Home » Poems » Best » Amar Nasreddine » Best Amar Nasreddine Poems

Best Poems Written by Amar Nasreddine

Below are the all-time best Amar Nasreddine poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

The world doesn't want me

The world doesn’t want me—
I feel it in the spaces between words,
in the rooms that fall silent when I enter,
in the way their eyes cut through me, sharp and indifferent.
I exist like an echo no one listens for,
a presence only ever tolerated,
never embraced.
They laugh like glass shattering,
pointing fingers dipped in poison,
whispering daggers into my skin.
I hear them, I hear them… I hear them.
The boys say my body takes up too much space,
as if my skin was never mine to begin with,
as if I should shrink into something softer, smaller, unseen.
The girls look at me like a wound that refuses to close,
a thing to be pitied, or worse—ignored.
And my friends—
God, my friends.
They don’t feel like friends anymore.
They feel like hands reaching, pulling, taking,
and I give and I give and I give,
until my ribs are hollow, my soul threadbare.
But when I need, when I break, when I fall—
there is nothing but the sound of my own breathing,
ragged and lonely.
I am so tired.
Tired of searching for warmth in a world made of ice,
tired of running when there is nowhere left to go.
I used to love the game, the sound of the ball on the court,
I used to think my feet belonged there.
But I stumble now, hands grasping for something solid,
and all I find is the weight of failure pressing against my chest.
So tell me—
what do you do when the things that made you feel alive
become the things that remind you you’re not?
The world doesn’t want me,
so I press my back against the wall,
trying to disappear into the paint.
But I am still here, still breathing,
whether they want me or not.
Whether I want it, or not.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

A Full Stomach Feels Like Guilt

I have measured my worth in halves—
half a plate, half a bite, half a person.
Chewing on numbers, swallowing silence,
practicing hunger like a shadow,
but it never fades.

Fullness is a cruel, suffocating weight.
A mistake lodged in my stomach,
a constant reminder that I don’t belong.
I press my hands against my skin,
as if I could suffocate it,
shrink it until it begs to disappear.

I tell them I’ve eaten.
I tell them I’m fine.
I tell them it’s nothing—
but nothing is all I am.

Every meal is a war I lose before it begins.
Every bite feels like a betrayal
to the silence that feels safer than hunger.
Every swallow fills me with dread,
a dread that only grows when it sits inside me,
weighing me down,
making me feel too heavy
for this world.

And the worst part?
I’m never full enough
to stop the ache.

I fight the hunger until it claws
from the inside,
until I have nothing left but this emptiness,
this need to purge it out,
to make it right again,
to feel light enough to breathe.

I don’t care about the taste.
I don’t care about the burn.
I don’t care about the sharpness in my throat,
the acid that eats at me.
All I care about is the relief,
the only kind of peace I know.

I rid myself of it,
only to watch it come back.
Again and again,
until there’s nothing left to purge
but the broken pieces of me.

The mirror never lies,
but it never forgives.
It shows me the reflection
of someone too much,
too filled with shame
to fit into this skin.

I am too full.
Too empty.
Too much.
Never enough.

I try to hold it in,
but my body is a battlefield.
I swallow the guilt.
I vomit the fear.
I purge the pain.

And yet,
the hunger never stops.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

A Name The Wind Knows

The dresses on the rack were never mine.
Their seams whispered secrets I couldn’t keep,
stitched for girls who walked like petals in the breeze,
who folded themselves small enough to disappear.
I was never small. Never light. Never unseen.

They spoke my name before I ever did,
rolled it between their teeth like a prayer,
or a curse, or a rumor too sweet to let die.
I heard it in mouths I never met,
saw it scrawled in air, in whispers, in glances
that burned like fingerprints left too long in the sun.

They knew me before I knew myself—
or thought they did.
Shaped me in their stories, carved me from want,
from sin, from something softer than I was.
And I stood there, heavy-limbed, full-formed,
in a body the world had already claimed.

They called it a gift. A spectacle. A sin.
A thing to be wanted and feared,
a shape that belonged to the hands of strangers
long before it belonged to me.

Laughter echoes behind me, just out of reach,
a sound dressed in my name.
They say it like I belong to them,
like I am something that can be held
without ever being touched.

And I wonder—
what does it feel like to be unknown?
To step into a room and bring only yourself,
not a story already written in hungry mouths?
To be weightless, nameless, free?

The dresses on the rack will never be mine.
Their seams are too fragile,
and I have always been too much.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

Hollow Hands

I held it like a prayer,
like something sacred,
like something that could save me.

I built my world around it,
tied my worth to its spine,
carved my name into its walls
as if that would make me belong.

And yet, here I stand,
palms open, fingers trembling,
watching it slip through—
sand through clenched fists,
water through cracked earth.

I gave it everything.
And still, I was not enough.
Still, I was the wrong hands,
the wrong shape,
the wrong name to hold something so bright.

I watch others take it with ease,
watch them bloom where I have withered,
watch them step where I have stumbled.

And I wonder if it ever loved me back,
if it ever meant to stay.

Or if I was always meant to lose it.

Meant to love it,
and fail anyway.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

fat funny friend

they always ask me to stay a little longer,
as if laughter came from my skin.
as if I could be unlonely
just by making sure no one else is.

I fill the room,
and yet I’m never
in it.

they love me most
in photographs cropped at the waist—
in group chats
where I type like a mirror
and vanish like fog.

I am the pause before the pretty one speaks.
I am the arm wrapped around her waist.
I am the voice that steadies the silence
but never stirs the heart.

boys tell me I’m safe,
like a bed they’ll never sleep in.
they laugh
and I laugh
and my laugh
is a little too practiced.

I know how to fold desire
into a joke
before anyone sees it.

I know how to be background,
the warm blur,
the easy comfort
you never imagine kissing.

and still—
when I cry
it’s always quietly.
as if I don’t want
to make anyone
uncomfortable.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

To be longed for

To be longed for,
Oh, to be wanted.

To be craved, to be needed,
To be the answer before the question is breathed.

To be compulsory,
To be everything you've ever asked for.
To fill your heart, to be enough.

Loving but never loved,
Giving but never given.

To be the sun, yet chased by the moon,
To be the tide, yet never the shore.
To whisper love into empty echoes,
To pour and pour—till there's nothing more.

To trace your name on fogged-up glass,
Only to watch it disappear too fast.
To reach for hands that slip like shadows,
To speak of love no one can hear .

To be the warmth in a world that stays cold,
To write a love letter no one will hold.
To be a melody hummed but never sung,
To taste forever on someone else’s tongue.

To bloom in the dark, unseen, unsought,
A ghost of a dream, a love forgot.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

Nothing Here Belongs To Me

I wake, I breathe, I move, I fade,
A specter stitched from a torn-out page.
A thing that walks but leaves no trace,
A mouth that speaks, but not a face.

I press my hands to solid skin,
Feel the warmth, the pulse within.
It beats, it drums, it hums, it sways—
But it is borrowed. Not mine—not mine.

I wear a voice that isn’t true,
It speaks in tones I never knew.
They nod, they smile, they call my name,
But I am absent, all the same.

They say I’m here, they say I breathe,
But nothing here belongs to me.
Not the air, not the ground, not the bones I hold—
Just skin too loose and blood too cold.

I watch them dance, I watch them sing,
I try to move, but I am string.
A puppet stitched with hollow thread,
A mannequin that mimics red.

The world is warm, the world is bright,
But never quite within my sight.
I press my palm to window glass,
And let the world just watch me pass.

I smile, I nod, I play my part,
I bow, I clap, I feign a heart.
They look, they see, but never quite—
I flicker dim, I steal the light.

And when I leave—oh, when I go—
No rivers bend, no cold winds blow.
The clocks don’t pause, the birds don’t hush,
The world forgets me in a rush.

No footprints pressed in salted dirt,
No echoes where my ribs once hurt.
No hollow name upon the tongue,
Just silence—soft, just silence—young.

A ripple smoothed before it swells,
A whisper swallowed whole by bells.
A shadow stretched, then pulled too thin,
A door that locked me out, within.

And so I breathe, and so I fade,
A ghost before the grave is made.
A thing that walks but leaves no trace,
A mouth that speaks—

But not a face.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

Too Much

I have always been too much.

Too loud when silence was sacred,
too soft when the world begged for steel.
Too eager, too open, too full of something
that spilled out in all the wrong places.

I laugh too hard, love too deep,
feel everything with a weight that bends my bones.
I do not know how to be small,
how to fold myself neatly into their hands.

They make me feel like a stain on something pristine, like I should know better than to be seen.
like my existence is a mess they have to step over.
Like my voice is a fire alarm
in a room that was meant to stay quiet.

I have tried to press myself into corners,
tried to sand myself down into something palatable,
but even my silence is too loud.
Even my absence is felt.

They do not know what to do with me.
With the way I love without restraint,
with the way I burn without asking for permission.
So they turn away,
so they call it embarrassing, exhausting—
so they pretend not to see.

I have always been too much.
And I am tired of apologizing for it.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

The Last Echo

I was meant for this.
I swore I was meant for this.
Felt it in the marrow of my bones,
in the pull of every breath,
in the way my hands trembled not from fear,
but from longing.

But longing is not enough.
Wanting is not enough.

I have given everything—
my days, my nights, my ribs cracked open
to make room for something greater.
And still, it slips through my fingers,
a bird with broken wings
dragging itself into the dark.

I try to call it back,
but my voice does not carry the way it used to.
My feet do not land as surely as they once did.
The hands that were steady now shake,
uncertain, unwelcome.

And God, the silence—
how it stretches, how it mocks.
How it wraps itself around me,
a thing I cannot fight, cannot bargain with.

This was supposed to be mine.
I was supposed to be good enough.

But now, I am just a shadow
watching the thing I loved
turn its back on me.

Details | Amar Nasreddine Poem

The Museum Of becoming

I loved you with both hands broken,
offered you oceans cupped in cracked palms,
watched it leak, leak, leak,
through fingers too battered to hold a tide.

I made myself a museum of becoming,
stitched old prayers into the walls,
hung portraits of the selves I killed to be loved,
polished my ribs until they gleamed like pearls,
sewed silk into my voice,
laced my spine with iron and gold.

Still —
still —
never enough.

You looked at me like a lukewarm cup of coffee,
forgotten on the counter,
cold and curdled and waiting to be thrown away.

I wrote symphonies across my skin,
tattooed your name in invisible ink on my lungs,
trained my heart to beat in the shape of your smile —
God, I would have set myself on fire
just to keep you warm.

And still —
still —
never enough.

I could have carved out whole galaxies,
plucked stars from their cradles and handed them to you,
and you would have asked for the moon, too,
and my bones, too,
and the breath from my mouth, too.

I wore myself down like riverstone,
all edges smoothed away,
just so you wouldn’t cut yourself on my love.
But you never even noticed.
You never even slipped.

I was a feast for your hunger,
but you said you weren’t hungry.
I was a lighthouse in your storms,
but you said you liked drowning better.

And now —
now I sit here with a chest full of echoes,
a garden where nothing grows,
a life half-lived,
whispering to the hollow night:

What more?
What more could I have become?

The stars blink back, indifferent.
The world keeps spinning, tired of my asking.
And you?
You don't even remember my name.