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"We have noticed that more than 90% of the submitted posts to the channel have become AI paraphrased posts. Some of them have even escaped our notice and passed the moderation. And since we only would like genuine write ups in our channel, we are thinking of closing off the submissions until further notice, until people stop letting the artificial intelligence feel and write in their stead.
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I am tired of metaphors.
I am tired of making my pain beautiful.
I want to scream in a language
that doesn’t sound like poetry.
I want to be ugly.
I want to be honest.
#scribble
Who built this house of hurt?
I did.
Stone by stone,
hope by hope.
She only walked in.
Did not ask for throne or crown
yet I gave them,
begging her to stay
in a kingdom
she never wished to rule.
Was it betrayal?
Yes—
but not hers.
Mine,
for confusing attention
with affection,
mirage
with miracle.
I stepped onto my own back,
believing it to be the terrain
of gloomy worlds I admire.
I am not crazy—
but I live in an overly sane world,
where prophecy is mistaken
for ignorance.
And now our world drowns in anticipating red,
Red flowers, red hearts, red smiles...
Whilst those children drown in the red flowing from their veins,
Red tears, red flesh, red stained wails, for every second of the day,
And I cannot, in good conscience, sympathize with a world that allows that red.
I cannot celebrate your love when we cannot celebrate their life.
Not #random
#SammyScribble
I am torn between this apprehension for every kind of love I once looked for
and my bravery for every scar I reaped at the cost of my faith.
Though I can never grow out of love, yet, it's the last thing I expect now, for every time it had been the first thing I willingly gave.
#toxic
#words
They ask me
why I write like this
as if I’ve swallowed
something I’ll never digest.
I tell them:
I do not craft poems.
I survive them.
Each verse is a wound
that decided to speak.
Each stanza
a bandage pretending to be art.
Don’t look for beauty here.
Look for the places
I buried myself
so no one else would have to.
“The Smallest Something”
Some nights, I look up—
and the sky reminds me
how small I really am.
A single human
on a single rock
spinning around a star
that’s one among sextillion—
in a galaxy that’s one
among two trillion more.
We’re not even a footnote
in the universe’s autobiography.
And yet…
here I am—
losing sleep over a memory,
over a goodbye that still echoes,
over a silence that shouldn’t hurt,
but does.
What a strange paradox—
to be so insignificant
and still feel everything
so deeply.
But maybe
that’s the magic of being human.
We don’t need to be big
to hold something infinite inside.
We ache,
we dream,
we fall in love with moments
that the universe
will never even notice.
And still,
we write.
We write about stars
that may have died long ago,
and people
who may never return.
Maybe our pain isn’t pointless.
Maybe our joy isn’t small.
Maybe,
in a universe that runs on physics,
we are the accident of feeling—
and that’s not weakness.
That’s wonder.
So no,
I may not be much
in the grand scheme of galaxies.
But I am something.
The smallest something
that dares to love
in a world that forgets to feel.
And that—
in all its softness—
is kind of beautiful...
Grief does not wear a suit.
It is not polished shoes
or folded handkerchiefs.
It is the raw, red silence
between the priest’s words,
the way your knees forgot how to stand
when the earth took what it was owed.
#draft
But the fire kept scritching under my fingertips from time to time,
When the world and I made you sad and myself grime,
And so came the time when I started setting the world alight again,
For you.
Not so #random
#SammyScribble
I'm afraid.
What if the words I’m putting down
stop meaning anything?
What if they start sounding empty
just letters
trying too hard
to feel like something?
I don’t want that.
I don’t want to write
and feel nothing behind it.
Like I’m faking it.
Like I’ve run out of whatever it was
that made it real.
What do I do
if I give everything I have,
if I pour it all out,
and it still doesn’t matter?
What if it’s just noise?
What if I’m left with nothing?
No words,
no feeling,
no version of me
worth putting on paper.
The talent I have
never really wished for,
nor do I want it
this curse in disguise
that lets me
doom my own life
with precision.
It’s not something I honed.
It grew in me
like rot.
Unasked.
Unwanted.
Unstoppable.
And now,
even when I try
to hold something gently,
it slips
or worse,
breaks because of me.
I still flinch
when someone loves me softly
as if tenderness
were a trick
I once fell for.
There’s a mirror
trapped between four walls
where I act like I’m enough.
And the reflection
it plays along.
It lies for me,
softly, sweetly,
like it wants me to survive.
It tells me I’m fine.
That I matter.
That I’m not that far behind.
And I believe it
because in here,
belief is all I’ve got.
But then I step outside.
And the world strips me bare.
Every face I pass
reminds me how little I am.
How much I lack.
How far behind I stand
without even running.
And yet
I keep coming back
to these walls,
this mirror,
this game.
Telling myself:
I’m enough.
When I know
I’m clearly not.
I accept,
Those red streaks newly woven across my skin, mirrored in the old rough scars on my heart,
I accept, and I drown them in screens of smoke and guilt,
I swim with them in the intoxication of anger.
Then I wait the pain out,
Until your light intertwines hands with my darkness, and brings me back to my path,
Searching for my home, with you.
#random
#SammyScribble
I distance myself
not because I want to be forgotten,
but because I am tired
of proving
I am worth remembering.
Red on white, blood on hands,
But, if that blood was Greed's last breath,
Does it change the equation? Does it make his hands worthy
Of holding her kind black heart?
#random
#SammyScribble
Stage of life.
Beware the eloquent—
whose lips are a stream of glazed honey,
whose mind has long weighed you unworthy.
Beware the smiles,
and the eyes trained for society—
appealing to all,
allegiant to none.
A silent spectator.
When they speak a word,
nations cheer—
the same nations
the eloquent secretly abhors.
Heed where you stand.
The firm, unyielding ground of their affection
could well be
a dissecting table
for their insatiable curiosities.
She made a poet out of me.
Every time
I inadvertently draw people in
through miscalculated words,
I feel burdened—
like taking on weight
I never meant to bear.
Sustaining a connection
feels like drafting weight
on a soul resisting entropy.
You won’t feel like this
forever.
Even the longest winters
forget
how to stay.
#ShortScribbles
To the world, I am vivacious,
graceful in motion,
elegant in presence.
Inside,
I am a stranger to myself—
a compass with no north,
spinning in silence.
I am not hollow.
I am a star,
collapsing
under its own light.
Before I let them play,
I taught them to sit—
backs straight, eyes ahead—
when to question, when to speak,
to whom they should speak.
You can't be addressing commoners;
appeal to their majesties,
and the peasants shall have their fill
of their meager couplets.
Before I let them roll on the green field
and skip on the hay,
I taught them to keep their hems off the mud,
their shoes on the cobbled road.
Their worth was on display
in the shine of their skin
and the tightness of their corset.
Now they yodel and laugh,
befriending echoes in hollow caves.
They frequent the crowd
as much as they stroll the quiet shoreline.
Festivals and quiet merge in their hearts—
hearts that learned
the world is theirs
to own
and explore.
They linger here for a month
before they sail toward tomorrow.
I taught my words,
out of my own lessons:
speak whatever,
whenever
you feel.
I wore 'flawless'
like a funeral dress;
stitched too tight,
black as a starless sky,
beautiful in a way
that makes children whisper,
"A witch."
#scribble
If everything becomes 'even',
then the word 'different' will vanish into meaninglessness.
A world smoothed too much—
where right and wrong wear the same face,
and every finger is the same length.
What’s left to touch, to feel, to stand for—
if nothing stands out?
— CanvasBoy
She woke beside me
like a season refusing permanence.
Hair tousled with myth,
lips still bearing the ache of unsent poems.
When I offered her immortality,
she laughed—
not cruelly,
but with the cadence of someone
who’s seen eternity
and found it poorly lit.
She said,
“Make me mortal.
Let me wreck you properly,
before time forgives us both.”
I am known for my composure
because I mastered the art
of looking serene
while hosting a civil war
between memory and pretense.
Retreat to Garret
As I walked in, the clock on the wall
lowered its tick — just to make me feel at home,
in the numbness I’ve grown to prefer.
The empty frame beside it
blushed out of excitement
to ease my burden, whispering:
“Purpose is like faith — either you have it or you pretend otherwise.”
I flinched at the room’s quiet elegance.
The chair was still warm, still welcoming —
a masochist who craves the weight I bring.
I sprayed the mirror with frosted glass
to resemble the faces outside.
Then flipped it —
I didn’t want to see my reflection,
for I know the burden of blurry faces.
My pen, sitting on the table, shouted:
“I like sketching, not writing.”
I told it, “it's all the same.”
Amidst all this,
I forgot to close the door.
I was fourteen,
standing at the door of my house,
in a little white flowy dress,
watching the sky melt and let fall its pearls,
whispering as if the world might listen to its quiet sorrow.
I remember that day so clearly,
as if my eyes had always seen softly, gently.
Nothing happened, no incident.
Just me, my dress, the wind, and the rain.
My dress did not matter—only the rain,
its gentle touch, its presence that seemed to speak.
I felt calm, peaceful,
as if the earth herself was there beside me,
letting me know I was not alone.
That day rests so quietly in my memory,
like an old film paused on a scene
too tender to look away from.
The feeling I thought was lost,
the memory I thought had faded—
I felt them again today, after so long.
The sky poured softly,
its distant thunder like a murmur,
and for a moment, I let myself drift.
That peace returned,
but only for a breath,
before it slipped away again.
– Iris