Blog

<blockquote>Even in fragments, you are enough</blockquote>Broken crayons still color Cracked wings still learn to fly. Torn pages still tell stories. Bent petals still bloom. Wounded hearts still beat Shattered glass still shines in light.<figure id="figure-fz1w0yz08smmk5wf8k5"><img id="fz1w0yz08smmk5wf8k5" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/336blqk87pWlKgxjJhuqMHi5vHXTCTIMkU9iVrc83ZOYEvkAna4tToCgIysSG9AF.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure> Bruised skies still give birth to stars. Silence still carries songs. Scars are proof of survival You don't have to be whole to be powerful Even in pieces, you're still enoughEnitan Eleto

Broken crayons still color

<blockquote>This is what becoming looks like when no one is watching</blockquote> I’m still learning.Still trying.Still showing upeven when I don’t feel ready. I put myself out there...posting, applying,refreshing my inbox,hoping today is different. Not because I’m confident every day,but because I don’t want to disappearwhile I’m becoming. Remote work has tested me.The waiting after I click “submit”and tell myself not to hope too much.The silence that follows.The moments I reread my work,wondering if I missed something.<figure id="figure-3tx5wrgn7vmk5w0yec"><img id="3tx5wrgn7vmk5w0yec" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/30Lmb378E8ofvochhWdpde9F67FrsLqJUJUxD0qaJ6OsqwGo0cBIsnUwfwufrfOP.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>Every frustration pushed meto rewrite my CV.Every delay sent me backto learn one more skill.Every quiet seasonmade me more consistent,not louder. I’m not where I want to be yet.But I’m not standing still. I keep learning.I keep applying.I keep believing. And I know this...if I can keep going like this,I will win.Stephanie Okafor.

Learning Out Loud

<blockquote>‎“He loved me loudly, imperfectly, and in ways I didn’t understand until I grew up.”</blockquote>‎My father isn’t a perfect man,‎He never fit the flawless plan.‎With temper flares and gentle ways,‎He raised me through both storm and praise.‎<figure id="figure-ull52q4farmk5uiwyh"><img id="ull52q4farmk5uiwyh" src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/2bFAVOdkLsH23uLaV8gVqyXOwtZ1s4sfhgEmRyaem6RxbBGQjtHTNxmkPdWyMjMp.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/2bFAVOdkLsH23uLaV8gVqyXOwtZ1s4sfhgEmRyaem6RxbBGQjtHTNxmkPdWyMjMp.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure>‎He’d scold, then hug, then scold once more,‎A mix of love I couldn’t ignore.‎His rules were tough, his tone was loud,‎But looking back, today I’m proud.‎‎As a child, I found it strange,‎His love came wrapped in sudden change.‎But now I see, with clearer eyes,‎He too was growing, learning wise.‎‎He tried to shield me from his pain,‎So I won’t walk those roads again.‎His choices flawed, his past not neat,‎Yet still, he stood on tired feet.‎‎At sixteen, I would roll my eyes,‎At every word he tried to advise.‎But now at twenty-five, I see,‎His heart was always there for me.‎‎You see, my father is my light,‎My steady hand in darkest night.‎He didn’t have the world to give,‎But gave his all, and taught me to live.‎‎With hands worn rough from years of fight,‎He laid the slabs I stand on right.‎He worked, he prayed, he gave, he bled,‎So dreams I dreamed could bloom instead.‎‎He believed in me through every doubt,‎Pushed me forward, cheered me out.‎No envy dimmed his burning flame,‎He only wanted me to claim…‎A life of joy, a worthy name.‎‎To the man who held my heart with care,‎Even when I wished he wasn’t there.‎To the shield I didn't think I’d need‎Whose love was shown in every deed…‎‎He's not perfect, but he's mine.‎Ikechukwu Celina Chinwemmeri

He’s Not Perfect, But He’s Mine

<blockquote>This is the story of a place that hurt me… and still couldn’t stop me</blockquote>I come from a place where dreams were often whispered,&nbsp;"Too loud".And life might punish you for daring to hope.&nbsp;A place where generator hums louder than ambition.&nbsp;And yet, I dreamt.&nbsp;Like Joseph,&nbsp;No coat of many colours but I wear grace.&nbsp;Tables turn,&nbsp;Ask pharaoh how a prisoner became a prime.&nbsp;<figure id="figure-a5lgi86zermk5v3dnc"><img id="a5lgi86zermk5v3dnc" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/30MDGUxzoSID3isrAbnntIh8P6hYGZLEpJ65xFJOnbiD3uEWgH5X9t85PbnqY0oA.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>Where I am from is not just a place,It is a pulse.&nbsp;With every heartbeat felt,&nbsp;And every step? Bold.The ground that hurt me,&nbsp;Also taught me to fly, to soar, and to dive without warning.&nbsp;What do you call a child born into brokenness but refuses to shatter.&nbsp; Each dream, each step is just a phase for me to level up,&nbsp;I level up once, twice and then three times.&nbsp;I was taught to swallow pain and spit purpose.&nbsp;Because where I am from,&nbsp;I survive not because it's easy,&nbsp;But because giving up is not coded in my DNA.&nbsp;From patching dreams with broken crayons,&nbsp;To painting future with bold strokes.&nbsp;Here, the struggle has swag,&nbsp;And the ghetto births greatness!&nbsp;Rita Sani

Where I am from

<blockquote>The hardest weights are the ones no one else can see.</blockquote>So how do I make everyone else understand? Even words struggle to explain. I guess some feelings were never designed to be translated, only endured.There are emotions only your own chest can carry, weights no one else can measure.I’m talking of Persistent trials that look like silence from the outside, progress that feels invisible even to yourself.<figure id="figure-287zgww4ctmk5tmucv"><img id="287zgww4ctmk5tmucv" src="https://cdn.durable.co/covers/27xzxgCFMUqGTzeTm3eYcAlFsuurRLrLTYgMWw0TllY1S9ozvc5DeX3ZRrmblCKU.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionX="undefined" data-positionY="undefined" data-fullWidth="false"/></figure>Moments where you stand at a crossroad, torn between chasing the dream or simply moving because standing still feels heavier.Expectations rise louder than hope. Dreams remain unfinished. Responsibilities multiply like they don’t care about timing.Those who claim to understand you often end up judging you.And through it all, the one thing holding me upright, keeping me grounded, keeping me breathing is FAITH. Written by Zainab Kolajo

PROGRESS LOOKS LIKE SILENCE

<blockquote>No one ever taught men what to do when strength starts hurting.</blockquote>Men are not taught to mournonly how to endure&nbsp;how to stand tall like iroko&nbsp;while storms pass through our chest.&nbsp; The first time I saw my father cryit was without tearshe folded pain into his pockets&nbsp;and called it strength.&nbsp;<figure id="figure-wy7ufpy4f2mk5t18u5"><img id="wy7ufpy4f2mk5t18u5" src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/35lu7pZ25P0L6xuL3IPB3MgBmXg5vap9p9KbyIDPpLPqpWsNKy9uzp7sPzOvT0pN.jpg" alt="" title="" class="object-cover bg-gray-100 " style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;" data-corners="default" data-aspect="16:9" data-caption="" data-positionx="undefined" data-positiony="undefined" data-fullwidth="false" data-mce-src="https://cdn.durable.co/blocks/35lu7pZ25P0L6xuL3IPB3MgBmXg5vap9p9KbyIDPpLPqpWsNKy9uzp7sPzOvT0pN.jpg" data-mce-style="aspect-ratio: 16/9; object-position: center center;"></figure> He carried his grief gently&nbsp;careful not to spill itbecause silence is safer than sobbing.&nbsp; Men are not taught how to sit with lossso when I am in pain, I think of my father and remember: men are not allowed to grieveonly to carry caskets of feelingswithout letting it drop&nbsp;to bury pain without making the grave. Then I sigh "Nwoke kwesiri iguzosi ike" —a man must stand firm regardlessbut when night comes, I am only a woman.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;.......... Destar Freeman

The Ones Who Cannot Grieve

Yemipoet Creation

Yemipoet is an Instagram  page that organizes monthly and random poetry contest. Top 3 winner gets a cash prize. Yemipoet is registered  as Yemipoet Creation Company in Nigeria