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"Are You Really Alive?"
They ask if I’m alive—
So I press two fingers to my wrist
and feel the beat
of a borrowed clock.
Breath leaves me.
It always does.
Like lovers,
like gods,
like the truth when it’s inconvenient.
I laugh in rooms that echo
but never answer.
I blink in crowds
that don’t see ghosts.
Are you really alive
if your spine curves
from carrying unsaid things?
If your dreams pay rent
to strangers’ expectations?
Tell me—
is survival a synonym for existence?
Or just the lie
we tuck under our pillows
when sleep doesn’t come?
Because I’ve seen men with lungs full of air
and hearts full of silence.
I’ve watched women bloom in pain
and still get called delicate.
I’ve been praised for strength
in moments I was begging for softness.
And you—
you there with fire in your eyes
and frost in your bones—
when was the last time
you cried without apology?
The world teaches us to walk like answers,
but we are all
just well-dressed questions
dragging yesterday behind us
like a shadow that refuses to forget.
So no—
I’m not sure I’m alive.
But I’m here.
And sometimes,
that’s the loudest heartbeat I can offer.
— master
May the blinds on our eyes come off.
#SammyScribble
I keep subtracting myself
from every equation—
always erasing my traces
from the walls,
one less kiss goodnight,
one more step back,
the slow erosion of a heart
trying to disappear
before it can be left.
#scribble
You held on to me, cradled me in the darkness.
You wrapped me tightly in your thick cold chains, to keep me alive.
And your warm words slithered from my ears into my heart, telling me,
"You're not going anywhere tonight."
#random
#SammyScribble
“The Mirror of Poverty”
Poverty is not always loud.
Sometimes,
it’s a boy in the corner of the room—
quiet,
well-behaved,
never asking for toys
he knows they can’t afford.
He doesn’t cry in supermarkets.
He learns early
that wanting
is a kind of weight
his parents already carry too much of.
In the mirror of poverty,
he saw his mother cut fruit
into perfect halves,
not because of precision—
but fairness.
He saw his father walk past things
he used to want,
now replaced
by silence and need.
This boy grew up.
Became a man
who can now buy the whole shop
he once only walked through.
And yet—
he still pauses at the window.
Still folds receipts
like something sacred.
Still flinches
at price tags he can easily afford.
Because poverty
was never just a phase.
It was a mirror
that etched itself into memory—
a reflection
that doesn’t fade with fortune.
He wears no bitterness,
only memory stitched into his collar.
He doesn’t flaunt his success,
because he knows
that the richest lessons
came from the days
he had nothing.
And if you ask him why he never brags,
he’ll say—
those who have truly gone without
don’t need to prove they have enough.
The mirror of poverty
doesn’t just show struggle.
It reveals grace.
Discipline.
Depth.
And the quiet dignity
of those who carried scarcity
without letting it steal
their softness...
A Museum of Broken Promises;
I curate my failures
in glass cases—
the vows I couldn’t keep,
the hands I let slip away,
the love letters
I wrote but never sent.
You walk through the exhibits,
pause at each display,
and whisper to the shadows:
"We have time yet
to make new ones."
#OC
Others met the queen.
I met the woman beneath the crown—
the softness hidden behind
the ceremonial glare.
She spoke to them in declarations.
To me, in lowercase truths.
Where they saw a goddess,
I saw the ink on her wrists,
the draft of a poem no one else was trusted to read.
I could flinch at every rise of the water,
but it never rises above my ankles.
I could shiver at the wind on my skin,
but it never does more than caress.
I could anticipate a tide making its way,
but it’s a settled blue across the horizon.
And if the silence attests,
if the days decree peace,
maybe I should start to listen.
Maybe the war is finally over.
— It’s the peace after the storm.
— Dear Troubled Lady
You love me
how the moon loves the tides.
I am all pull and retreat,
a chaos of salt and longing.
You remain constant as the shore,
letting me ruin you
again and again,
never once raising a wall
against my inevitable leaving.
What strange creatures we are—
you, solid as faith,
me, forever dissolving
at my own edges.
#shortpoetry
You sit in this cave, its walls made of glass.
Or maybe they're mirrors, where you can see to the past,
to the smiles of your children, who are no longer here.
In this cold cave, with no entrance, without an exit,
How will you find your way back?
#random
#SammyScribble
The more I articulate myself,
the less I resemble anything
human.
I become all diction,
no desire.
An ornament of thought
too baroque for belief.
This heaviness that claws at my chest—
a boulder chained to my ribs—
makes me sick.
I want it gone. Desperately.
I plead, “Please go. Please.”
I am crowned with expectations.
I have to sparkle. I have to shine.
There are people who love me—
who will come rushing to smother me
if a single thing goes wrong.
Their love spills over—warm and thick—
wrapping around my neck
like a gift ribbon.
How sweet. I’m made for this.
Bookmarks
He bought a book
like one buys a dream— quietly
with hope humming in his palms.
The first few pages sparked like constellations,
a universe unfolding in ink and wonder.
So he marked the moment—
a folded corner of infinity—
and walked away to chase
a louder world.
The story waited.
Not angry, just patient—
like all beautiful things
left half-loved.
— master...
Let me weep blood,
rupture the four chambers of my heart,
feed every crimson thread to another soul
until I am pristine.
Then I’ll gasp for air—
ragged, like a punctured lung—
weep oceans until my skin cracks,
until my body begs:
Drink—
drink—
drink.
Confession of a Thorn
They always talk about her.
The rose.
The softness of her petals,
the poetry in her colour,
the way she leans toward light
as if sunlight was a lover
she’s known for lifetimes.
But no one ever writes about me.
The thorn.
The silence below the scent.
The part they curse
when their hands come too close
without understanding.
They forget—
she didn't bloom alone.
I was there.
Still am.
A part of her.
Not a flaw.
A boundary.
They see me as sharp,
but I’m only shaped by the need
to protect.
Because beauty without protection
is easily bruised,
often broken.
I’ve never pierced
a careful hand.
Only the ones
that mistook her grace
as invitation.
Only those
who thought love was theirs
to take
without asking.
They call me cruel.
But what’s crueler—
a thorn that warns,
or a world that thinks
all softness must surrender?
She, the rose,
teaches how to open.
I, the thorn,
teach how not to be taken.
And isn’t that what love should be?
A bloom with roots.
A touch that honours.
Not a plucking.
Not a possession.
I’ve watched her be desired
by those who didn’t know
how to stay.
Watched her wilt
under eyes that only saw
what they could name
and not what they could understand.
So if I seem bitter—
know this:
bitterness is just protection
when gentleness has been mistaken
too many times
as weakness.
And maybe…
just maybe…
I was never meant
to guard her from the world.
But to teach the world
how to deserve her.
Because love—
real love—
doesn’t bleed because of thorns.
It learns
where not to press too hard.
It listens
to what’s unsaid.
And it stays
without wounding
what it claims to cherish.
That’s why I stay.
Not to hurt—
but to remind:
even the most fragile beauty
is allowed to be fierce
where it needs to be...
Perhaps I’ve grown wise
or simply practised
in the art of appearing whole.
It’s difficult to tell
when peace and numbness
share a face!!
"Let me be the affection
your soul yearns to hold—
until you find the one
you were always meant for."
– Iris
“Armor Rot”
Strength has rusted into my spine—
beautiful, corroded iron
twisting through every vertebra.
They call it resilience.
I call it entombment.
I sleep in armor
that no longer opens.
Each breath is a negotiation
between survival
and surrender.
Even tears can’t get out anymore—
they turn to steam
and hiss inside the helmet.
If I were anyone else,
perhaps I’d know how to breathe
without second-guessing
the rise of my own chest.
Maybe I’d giggle
without tasting blood behind my teeth,
walk into a room
without rehearsing an apology
for taking up air.
If I were someone easier to be,
I wouldn’t wear shame
like a sleek skin—
stitched too close,
too permanent to peel.
I’d look in the mirror
and see a face
not a sentence.
A name,
not a diagnosis.
But I am only this—
a collage of survival tactics
and undone invocations,
a boy who mistook self-erasure
for humility,
and made a home
in his own undoing.
No one told me
some men are born
with too many eyes turned inward.
No one warned
what it costs
to be your own wound.
If I were anyone else,
maybe I’d know how to stay.
But I am the exile.
Even from myself.
Pain never fades,
never truly dies.
It lingers—
quietly rotting,
deep within.
Simple aches converge,
merging in silence,
evolving into something
far more twisted,
far more complex—
a spectre born of suppression.
For once,
I don’t want to be profound.
Just held.
Just heard.
Not decoded,
just… felt.
#ShortScribbles
I used to wake up every day and choose violence.
I used to set the world alight with my burning anger.
Then came you. And suddenly, committing arson meant leaving your side,
So I stopped.
#random
#SammyScribble
This pen has never loved me.
It merely obeys—
when I bleed prettily enough.
I do not write to be understood.
I write because silence,
if left untouched,
will begin to speak for me.
The Metamorphosis
By day,
I'm someone I'm not—
a borrowed name,
a shadow stitched in skin,
a walking dilemma
between breathing
and choking
on the same air.
I wear my smile
like a cracked porcelain mask,
fragile,
hollow,
and never quite mine.
But when night arrives,
I molt.
I'm something more than human—
less flesh,
more echo.
A broken wing
from my last thought,
dragging across the stars like
a ghost too heavy to rise.
My claws?
Not mine.
They borrowed themselves from grief—
always reaching,
always tearing,
sniffing the metallic tang
of yesterday’s wounds.
I taste blood
not with my tongue,
but with memory.
I'm turning.
Into what?
Maybe into
the ache behind silence,
more shattered than even my grief,
more beast than breath.
This—
this is what I’m not.
A metamorphosis?
Or a curse that spirals—
no doors,
no exit,
just the same cracked floor beneath my feet.
No way to run,
but still,
I end up
right where I began.
Full circle.
Empty hands.
And if you ever unlearn how to bloom,
I’ll sit with the soil—
waiting, not rushing
the spring in you.
#ShortScribbles
You exist in me
not like a memory,
but like blood
quiet, constant,
moving through everything.
There’s no door left to open,
no space untouched.
You didn’t just enter
you became.
Now,
even if the world knocks,
there’s no way in.
It’s just you.
Only you.
You are so familiar with bearing the boulders of sin, with being trampled under their weight.
You make love to the pain of generous chastising, burning you white.
You're eager to bite your hand off for every wrong touch it makes, to strangle your heart for the bloody tears it cries, and to whip your chest for nesting emotions.
So how, without making ammends, without giving compensations,
How can you accept being forgiven by others so easily?
#random
#SammyScribble
If love is a thing learned by touch,
then I am fluent in the language of your gaze—
the way it lingers like a hand on my spine,
the way it shatters like glass
when you’re angry,
the way it finds me in a crowded room
and whispers 'home'.
#scribble
I found him again after what felt like years, even though it hasn't been weeks even.
I've been looking for you, I want to be there for you.
Or that's what I wanted to say, but I couldn't. He spoke first, after a brief glance to the black cracks oozing under my eyes. His silence and his grim eyes broke into a bitter smile,
"So there's something that can break you, after all?"
The world taught me fear
in fluent tongues,
closed doors, cold shoulders,
dreams buried beneath bills.
But I remain,
a storm with a spine,
raging not to destroy,
but to clear the sky
for something better.