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I peel the ripened tangerine—
its skin sighs in my hands,
tender as truth,
and bitter where sweetness once bloomed.
As if I’m the one
afraid to breathe in
the citrus ghost
clinging to my bones.
O heart—
soft citrus of sorrow,
why do you unspool in silence?
Why do you offer
your white ribbons
like apologies I never asked for?
Each segment splits like a secret,
each drop a confession
I’m not ready to taste.
But the worst is this—
I see myself in the fruit:
pulp of memory,
juice of regret,
sore and sweet
on the back of my tongue.
To know myself,
I must devour myself.
And maybe I’ve been feasting
on my own flesh
all along.
Your hair may be white,
Your heart can pale,
But under your eyes will always remain pitch black.
You may try to live,
You can try to love,
But you will always despise the world you live in.
#random
#SammyScribble
You map my scars like constellations,
trace the routes of my ruin
with pilgrim’s hands.
I want to scream;
This is no holy land.
These borders shift,
these walls crumble,
and every path leads
to the same dead end.
Still you walk them,
whistling like a man
who’s found water
in the desert.
#draft
Not all my poems
are meant for you to read.
Even if they sound like your voice,
even if they pause
where your name belongs.
You’ve seen me
a certain way
familiar,
but never quite close enough
to understand the weight
behind the words.
If you read them,
you might not recognize yourself.
Or worse,
you might.
And maybe you’d turn away
not from the poem,
but from me.
Because I don’t write you
as the world sees you.
I write you
as I do
quietly,
completely,
and without permission.
Wear your pain like skin.
Not proudly.
Not shamefully.
Just enough
that no one asks
why you're always cold
when it’s warm.
- master
Let the daggers pierce me—
I won’t mind the blood,
if only to see your pupils dilate
not from love,
but from the thrill of worship—
of me, of my pain.
But your devotion ends here.
Your sword has betrayed the very self
you claimed to kneel before.
– Iris
On one piece of land,
The innocent become martyrs, before the fighters do.
On one piece of land, the world puts aside all its glorified morals and philosophy, and bares its teeth.
And the world is scared.
Of the children on that small piece of land.
#random
#SammyScribble
Some roads don’t hurt because they’re empty, but because we keep watching them.
#Abdo
Your hands find the hollows
where my courage used to live—
press warmth into the spaces
I’ve let go cold.
I should pull away.
I should let you love someone
who knows how to love back.
Instead, I lean in,
let your heartbeat teach mine
a rhythm it may never
learn to keep.
#love
I Met Myself at Sunrise
I didn’t expect her—
not then, not like that,
standing at the edge of morning
like she’d been waiting
since I first forgot her.
No makeup.
No disguise.
Only the smile I’d buried,
when the world
started asking me to shrink.
Her eyes curved gently,
not out of habit,
but with a knowing glow
that whispered,
"I remember who you were."
We didn’t talk.
Words would’ve ruined it.
Instead, we watched the sun
stitch light back into the sky,
as if teaching it how to feel again.
She touched my arm—
warm, steady, real,
like I belonged to something again.
Like I truly mattered to someone,
and I could finally stop chasing.
When the light grew full,
she didn’t vanish.
She stepped inside quietly,
like stepping back into a house
you never stopped calling home.
I breathe in,
and the air doesn’t hurt—
it tastes like jasmine and second chances,
like the world has been waiting
while I learned how to stay.
One day I’ll stop flinching at my own name.
One day it’ll sound like a song,
not a sentence.
Today, I hum it anyway.
#HID
“The Jungle Never Apologized”
The jungle never whispered sorry
when the antelope collapsed
under a hunger it didn’t birth.
No courtroom in the woods.
No trial
for needing to survive.
A tiger does not write
a letter of regret
to the ribcage it opened.
It eats.
And moves on.
Because here,
existence is not
a moral debate.
The trees don’t blush
for growing roots
into bones beneath them.
Even the sun
doesn’t ask permission
before burning the forest floor.
This place—
it breathes without explanation.
It kills,
it births,
it rots,
it reigns—
without ever
asking to be understood.
Eyes in the dark don’t lie.
They don’t pretend they’re lamps.
They watch.
And if they must,
they lunge.
Because truth in the wild
is not gentle.
But it’s real.
I stood there once,
between silence and snarling—
and realized
how dishonest I had become.
How I learned to smile
while bleeding.
To shrink desire
into digestible pieces.
To apologize
for instincts
the wild would have honored.
We call it savage—
this honesty.
But what if the forest
isn't wild?
What if it’s just
unashamed?
What if everything we call civilized
is just
a more elegant kind of fear?
No,
the jungle never apologized.
And maybe that’s
why it’s still free...
I owe it to these storms;
thay taught me to wield my angst,
to shake my fears
and shatter them at my feet,
for driving a rush of air
into my anxious being.
I owe it to their icy hush
in all its defeaning glory,
mocking me with the fair truth
of being surrounded—
with nothing but ruins of my hopes,
and none of those I trusted them with.
That I'm better off treading alone,
from here on,
as an embodiment of destruction
falling upon anything crossing its way,
to rip through their shallow pretense.
I smile upon their thunderous greys
their friction bellowing lightening strikes,
beyond all power and might
easily overbearing plight,
where I borrow strength from
to stand as steel,
unbending, unrelenting,
unforgiving every step of the way.
#silence
#poetry
For once,
I want to be the poem.
Not the one writing it.
I’m tired of turning my pain into pretty words,
tired of always being strong.
I want someone to write about me,
to feel something because of me.
I want to be seen,
Not studied.
Loved,
Not fixed.
Ideas are infinite—yet your fingers, weary pilgrims, meet their end.
The lash of self-reproach is endless,
but the fragile soul it strikes does not endure.
“You are not sick enough,” they murmur,
as if grief could be weighed in grams.
#scribble #lines
I asked for nothing
but a gaze unshuttered by disdain—
yet even that,
a glance untainted by superiority,
proved an extravagance.
A kindness costs more
than cruelty ever did.
The smallest courtesies,
they treat as crowns I do not deserve—
as if decency
were a favor reserved for kings.
Do I wake in your forlorn silence, love?
Or am I the one waking it—
into a stretch of dreams
that your eyes shyly gleam of.
#silence
#poetry
When I Awoke in My Own Bones
It didn’t begin with sunlight—
just the slow, unfamiliar feeling
of being in my body
without wanting to run from it.
My body didn’t feel strong,
but it felt mine,
like I could sit in it
without apologizing.
My hands—
didn’t reach for answers this time.
They just rested, quiet and open
as if they’d forgiven me
for everything I couldn’t carry.
The mirror didn’t lie,
or try to make me look pretty.
It just met my eyes,
like it finally recognized me.
The ceiling blinked,
like it knew things,
a quiet witness to all my almosts.
It didn’t speak,
just held the silence better than I did.
The silence wasn’t empty.
It was full—
of things I hadn’t said out loud
and the weight of unsaid goodbyes.
But I sat with the silence,
not fearing this time.
And later I caught myself
not just breathing—
But awake,
alive in
my own bones.
Come back with your sandalwood breath,
come back with your inkspill lashes,
come back with the gaze that bends syntax—
the one that undoes all grammar of restraint.
Return as a myth I can quote without shame,
a fable stitched beneath my mortal shirt.
When she sings,
the notes stick in my ribs
like fractured wings.
I want to warn her:
'Stop feeding the thing that starves itself.'
But my mouth is full of feathers
and apologies that won’t survive the air.
#OC
How easily they speak
those who are never visited by doubt.
Their tongues drip
with the confidence of inherited truths,
while I must excavate
every thought
like an archaeologist of my own conscience.
I do not despise their certainty
I simply envy the sleep it allows them.
"If I, Love, Could Speak"
If I could speak—
not through trembling hands
or racing hearts,
but in my own voice—
you’d hear the weight I carry
behind every whisper of I love you.
You think you found me
in late-night texts
and burning kisses.
But I was never in the rush—
I live in the pause.
In the breath held
before the truth is said.
They blame me when they break.
Call me cruel,
unreliable,
fleeting.
But I don’t leave.
I’m always the one
left behind
when pride walks out first.
I’ve watched people use my name
to control, to chase,
to fill the silence
they never learned to sit with.
But I wasn’t made
to fix your loneliness.
I was made to be a mirror—
gentle,
but honest.
You ask me to stay,
but only on your terms.
You want me to be quiet
when it’s inconvenient,
loud when you need saving,
invisible when you're scared.
I’ve been held in the arms
of the forgotten,
buried in the noise
of what-ifs and almosts.
I’ve lived in the way she looked at him
when he wasn’t watching.
In the hand he reached for—
just one moment too late.
And still,
I remain.
Soft.
Stubborn.
Sacred.
Because I’m not here
to be easy.
I’m here to be real.
And the ones who choose me—
not for comfort,
not for safety,
but for truth—
they find what most never do.
Not the feeling of being loved,
but the quiet knowing
they’ve learned how to love, too...
Intrusion aftermath
Beyond the fence
lies a world —
I don’t care for… much.
Within the fence,
empty rooms cradle my solitude.
And my eyes —
always glued to the fence —
grow sick of its solid,
systematic spine.
I want to break it off,
for I don’t like decent structures... anymore.
These suffocating systems
only keep you alive —
but you’ve got to live
in a messy way,
the most unfashionable way,
if it brings peace
and doesn’t bruise your skin.
I trace my scars
like constellations
hoping they’ll form a map
to something
softer
than survival.
#ShortScribbles
I Can’t Do This Anymore!!
I fold myself into smiles I don't feel,
walk hallways like I'm not fading,
nod at conversations like I'm listening—
but really,
I'm just trying to remember
what it felt like to breathe
without apology.
The mirror knows my real name,
the one made of sighs
and unanswered messages.
I call for help in invisible ways—
through silence,
through "I'm fines" that scream.
And some days,
getting out of bed
feels like dragging the moon
by its dying light.
But still,
I'm here.
Not strong. Not brave.
Just here.
And maybe that’s
something.
— master
I lie in a crypt of lost hopes—
cobbled bones of my fractured vows hold vigil.
If you cannot descend into this mausoleum of my despair,
you will never taste the incense of my resurrection
when I emerge, a reliquary purified by lengthened night.
To cage a wild thing;
First, name it "precious"—
soft, like a wound.
Then prove how the world
is sharp and unkind.
Show it your teeth,
but call them "pearls,"
and praise its wings
while you clip them first.
#lines
I see the molten gold that runs along the cement,
and I marvel at the source.
I see honeydew dripping,
and my eyes linger on the lips that bore it.
I see a mansion that glitters—
but I push it back,
and it crumbles,
exposing its maker:
the creator of beauty,
a beast with murky hollows for a heart,
and a heart that’s akin to a black hole.
You speak to the ruins in me
like they’re still a home,
brush dust off my silence
like it’s just waiting to shine.
And I let you
because pretending
I’m still whole
feels kinder
than reminding you I’m not.