken through vipers
and straws blown by the breeze—
it remains true.
Sung by the lost and the fickle,
still searching
for where they belong—
and still,
it's true.
Autumn’s Last Leaf
I never knew how to love.
I tend to possess.
I weave threads of connection—
fragile, perhaps—
but never breakable.
Still, it’s not love.
It’s more than that.
Obsession?
No.
Possession?
Not quite.
Then what is it?
Even I don’t know.
I don’t let feelings live inside me.
I sink my fangs into them,
draining emotion,
devouring desire.
Yet there’s always one—
just one—
who breaks through every cold wall.
So quiet,
I never even noticed
when it happened.
Now, I don’t know.
But I know enough.
I wear duality.
Even when I say,
“You’re free to leave.”
My twisted mind whispers otherwise.
So they’re just words.
If you believe them…
I’m sorry.
Because you can only leave
when I become
autumn’s
last
leaf.
I want it.
I want to have it, I want to do it, I want to make it, I want to give it.
And I want to give it to you and more,
But I don't know how.
And it's killing me, it's scorching me white, it's burying me alive.
Just because,
I want it.
#random
#SammyScribble
I called her spoiled for being disgusted by her cold arms.
"Hold them," I said. "Embrace yourself," I barked, but she wouldn't listen.
As if she were made to be handled and cherished by strangers.
I called her broken, how she feared her own skin,
like shards of a glass bottle made up of her epidermis,
phantom splinters jutting out of her body where it needs healing,
where it needs care the most.
I called her shallow, feeling the irony bite my hands,
as she could amplify the beauty of a grain of soil,
foreseeing the jungle it could grow,
but wouldn't bear to speak a word of adoration
to the vastness embedded in her marrow.
Pearl
So pure and precious,
She is just like a pearl.
So mean and vicious—
Her oyster is this world.
I know she deserves the world,
But this world never deserved her.
~ By Lily
And the white page,
Again, seduces me—
Inviting my tears to stain its emptiness.
So cunning you are, aren’t you?
And I grasp the pen,
Let myself shatter,
Devour the words hungrily—
Yet halt when it comes to unveiling my real self.
You wear your sorrow like pearls,
threaded carefully between sighs,
looped around your throat in silent elegance,
as if pain were something meant to be adorned.
They marvel at your resilience,
never questioning why suffering must be your signature.
They whisper of your grace,
but grace is a lovely name for endurance,
isn’t it?
Darling, you were not meant to be an exhibit of survival,
a glass figurine polished by pain.
Take off the pearls,
let them scatter.
Your beauty was never meant to be built from suffering.