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Orjeta Jun 21
Dad,

Thank you—for my childhood,

For the safety I never saw, yet always felt.

Thank you for being my teacher through example,

For guiding me not just with words,

But with the quiet strength of your actions.


Thank you for the advice—

Even when I met it with resistance,

Blind to the wisdom time would later reveal.

Thank you for the pain you carried in silence,

For the exhaustion, the tears,

Hidden behind smiles and strength.


Thank you…

For that towel stained with blood from a nose you tried to hide—

A small, unforgettable symbol of all the battles you fought

Without ever letting us feel the weight.

Thank you for being our shield,

Even when your soul was weary.


Now,

Everything is different.

I stumble, I fall, and you’re not here to steady me.

But your voice echoes in my heart,

Your lessons live in my choices,

And your spirit lights my darkest hours.


Now, I face the world alone.

And though I try—each and every day—

This ache, this longing for you,

Is fiercer than any challenge life throws my way.


Sometimes I ask myself…

For how long will this hurt last?

And yet, I hold on—

To your memory,

To your strength,

To the promise I whisper quietly to myself:


Until we meet again.
A deeply personal tribute to my father—a thank-you for his strength, love, and silent sacrifices. This poem is a way to carry his memory and guidance with me as I navigate life without him. Written in grief, but also in gratitude. Until we meet again.
Orjeta Jun 16
There are two ways to listen to the heart—

One, of flesh and blood,

The other, of soul and silence.


All our lives, we wrestle,

Trying to hear its beat untouched by feeling—

Yet always, emotions rise like tides,

Crashing through the stillness.

We are led by them,

Those wild, aching waves

That give both sense and none

To our very being.


It is the heart—

That quiet, burning center—

Which breathes all life into the vastness within.


May peace settle in every heart,

And may clarity flood each mind,

Like morning light through a shattered sky.


Stop the struggle against what calls us home.

Follow it—not with noise, but with reverence.


Follow it in silence.


For that is the only rhythm

We were ever meant

To dance on. 🎶
Orjeta May 29
It's about not losing the first chance to share a glance -
when something is there, even in silence, it speaks.
It's about showing up as your finest self, even in places where nothing is meant to shine.
It's about using the right words to feel steady, sure,
even if that certainty leaves no visible trace behind.
It's about me - and no one else.
I's about the fact that I do not let myself drift with the river's current, and I do not remain in waters that only stand still.
Because the difference between moving with moving waters, and staying in still ones,
is the space between the dry riverbed -
and me,
pouring water into the stream already alive,
offering sunlight to waters at rest.
Not all betrayals are loud. Some come dressed as silence, as patience, as absence in the moment where presence was needed most. This piece holds the weight of what’s left unsaid when someone chooses to drift with the current instead of pouring into what already flows.
Orjeta May 19
“At the end of life, when the final breath escapes, everything we chased loses meaning.

A single breath takes a lifetime to release—yet still, I wonder:

how many breaths must be drawn and lost before we truly grasp the values that matter in this world?”
Inspired by the quiet truth that visits us when it’s almost too late.
Orjeta May 11
People do lose me like the candle.

Elegant, quiet, shaped to fit their mood—white, or sometimes colored to soothe or impress.

I am placed where they need the glow, where comfort or atmosphere is wanted.

I offer it without demand.

There is no darkness when I’m lit—not even when everything else fades.


But they forget that the shine has a cost.

That the flame, though constant, feeds on something finite.

They admire the light but ignore the burning.

They think presence means permanence.


Then one day, the light is gone.

Not with noise, not with warning—just no longer there.

And only then does the absence reveal what the glow never needed to prove.

Not everything that illuminates announces its worth.

Some things, by the time they’re missed,

have already become memory.


And memory, unlike flame, does not warm.
Some things give without announcement
Orjeta Apr 13
“There exists a place called Earth, where the battle for equality is far from over.”
Earth 🌍
Orjeta Mar 25
If I had been a boy, maybe they would have liked me.
Maybe I would have been accepted—respected, even.
But I was born a girl.
And somehow, my blonde hair, my glowing skin, my warm smile,
and the kindness in my heart became reasons for ridicule.
They call it attention, but it feels like harassment.
They call it teasing, but it feels like abuse.

Sometimes, I wonder…
Was I born wrong?
Or is the world just wrong for making us feel this way?!
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