I stand upon the barren edge of myself, where the wind carries only truths too sharp for the unprepared. Listen, for even silence has a voice when despair is patient enough to carve its name into the soul.

Part 2?

A lot has happened in the past 3 months and reality dawned on me, you know what i’ll just let the poem speak for itself. Everyone this is Growth. Thank you.

I was the one who trembled, a name pressed into the dirt, breath caught in my throat like a bird caged by shame. I was the one who pressed you down, my hands not fists, but words honed to needles, for

Image source I awoke before the concept of dawn, before time dared stitch itself into sequence. Existence did not shimmer, not until I looked. The void was nameless, until I thought to name it. What you

By a man who never once asked to be forgiven Even if I’m not worthy of heaven, I hope I am not deserving of hell either. I have not claimed light, nor pretended it danced easily within me. Is it not enough,

By the one who already knows the ending They will never question the hand that calms them, Even if the hand is stained. Proximity, after all, is the most convincing illusion— A whispering sound that’s

I am not a masterpiece— do not flatter the silence. Not even a sketch— no vision, no reverence. Only a mess of lines, abandoned mid-stroke, like a thought too dangerous to complete. Lines they drew, without

[Image source] ( Every rose is adorned with thorns, not as a flaw, but as a shield for its delicate petals, a guardian of its soul. So reveal to me the thorns you bear—those wounds concealed in silence,

Hi, Hive. My Name is My Story. They call me truest.mori, but my name is actually Muhammed. I'm a 20-year-old university student from Nigeria, reading Economics—but my dreams reach far, far beyond lectures