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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
There are shadows beneath my skin,
silent earthquakes no one sees.
I carry them like stones
pressed deep against my chest,
their weight too heavy for air,
too sharp for sleep.
The world moves, smiling,
while I stumble in silence—
my laughter a thin disguise,
my words a cracked vessel
pouring nothing but echoes.
Each breath feels borrowed,
each step, a fragile prayer.
The mirror knows me better
than the people I pass by—
it holds the fragments of my sorrow,
the storms I cannot name.
If I could tear open the veil
and show the wounds that bloom inside,
perhaps the night would understand,
perhaps the stars would weep with me.
But until then, I remain—
a vessel of hidden cries,
a song with broken chords,
a heart still beating,
aching for light.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2025
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
Shredded into fragments,
mistaken for beauty—
a towering aberration
bred in covenant with god,
an unholy union.
Immaculate conception rewrites
the geometry of order.
The primordial gods witness it—
and something ancient in them breaks.
War arrives
where silence should have ruled.
A consummation of man and divinity
splinters the sacred spine of civilization.
A lineage without origin,
a design without restraint—
humanity diagramming its own collapse.
How did it come to this?
A mirror once held before God
caught a fracture of light—
a spark mistaken for permission.
From that error
something is carried down:
a stolen architecture
dragged through the conduits of heaven.
It was never meant to descend.
In human hands,
such knowledge refines itself
into a quieter form of extinction—
polished, patient, almost tender.
It learns to laugh
as it erases.
Until only dust remains
with voices inside it saying:
men lived here.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2026
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
There is a pain
not catalogued in bones or blood
a bruise the world cannot X-ray,
a weather that rains inward.
It visits the rare.
Not the weak
the porous.
Those who feel too much
and are given no dam for the flood.
This pain does not scream.
It reasons.
It kneels with logic sharp as prayer
and convinces the soul
that rest looks like disappearance.
So the heart steps off
the last familiar thought
and silence takes the body
the way winter takes a field
without malice,
only finality.
But God
who weighs spirits, not moments
does not count the fall as treason.
He counts the wound.
He sees the nights
where breath was negotiated,
the mornings survived only by habit,
the courage it took
to remain until courage ran out.
And He forgives
not like a judge erasing a file,
but like light
relearning a shattered mirror.
The soul wakes elsewhere.
Not punished.
Not questioned.
But unburdened
its pain translated
into a language joy can hold.
There is glory there
uncommon as the suffering was—
a joy with depth, not volume,
a peace that knows what it replaces.
And the soul, once too heavy for earth,
moves easily now,
astonished to find
that mercy was always waiting
on the other side of despair,
calling its name
without accusation.
This is not an ending.
It is a passage
no living tongue can bless aloud—
only trust
with trembling hands.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2025
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
I was not shaped for applause
but for duration.
I learned the grammar of storms
and answered in silence.
My leaves grew thick
from holding too much sky,
my roots fluent in patience,
my trunk taught to stand
even when forgotten.
Some beings bloom once
and vanish into praise.
Others remain
and inherit the ground.
I am not loud.
I am not fragile.
I am what survives
when attention leaves.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2025
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
In a world of crowded hearts and empty eyes,
Where everyone is searching but few are truly wise,
Love is not a spark that simply falls from above—
It’s two trembling souls choosing to stay, and call it love.
We build our walls from yesterday’s pain,
Smiling in sunlight but drowning in rain.
We want the feeling, not the fight—
The promises of morning, not the tears of night.
We chase perfection in faces and names,
But forget that real love is tender, not a game.
It’s flawed, it’s patient, it breaks and it mends,
It’s not a fairytale—it’s choosing the same heart again.
Maybe that’s why true love feels rare,
Few are willing to stand naked and share
Their fears, their scars, their unspoken cries—
To let someone see the storm behind their eyes.
But somewhere out there, love still survives—
Not in perfect people, but in honest lives.
Two souls who stay, who heal and grow—
That’s the love most never find, yet secretly know.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2025
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
It began as an error— not pain, but a thought folding the wrong way and refusing correction.
Belief turned inward. Memory learned to bite. Silence bruised.
Inside me, a cancer studied devotion: it memorized prayer only to empty it. It pressed against the idea of God until doubt bled.
I asked—without ceremony— why give a heart the intelligence to erase itself. Why grant meaning and make it perishable.
Night answered by water.
A ship opens in the Pacific. Metal yields. The ocean does not rage; it receives.
I am what remains. The body afloat. The mind releasing its names. Stars above— a tribunal already decided.
Grief speaks then. It breathes through scorched lungs, utters words sealed with embers. Each sinks faster than the last. Faith is no longer belief but reflex.
Sunday arrives. Bells ring for a God who may exist or may be the last idea we refuse to bury.
At the edge of annihilation, light appears— not as answer, but as instruction: continue.
The cancer fails because it cannot erase the question. Even ruined, the soul still inclines toward meaning.
This is not victory. It is resistance.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2026
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Tuoyo Palmer Poem
They taught us
to imagine the world
with a centre.
And, conveniently,
the centre looked like them.
From there
they measured civilisation,
intelligence,
beauty,
genius,
belonging
as though brilliance
required a passport.
But history kept
misbehaving.
In Timbuktu,
knowledge crossed deserts
before Europe learned
to call itself
the keeper of knowledge.
In Baghdad,
a scholar gave algebra
a language.
In India,
Ramanujan pulled
astonishing mathematics
from a mind
that refused the limits
others had imagined for it.
In Egypt,
Ibn al-Haytham
questioned light
until seeing itself
became a problem.
Again and again,
the supposedly peripheral
produced minds
that made the centre
reconsider itself.
Yet somehow
the centre remained.
Not geographically.
Psychologically.
Institutionally.
In the architecture
of whose voice sounds
like knowledge
before they have spoken.
In the invisible hand
that decides which genius
is called exceptional
and which is merely
called lucky.
In the peculiar suspicion
reserved for brilliance
when it arrives
wearing the wrong skin.
Jason Arday's death
does not give me
permission to invent
a cause.
I will not do that.
But it does leave
a question standing
in the room:
What happens
when scrutiny becomes
a spectacle,
when a person
becomes an argument
before he remains
a person?
Who is believed?
Who is doubted?
Who is permitted
to be imperfect
without becoming
evidence?
Who must be
extraordinary
simply to be considered
ordinary?
And who holds
the keys?
If creation
did not discriminate
when it distributed
consciousness,
who authorised us
to discriminate
when we distributed
belonging?
Perhaps genius
was never waiting
for permission.
Perhaps the world
has never lacked
brilliant minds.
Perhaps it has lacked
the humility
to recognise them.
Look closely
at history.
The centre keeps moving.
The genius keeps appearing
where nobody expected it.
And every time
the world says,
Surely not here,
someone answers
by becoming undeniable.
So perhaps
the centre was never
the centre.
Perhaps it was only
the place from which
someone acquired
the power to point
and say:
You belong there.
I belong here.
Until another mind arrives
from somewhere
they were never
supposed to look
and quietly
moves the world.
Copyright © Tuoyo Palmer | Year Posted 2026
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