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149 · May 11
The Quiet Alarm
Cadmus May 11
I should have left.
That first moment,
when my heart convulsed.

But i was stubborn,
I didn’t.
I stayed.
I had to know.
I had to risk it.

The body knows,
before the mind does.

Some truths whisper first,
shatter later.
Some warnings come not as words but as aches, sharp, sudden, undeniable. Yet the human spirit, ever stubborn, often chooses pain over the unknown. This is a confession of that choice.
147 · May 20
Invisible Blood
Cadmus May 20
🩸

We all have wounds.
Not all of them
show blood
trickling on the skin
those are the lesser ones.

The body heals.
Scabs form.
Scars fade.

But some wounds
bleed a different kind of red
silent,
invisible,
constant.

They live beneath smiles,
hide behind handshakes,
and echo
in quiet rooms.

No bandage fits them.
No doctor sees them.
And yet,
they shape us more
than any knife ever could.
This poem explores the unseen nature of emotional and psychological pain. While physical wounds are acknowledged and treated, the deeper, invisible ones often go unnoticed, yet they linger far longer and shape who we become.
147 · May 11
The Other Hand
Cadmus May 11
If one day you break, too tired to cope,
And search the dark for hands of hope
Don’t reach for theirs, they come and go,
With fleeting warmth and faces you don’t know.

Just lift your left and find your right,
The one that’s stayed through every fight.
Your other hand, scarred, quiet, true
Has carried all that life gave you.

It wiped your tears when no one cared,
It held your chest when pain was bared.
No vow, no oath, no distant friend
Can match the grip it dares to lend.

So fold your fingers, let them bind,
And trust the touch you always find.
For storms may rage and trials descend
But none defeat the hand you lend.

The world breaks many, but never the one
Who learns to stand with hands of one.
This poem is a quiet tribute to self-reliance, the strength found not in others, but in one’s own steady presence. The “other hand” is a metaphor for the part of us that endures without applause, comforts without condition, and rises when everything else falls away.
141 · May 13
When Words Become Power
Cadmus May 13
There are moments
when words become more than sound,
more than air shaped by thought.

They become a call to arms
for the weary soul,
a rising drumbeat
in the chest of humankind.

In the mouth of a true orator,
words rise like music,
then fall like thunder
moving hearts,
igniting wills,
reshaping destiny itself.

Spoken with the precision of art
and the fire of belief,
a single sentence
can lift the broken,
summon the silent,
and awaken a city from sleep.

No weapon forged by man
has ever rivaled
the right words,
fueled by conviction,
spoken at the right time.
This poem is a tribute to the timeless force of oratory, the art of speech that stirs revolutions, uplifts nations, and awakens the sleeping strength within individuals. History has shown us that in moments of darkness, it is often words not weapons, that light the way forward.
140 · May 30
When Virtue Turns Ugly
Cadmus May 30
When a noble heart is betrayed,
He runs not home, but feeds the flame.

Toward the low, he throws his grace,
A furious fall from a higher place.

As if to curse what once was pure,
To make his past no longer endure.

Not for pleasure, not for thrill
But to punish the light it once stood still.
Even the most virtuous soul, when betrayed deeply enough, may seek ruin not out of desire, but as revenge against the very morality that once made them vulnerable. It is not corruption they chase, but justice twisted by pain.
139 · May 21
Between Stations
Cadmus May 21
🚂

We board with desire.

We return with clarity.

And somewhere between the stations,

we learn

What was attainable.

And what was worth carrying.

🚊
This poem captures the quiet transformation that time brings. We begin our journey burdened with ambition, desire, and expectation—only to return tempered by experience, having shed what we once thought essential. It’s a meditation on simplicity, loss, and wisdom.
136 · May 14
Foreseen
Cadmus May 14
I see the endings in their birth,
The wilt curled in the bloom,
The echo in the first soft word
That hums of pending gloom.

Yet on I go, with knowing steps,
Down paths that twist and burn
Not for hope, nor fate, nor faith,
But just to feel the turn.

It’s not some tragic grandeur,
No noble, aching art
Just a quiet urge to prove myself
The fool I knew at start.
A self-aware confession dressed as poetry because sometimes wisdom doesn’t save us from walking straight into the fire we already smelled.
Cadmus May 20
🙏🏻

They feast with the wolves…

Bark with with the dogs…

Weep with the shepherds…

Guests at every table,

but a pillar at none.

Call them seasonal?
Situational?

Maybe,
Socially fluent? morally absent?

Friends to everyone…
and loyal to no one.

☝️
This poem reflects the nature of surface-level friendships. those who adapt to every group but commit to none. Present in moments of ease, absent in moments of need.
118 · May 21
She Called Me His Name
Cadmus May 21
I never forgave my twin brother
for abandoning me
for six minutes in our mother’s womb,
leaving me there alone,
terrified in the dark,
floating like an astronaut in that silent space,
while kisses rained down on him from the other side.

Those were the longest six minutes of my life
the minutes that made him the firstborn,
the favored one.

Ever since, I raced to be first:
out of the room,
out of the house,
to school,
to the cinema
even if it meant missing the end of the movie.

Then one day, I got distracted,
and he stepped out to the street before me.
Smiling that gentle smile,
he was struck by a car.

I remember my mother
how she rushed from the house
at the sound of the impact,
how she passed by me,
arms outstretched toward his lifeless body,
but she screamed my name.

To this day,
I’ve never corrected her mistake.

It was I who died,
and he who lived.
Sometimes grief chooses the wrong name. And sometimes, we let it.
116 · May 30
Like No One Is Watching
Cadmus May 30
I laughed - not for likes,
but because the sky was kind
and the breeze felt honest.

I wore comfort,
not costume,
and danced without a soundtrack.

No mirrors.
No filters.
Just me,
at ease in my skin,
and joy
quiet as a secret,
loud as my heart.
We spend so much of life performing for eyes that aren’t really watching, chasing applause that never feels quite enough. But real joy lives in the unscripted, in the quiet, barefoot moments where we belong wholly to ourselves. This poem is a reminder: not everything needs an audience to be beautiful.
115 · May 17
The Poet’s Math
Cadmus May 17
Poetry,
a mirror cracked in verse
each shard reflecting
a softer curse.

Three parts ache,
one part light,
we write not from joy,
but from the fight
to find it.
Poetry is rarely a ledger of joy. Across major collections, nearly 70–80% of poems carry sadness, bitterness, or reflection, while only 20–30% attempt joy. We don’t write because we’re happy -  we write because we’re haunted.
104 · May 21
In God, We Don’t Trust
Cadmus May 21
🛐

If my trust in God’s love were complete,

My prayers wouldn’t beg for change,

they’d whisper thanks for the earthquake .

☔️
Faith isn’t always a peaceful acceptance. Sometimes, it’s a whispered rebellion dressed as prayer. because belief is easiest when life is kind, and hardest when we’re asked to live without answers.
102 · May 29
Honesty Is a Plague
Cadmus May 29
Once infected,

you’re bound to lose,
friends,
family,
lovers,
Business.

Faith brands you a heretic.

Power erases you.

Not because truth is evil,
but because it’s untamed
and the world prefers masks
that never slip.

They said truth sets you free , they forgot to mention it frees you from everyone.

☔️
100 · Jun 17
She Who Dreams…
Cadmus Jun 17
She dreams
of what never was.

No man
can match the shape
she carved in absence.

So she stays
half-settled,
half-burning…

Hurting the one who stayed
for not being
the one
who never came.
Longing, when shaped by fantasy, often becomes a quiet weapon turned inward or toward whoever remains.
98 · Jun 17
The Edge of Language
Cadmus Jun 17
🎭

What I truly feel
doesn’t survive the telling.

It breaks
on the edge of language…
leaving only
a softened version
for others to understand.

while the real thing
keeps burning quietly
where no words can reach.

🎭
Some truths are not spoken - they are endured in silence.
Cadmus Jun 13
🕊️

I miss who I was
softer,
simpler,
a little lost…

But somehow more at peace.

Not wiser,
just lighter.

And peace, it turns out,
is the rarest kind of wisdom.

🕊️
Growth often costs us the gentleness we once had. But in quiet moments, we grieve that softness - not for its weakness, but for its peace.
89 · May 23
Dirty Plate
Cadmus May 23
🍽️

If I enjoy their attention today,
I remind myself of this:

They’ll call a nice dish “a ***** plate”
once they’ve eaten their fill.

Praise turns to pity,
desire to disdain.

The hands that reached for me
will recoil,
as if they never begged
to taste.

So I wear their craving like perfume
fleeting,
never mine to keep.

They were never here for me…
just the feast.
This piece strips away illusion to expose the cruelty of conditional attention. It’s a brutal commentary on how people often glorify what they consume, only to discard it with contempt once their desire is satisfied. A warning to recognize the difference between admiration and appetite.
88 · May 19
No Enemies
Cadmus May 19
Its very weird…

I looked into their faces
the ones who truly broke me.
No enemies among them.

Just Brutus,
in many forms,
smiling.
Familiar hands,
and mouths,
that once said

I never would.


as they held the knife
like a gift.
This piece reflects on the dissonance between pain and intent - how the deepest betrayals often come not from enemies, but from those closest to us. The reference to Brutus evokes the timeless sting of betrayal by someone trusted, echoing Caesar’s famous last breath: “Et tu, Brute?”
Cadmus May 27
✈️

A slap on the tarmac, crisp and clear,
From Madame’s hand to France’s dear.

Not war, not scandal, nor fiscal gap
But history paused for a marital slap.

The cameras rolled, the world took note,
As dignity slipped from his tailored coat.

If kings once fell to sword and plot,
Now presidents blush, and say they “forgot.”

👋🏻
Sometimes history is written in treaties, sometimes in blood, and occasionally, with an open palm in front of a presidential aircraft.
77 · May 19
If a Dog Could Speak
Cadmus May 19
If a dog could speak,
he might look up at you and say:

“Please
don’t call your human traitor… a dog.
Don’t give our name
to those who lie,
who bite the hand
then kiss the air.

We don’t forget
a kindness once given
not a crust of bread,
not a warm place by the fire,
not a voice that called us friend.

We wait at the door
long after the footsteps fade.
We guard graves.
We sleep beside sorrow
without asking why.

When one of ours is hurt,
we circle close.
We bleed with them.
We never leave
unless we’re forced.

We don’t scheme.
We don’t pretend.
We don’t smile
with a knife behind our back.

So next time a human
sells love for pride,
abandons a friend in fear,
or forgets the one
who once saved them

Just call him Human.

For we know no other species
that buries loyalty
beneath convenience,
that trades truth
for applause,
that remembers insults
but forgets grace.

We,
with paws and silence,
would die for those
who once fed us.

You,
with words and reason,
sometimes ****
what you claim to love.

So do not stain our name
with betrayal.
Do not dress your disloyalty
in fur and fangs.

We are not like you.

And perhaps,
that’s why you love us.
Because somewhere,
in your better dreams,
you wish
you could be
a little more dog.”
This poem gives voice to the silent loyalty of dogs, contrasting it with the conditional, often self-serving nature of human relationships. It challenges the use of “dog” as an insult, suggesting that even in their silence, animals often carry more integrity than those who speak.
Cadmus May 20
They laughed when he showed up
with a résumé in hand.
Tail tucked, horns sanded down,
wore a tie, shook hands.

“I used to tempt kings,
whispered wars into ears.
Now I scroll headlines
and choke back tears.”

He tried marketing
but humans were better
at selling lies with smiling teeth
and discount codes for sin.

He applied for politics
but found the position filled
by those who make devils
blush in admiration.

Tried tech
but algorithms already knew
how to addict, divide,
and hollow out souls
with precision.

Even in war,
they no longer need whispers.
They bomb hospitals
and call it strategy.
He offered corruption.
They offered quarterly targets.

“They don’t need me anymore,”
he sighed to the clerk.
“They’ve mastered the craft.
I was just a spark
They made it an industry.”

Now he wanders,
CV in flames,
hoping someone will want
a washed-up fallen angel
who simply can’t compete
with modern man.
This poem uses satire to explore the depths of human moral decay, flipping the traditional narrative of evil. Once feared, Satan is now obsolete, as humanity’s capacity for cruelty, manipulation, and greed has far surpassed mythic malevolence.
74 · May 19
Nemesis, Awakened
Cadmus May 19
You think this is a tantrum?

Child

This is the wrath of gods
who waited centuries
before they raised their hand.

I am not your wounded girl.
I am Nemesis unchained,
Kali in stillness before the storm.
My silence was mercy.
You mistook it for peace.

I do not wail. I summon.
I do not flinch. I fracture.
Your name is already ash
on the altar of my patience.

I offered grace.
Now I offer consequence.

Run if you like.
Pray if you must.
But even Olympus learned
no one walks away
from a goddess enraged.
Anger, when divine, doesn’t shout. It judges. And every empire built on dismissal learns the cost of silence misread.
74 · May 25
Made to Adore
Cadmus May 25
There’s something in her I won’t name
A hush of wind, a candle flame.
Not made for grasping, not to own,
She is the wild, the seed, the stone.

She doesn’t try to draw the eye,
Yet still, the world forgets the sky.
She moves as though the earth was told
To cradle life in curves of gold.

Her voice? It’s warmth in twilight air,
A lullaby, a whispered prayer.
Her smile? The sun through window panes,
That touches soul before it rains.

She doesn’t rule - and yet, she reigns.
She doesn’t fight - but breaks my chains.
She’s softness made by nature’s hand
To melt the steel in every man.

She speaks in silence, sees in shade,
And somehow knows what’s not yet said.
She tends, she weaves, she kneels to none,
Yet all I am revolves her sun.

I’ve seen her cry - and not from fear,
But from a strength too deep, too near.
A well of life, a boundless sea
That dares to bloom and still be free.

She is the reason poems start,
The gentle architect of heart.
The one who holds without a grip,
Who builds a world with fingertip.

And if the stars should all erase,
I’d find the universe in her face.
For she’s not mine - she’s something more:
The sacred I was made to adore
This poem is a hymn of reverence - an ode from a man who sees in his beloved not just beauty or affection, but the sacred architecture of life itself. She is not defined by roles or possessions, but by her elemental force: soft yet unyielding, nurturing yet untamed. In her, he perceives the mystery of creation, the poetry of emotion, and the quiet power nature entrusts to the feminine form. It is not submission she inspires, but devotion -  the kind born from awe, not ownership
73 · May 19
Except Your Mother
Cadmus May 19
Apart from your mother…

Only insurance companies
pray you live forever
no crashes, no coughs,
no inconvenient surprises.

They pray for your safety
with more sincerity
than your friends ever did.

No backhanded compliments,
no masked resentment.

They’ll cheer for your success
as long as it’s mild.
Celebrate your fitness
but not too wild.
This poem exposes the transactional nature of modern relationships, using insurance companies as a metaphor for the rare, conditional loyalty found in a world where even love is often veiled in competition, envy, or quiet sabotage.
Cadmus May 16
Are you man enough
To walk the path carved in your marrow?
To let instinct speak?
Can you listen to the wild in your chest
not tame it, but understand it?

Are you man enough
to protect without owning,
to fight without hatred,
to cry without retreat,
to bleed and still rise
not as a martyr,
but as a force of nature returning to form?

You are not a flaw in evolution.
You are its edge,
its hammer,
its echo through time.

Stand tall,
not in defiance of the world,
but in allegiance to what made you.
Nature never doubted you.
Why should you?
This poem is a call to return to the essence of manhood , not the caricature shaped by culture, but the primal design etched by nature: protector, builder, thinker, and storm-bearer. It glorifies masculinity not as *******, but as deeply rooted presence and purpose.
67 · May 26
Hollowing
Cadmus May 26
The worst isn’t death.
Death is honest.
It arrives, it ends.
Clean.

The worst is staying.
Breathing.
Functioning.
While everything that made you you
quietly rots beneath the skin.

When you watch your passions
starve to death
and can’t even bother
to grieve them.

When the people you loved
become background noise,
and you answer with nods
because words cost too much.

When nothing is worth arguing for,
and silence feels
like mercy.

This isn’t a fall.
It’s slow erasure
each day
another fingerprint gone
from the glass.

Until one morning,
you look in the mirror
and meet
a very polite stranger.
This poem explores emotional erosion - not dramatic collapse, but the quiet, daily loss of passion, purpose, and self. It reflects the darker side of psychological burnout, where apathy masquerades as peace, and survival becomes indistinguishable from surrender.
Cadmus May 22
Sharing my pain would heal me, i thought.
So I opened up
told them everything.
The sleepless nights, the buried fears, the truth.

And they listened.
But not to understand.

They turned my story into gossip.
My wounds into entertainment.
Some even laughed.

That’s when I learned
not everyone deserves your truth.
Some people don’t hold your pain.
They dance to it.
Some hearts are too shallow to hold deep wounds. Share carefully , not every ear deserves your truth.
59 · May 23
Heartless
Cadmus May 23
🖤

Just pray
you don’t push me far enough
to show you
how heartless I can be.

I’ve buried mercy
for those who went too deep.

I’ve smiled
while walking away from flames
I used to feed.

There’s a silence in me
darker than rage,
a calm
that doesn’t beg,
warn,
or explain.

🖤
This poem is a quiet warning cloaked in composure. It speaks to the stillness that comes not from indifference, but from practiced restraint, the kind that’s capable of cruelty, but chooses silence. Until silence becomes the sharpest answer of all.
50 · May 21
Who Betrayed You?
Cadmus May 21
🫵

Tell me..

who betrayed you?

Not a stranger,
never a stranger.

Strangers don’t get close enough
to wound that deep.

It was a relative,
with your blood in their mouth.

A friend,
with your secrets in their grip.

A lover,
whispering forever
while packing knives.

Or maybe
that one person you trusted
more than yourself.

Betrayal wears
a familiar face.

It always knows
exactly where to aim.
This poem reframes betrayal not just as a wound, but as a moment of clarity, a harsh teacher that reveals the illusions we wrap around closeness. It reflects on the fragile line between trust and naivety, and the strength forged in the aftermath of pain.
41 · Jun 5
No Longer Welcome
Cadmus Jun 5
🚪

Tell those latecomers,
they are too late.

No longer welcome.

The longing that once burned for them,
now sleeps in ashes they cannot revive.

Even beauty,
once able to undo me,
now passes by,
unseen,
untouched.

For what fails to arrive when it’s needed,
doesn’t arrive at all.

Excessive waiting takes its toll,
and the loss is permanent.

⌛️
Some doors don’t slam… they simply stop opening.
Cadmus Jun 22
🖤

Like a child running to his mother in tears,
seeking warmth in her arms,
only to be silenced with a slap.

That is the ache of being let down,
right where you thought safety lived.

⛓️‍💥
Some wounds don’t bleed , they echo in places we thought were safe.
Cadmus 6d
There’s something about the way he doesn’t chase…

It’s not the swagger. Not the smirk.
Not the way his shirt clings when he works.
It’s how he doesn’t beg the light
he walks in shadow, and still feels right.

He doesn’t claim me. He just looks
and in that look, he rewrites books.
The kind with knights and velvet beds,
with whispered vows and tangled threads.

He moves like time forgot to rush.
His silence holds a speaking hush.
He doesn’t grab he lets me choose,
And yet I burn if I refuse.

His hands could bruise, but never try.
They trace my skin like lullaby.
He guards, not cages. Leads, not binds
And in his arms, the world unwinds.

He calls me wild. He keeps me free.
He doesn’t need to conquer me.
And still, I’d kneel, I’d bend, I’d melt,
For how his quiet power’s felt.

There’s chivalry in how he waits,
In how he touches no locked gates.
And when he moves, it’s not to own,
But to remind me, I’m not alone.

So here’s to him: the kind of man
Who doesn’t boast, but simply can.
Who wins no throne, but takes command
Just by the way he dares to stand.
This isn’t about dominance, It’s about admiration -  for the quiet, unshakable essence of a man who doesn’t need to chase, prove, or perform.
The kind who holds his ground with grace.
Who protects without control, leads without ego, and commands without noise.
This is for him - the man whose strength is in how he stands.
Cadmus 4d
👸

He wanted a bride with untouched skin,
A pastless girl he could fold right in.
She said the truth - soft, honest, still:
“I’ve known love… and I’ve known thrill.”

His smile cracked.
His eyes turned cold.
As if her fire made his soul old.

He left - proud. Untouched. Intact.
A man so fragile, truth felt like attack.

Now he prays for purity in the dark,
While she is out -  leaving teeth marks

👸
This piece speaks to the quiet cruelty of men who worship purity but fear depth - who want untouched women not out of reverence, but control. It’s not about virtue. It’s about fragility disguised as pride.

— The End —