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Quote by Tunde Oyeneyin

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Speak: Find Your Voice, Trust Your Gut, and Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be

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Tunde Oyeneyin

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“He couldn’t love me—I’m convinced of this to my bones. He couldn’t share his anguish, his loss, or anything of his heart. He closed himself off—and he’s still closed off, because his heart is reserved for someone else. So I closed myself off too—because something I’ve learned these last few weeks is self-preservation. I couldn’t let myself get hurt. Not now, not after everything that’s happened. I’ve been hurt enough by life; I’m still mending.”

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“Broken bone heals back stronger, Broken heart heals back braver. Broken mind heals back wiser, Broken life heals back brighter. Scars are not guilt marks, Scars are mark of gallantry. Scars are proof of resilience, Scars are testament to bravery. Scars are proof that you soldiered on, Scars are proof that you never gave in. Products are manufactured without scars, People are shaped by scars and suffering. Suffering is not a failure of life, Suffering is a sign of life. The living shall suffer one way or another, So choose the reason, conscious and wise.”

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Book:Yaralardan Yangın Doğar: Explorers of Night are Emperors of Dawn
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“Edge of the Sword (Poem) ****** I have long sensed that you're an edge of a sword. In halve you managed to pierce me with taps and words. Today those words have turned into a session of stabbing. You cut me deep with your point, my spine is flapping. Who knew that you'd burn into an anatomy of a dagger? To you both the blade and the pommel are the same in danger. Even the peen block is equally harmful too. And the guard and the grip form an army of tools. So, I fall bleeding from your thrust; Oh! With my body full of bruises and cuts. But only the soil has an interest to lick these wounds For my blood giveth commitment and feeds it life in full. How can a battle of love turn into an unending war? Bow, allow my wailing to cease your cause. Why torture me whereas even fallen leaves nurture my sores And the ground quenches its thirst through my peeled pores? Woe to your love. It touches my trauma with soiled gloves.”

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Author:Mitta Xinindlu
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