fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about what makes a good poem and the poetry rules that were made to be broken.
Love is Not a Lifeboat
Many relationship pains don't stem from a lack of love, but from mistaking needs for love. Many people get hurt in relationships not because their partner is "bad," but because what they are looking for isn't actually love.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing6 months ago in Poets
Fact or Fiction
Fact or Fiction Depending on who’s asking Tell me— do you want the truth, or the version that keeps things easy? Because I’ve learned answers aren’t always about honesty. Sometimes they’re about safety. Sometimes they’re about survival. Fact or fiction— it depends on who’s asking. If you come gently, I might hand you something real, something unpolished, still breathing, still fragile in my palms. But if you come with judgment hidden behind curiosity, if your questions feel like traps instead of bridges— then I’ll give you fiction. Not lies— just edited truths. The kind that fit your expectations, the kind that don’t challenge what you’ve already decided about me. Because truth is expensive. It costs vulnerability. It costs being seen without a guarantee of being understood. And not everyone earns access to that. So yes— sometimes I rewrite the story. I swap out pain for “I’m okay,” replace confusion with confidence, turn chaos into something that sounds like control. And you nod, satisfied, because it makes sense to you. But sense is not the same as truth. Fact or fiction— it shifts with the room, with the tone of your voice, with whether your presence feels like a place I can rest or a place I have to defend myself. Because the truth is— I am both. I am the story I tell and the one I keep hidden. I am honesty and hesitation. I am the version of me you understand and the one you never will. So if you’re asking— be careful how you ask. Because the real answer isn’t just in my words… it’s in whether I feel safe enough to give it to you.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Heaven, Are You Listening?
Heaven, Are You Listening? Faith spoken through clenched teeth I don’t come gentle anymore. Not with folded hands or polished prayers that sound like certainty. I come with fists in my mouth, holding back questions that taste like doubt. Because faith— the kind they taught me— was supposed to feel like peace. But mine feels like pressure, like trying to believe while everything around me is breaking the promise. Heaven, are You listening? Or am I just speaking into a sky that learned how to echo but never answer? I’ve whispered. I’ve shouted. I’ve gone silent long enough to hear my own heartbeat beg for something back. And still— still— the quiet stretches. They say, “Trust the process.” They say, “He’s on time.” But time feels different when you’re the one waiting with empty hands and a heart that’s tired of hoping in circles. I want to believe. I really do. But belief isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, like holding onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers. Sometimes faith sounds like clenched teeth, like, “I’m still here… even when I don’t understand.” Because I’ve seen people lose everything and still say “God is good.” And I wonder— is that strength, or is that surrender to a silence we’ve learned to name holy? Heaven, are You listening? Because I am still speaking. Still showing up with words that don’t feel holy enough, with doubts that refuse to bow, with a heart that keeps breaking and calling it devotion. If You’re there— meet me here. Not in perfection, not in polished belief, but in this raw, unfiltered reaching. Because this— this trembling, stubborn, questioning kind of faith— is the only kind I have left.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
Filters Don’t Heal
Filters Don’t Heal A reality check in a digital world We learned how to blur before we learned how to breathe, soften the edges of truth until it looked like peace. A swipe, a tap—suddenly scars turn to smooth skin, and pain becomes something aesthetic, something you can like, something you can scroll past. We brighten the eyes but dim the story, crop out the chaos, frame the calm. We post sunsets over storms we never processed, captioned “healing” while the wound is still open, still speaking in a language we refuse to translate. Filters don’t heal. They just teach your hurt how to pose. They teach your sadness to stand up straight, to hold still long enough for approval, to wear confidence like borrowed clothes that don’t quite fit in the dark. Because behind the screen, there are nights with no edits, no undo button for the thoughts that echo louder when the Wi-Fi goes quiet. Behind the glow, there are questions no algorithm can answer— like why you feel empty after being seen by everyone but known by no one. Filters don’t heal. They just delay the conversation. And the truth? Healing is messy. It’s unfiltered mornings with swollen eyes, it’s breaking down without a soundtrack, it’s choosing yourself when nobody’s watching, and staying when everything in you wants to disappear. It’s raw. It’s real. It doesn’t fit into squares or seconds. So no— this is not about deleting the apps, or pretending the world isn’t digital. This is about remembering that your soul was never meant to be edited. That your worth isn’t measured in clarity, or contrast, or how well you hide the cracks. Filters don’t heal— but truth does. Time does. Honesty does. So take it off. Not your beauty— your mask. And let the world see something that doesn’t need fixing to be worthy… something real.
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
This Is Not a Cry for Help
Silence Doesn’t Mean I’m Drowning I Learned to Bleed Without Making Noise Read Between the Lines I Never Wrote I Speak in Calm So You Don’t Hear the Storm Smiling Through Static The Quiet Art of Not Falling Apart I Fixed My Face Before I Fixed My Pain Echoes That Refuse to Break Not Every Broken Thing Shatters Loud I Made Peace with the Things I Never Said
By Samson E. Gifted6 months ago in Poets
