Every Day Poems

I am composed of near-moments,
unspoken confessions,
paths not taken.
A life curated
by hesitation.

"Nineteen Years Ago"

Nineteen years ago, when I was born,
I came into this world with clenched fists,
as if I already knew I had to fight.
A blank slate, yet the weight of an unseen story
rested on my tiny shoulders.

I learned to crawl, then to walk,
to laugh, to cry, to dream—
but no one ever taught me
how to carry the storms inside my mind.

Years passed like pages torn too soon,
each one filled with questions unanswered,
words unspoken, battles unfought.
The world kept writing its rules on my skin,
but I refused to be just another chapter.

Now, nineteen years later, I stand—
not as someone complete,
but as someone learning.
Not as someone fearless,
but as someone unafraid to feel.

And maybe, just maybe,
that is enough.


— Master
3:36
15th of Feb.2025

I hold the truth to my lips,
But my heart denies me of it,
For I know the fear in my voice,
I sense how it will change the world.

©® Victoria Damilola

I can finally make sense of the nonsense in this world,

I feel at ease with my existential dread,

I understand how I am a droplet of an ocean of sufferings.

And I know, I'm going to have to pay a price for this comfort, for this faith.


I just wish that price doesn't have to be you.

#SammyScribble

It's been a year…

I've been trying to pick up my pen for a year now, but every tear of theirs feels like an ocean that I cannot pour out on my own.

Every scream and cry, plunges me into this dystopian void, where every breath I take is bloody, rotten, and heavy with unfathomable grief.

There's no pen, no ink, and no paper that can keep up with the suffering they lived through for this year.

In this year, they grew up twenty, this year, children wished for death, babies lost their beautiful tiny heads. This year, they held on to the shoes of their loved ones because that's the only thing the missile left behind. Every day this year, was a year on its own with how much happened in it, the terror, the sorrows…

No pen is mighty enough, or fair enough, to write all that down. No paper can handle a year of the world letting them down, how much they were betrayed by the "Never again" every day. And no ink is ugly enough to line the atrocities of that self entitled killing machine into words.

It's been a year…

A year of teeth and claws trying to hold on to what's left of my sanity, of my humanity, so that I don't get used to it, so I won't get tired of it, so that I don't let the killing machine win desensitizing me.

It's been a year, of world enabled, broadcasted genocide!

It's been a year…

#SammyScribble

7, Oct, 2024
5:42 AM

Father, save me. There's a heart attached to my chest and a brain attached to my head, yet I cannot find where my mind and conscience are. When I look in the mirror, I have this thought that the ability I have to see myself is because I'm outside this body, yet I'm stuck in a vessel I don't even belong in.

— Myra

If I Had My Way

If I had my way, if I was favored by the world,
I’d live in the countryside.
There, the rush in my heart would subside into steady thumps.
My mind would learn peace as my sight lands on the calm of life.
My feet would tread deliberately, caressing the tall grass.
I’d befriend the echo of my voice,
And it would return good tidings from my soul.

Time would bless my joy,
Flying at a steady pace to multiply my bounty.
The love I’d lost for life would sprout
Alongside the vegetables I’d grow.
I’d bathe in the silence,
Wearing the whispers of the field like a robe.
I’d hold my breath at the beauty that unfolds every morning,
Only to let it out at night, before taking a sip of tea.

If I had my way, if I was favored by the world,
I might choose the city instead
A tower to call my home
Overlooking life's endless race.
The glow of the streetlights would smolder softly in the night
And the hum of the traffic would harmonize with the voices in my mind.

I’d learn the cunning of success,
Mine fleeting chances,
And prove I belong.
I’d walk the crowded streets,
Wading through people rushing somewhere—
Anywhere but where they are.
I’d walk the city at odd hours,
Until I’m left alone.

Every day would be a victory of survival,
Rewarded with a coffee-to-go.

If I had my way, if I was favored by the world,
In both parallels I’d dream of, there would be you:
The solace in the quiet,
The constant in the storm.

They made me the Monster,

But it was I, who clawed my way back to feel human again.

#random
#SammyScribble

"The Prison of an Unchained Soul"

I sit on this bench, swallowed by shadows,
cast long by the cruel, cold moonlight.
The wind whispers against my skin—
not a comfort, but a curse,
holding grudges against my silenced tears.

I caged them once,
locked them in the hollow of my eyes,
refusing to let them taste the earth.
But tonight, they remembered you,
they broke free, just to say “Hi.”
And when they found nothing,
no arms, no warmth, no echo—
they fell, unrestricted, abandoned, alone.

Freedom? Ha! A filthy illusion.
A sweet lie whispered into the ears of the desperate.
No one is free, no one ever was—
we are bound, always,
by love, by loss, by the weight of belonging.
The wolves of this world do not let go,
they bite, they devour, they turn you into one of them.
And if you survive?
You carry the scars,
shivering at the memory of all the prey before you.

I will not lower my sword.
I refuse the curse this world writes for me.
Maybe I can’t break fate,
but I’ll wound it,
I’ll make it bleed,
I’ll carve even the smallest change into its bones.
But deep down, I know…
no one can truly resist the weight of what’s already written.

Still, I fight,
but I curse myself for it.
Tears still crawl back into their prison,
still whisper of escape,
but are choked by the same loneliness
that once set them free.

This is not a gift—
this awareness, this knowing, this endless wandering.
It is a burden I would not wish upon another soul.
Solitude is not loneliness,
it is something far worse—
it is being awake in a world that begs you to sleep.

And sometimes, my mind betrays me.
It whispers, "This isn’t your battle.
Why do you still stand in the ruins of a love
that no longer holds you?"
But I don’t move.
I stay.
Not because I have to—
but because I choose to.
Because my prison is no longer the cage—
it is me.

And maybe, in this bloodshed,
the world will finally understand
what it has done.

But hear me, brother—
if we must fight, let’s fight together.
If we must burn, let’s set fire to the sky.
If this world was built to break us,
then let’s carve our names into its bones
so it never forgets
we were here.

11th of January

It’s Promise Day,
but what is a promise
if not a wish spoken aloud?
Words have already been whispered,
blown away in the winds of fate,
scattered like the ashes of a fire
that once burned too bright,
too wild,
too brief.

What’s the use?
I swore I wouldn’t lose you,
wouldn’t hurt you,
wouldn’t break your heart.
Yet here we are—
two people in the ghost town of a love
we once called home,
walking through the ruins,
searching for echoes
of something that no longer belongs to us.

And you—
you once promised to stay,
to never give up.
But promises are fragile things,
cracking under the weight of time,
fading like footprints in a tide
that was always meant to wash us away.

I could have sworn to cross seven seas,
but what are oceans to the vastness between us?
What do grand words mean
when I couldn’t even bridge the smallest distance—
not in miles, but in moments?
Not in steps, but in everything
I should have said
before you stopped listening.

You could have promised me your life,
but I stole it instead—
not with hands,
but with neglect.
With words left unheard,
with nights you cried alone,
with 2 a.m. whispers of I miss you,
with curses of my name
that never reached my ears,
with prayers that never carried yours.

And in its place,
I built an altar for God,
as if faith could bring back
what fate already took.
As if faith could rewrite the past,
as if forgiveness could resurrect
what I buried with my own silence.

- Achu B

I believe that a writer produces prayers without knowing it. That their wishes are sent into the universe, there will come a time when they're fulfilled. I believe they'll hold their wishes in their palms and suddenly remember that one piece they wrote asking for what they now own.

-inspired by the red flag poet

I'm just a man,
I'm just a man, nothing more, nothing less,
Drowning in dreams that life won’t confess.
Sick of the weight of the world’s empty demands,
Breaking my soul with invisible hands.
No savior, no hero I'm just a man.

#Abdo