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Unbroken Verses, Dawaki, Abuja (2026)

09/08/2026

TITLE: The Corridor of Becoming

She has always resented her journey through life.

She sees challenges as punishment,
her countless trainings as trials
as though some divine judgment
mistook humanity for a sentence
and handed her suffering as its verdict.

She does not believe in lessons,
or in the wisdom hidden inside experience.

She calls them unnecessary suffering.

She sees forgiveness
as a compromise of boundaries,
a surrender disguised as grace.

She does not understand
the language of listening,
the discipline of observation.

To her, silence is suppression
a quiet burial ground
where emotions rot beneath the tongue.

But now

life is confronting her.

Not gently.

It is dragging her impatient heart
into the mirror of consequence,
placing her defensive emotional baggage
at her own feet
and asking her to finally look.

It is challenging her temperament,
her volatility,
the inherited fire she has mistaken for identity

the very patterns
that have travelled through her bloodline
from one generation to another,
wearing different faces
but carrying the same wound.

And life is calling her to order:

Watch.

Listen.

Be still.

Learn.

Unlearn.

Then learn again.

Not everything that hurts you
is punishment.

Not every uncomfortable truth
is an attack.

Not every boundary
requires a battlefield.

There is a corridor between
what happened to her
and what she chooses to become.

A narrow passage through time
where space exists
between reaction and response,
between inheritance and choice,
between the woman she was taught to be
and the woman she decides to become.

This is where the bloodline breaks.

Not through anger.

Not through blame.

But through a different choice.

She must ask herself:

What must end with me?

What must no longer receive
another generation as its vessel?

Which wound must stop
being handed down as wisdom?

Which reaction must die
before it becomes inheritance?

Because she cannot keep
wearing victimhood
as an explanation
for every avoidable choice.

She cannot keep naming
every battlefield
without admitting
that some wars were chosen
long after the warning signs appeared.

Life is not asking her
to become passive.

It is asking her
to become conscious.

To understand that listening
does not mean surrender.

Forgiveness
does not mean reopening the door.

Observation
does not mean silent suppression.

And choosing differently
does not erase what happened—

it simply refuses
to let what happened
write the ending.

She is learning, perhaps painfully,
that legacy is not built
from every desire she obeys,
nor every comfort she chooses
in the moment.

Some choices soothe the present
and sabotage the future.

Some comforts are merely
beautifully disguised consequences.

Because no simple choice
builds a lasting legacy.

The choices that matter
are often the ones
that demand she outgrow herself.

And perhaps

this is the real corridor of becoming:

the moment she stops asking,

“Why does life keep doing this to me?”

and finally asks,

“What is life trying to teach me
about what I keep doing to myself?”

That is where the cycle begins to break.

That is where accountability
becomes freedom.

That is where the woman
who spent her life fighting life
finally learns

she was never meant
to win against the journey.

She was meant
to become wiser
because she walked it.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu

08/08/2026

TITLE: THE WOMAN WHO DANCES WITH THE STORM

Across the grey, storm-fogged evening,
she walks

dressed in an amber gown
like a flame refusing to die.

Beneath gathering clouds,
lightning tears open the sky
and thunder answers

a reflection
of the weather raging inside her.

She wanders without direction,
as though the violent wind
has taken hold of her
and is carrying her
toward some unnamed disaster.

She is looking,
but not seeing.

Her mind is blank.

She is listening,
but not hearing,

because the ringing in her ears
and the voices inside her head
will not grant her
even a moment of silence.

She is lost
inside the old story

that endless battle
between the rain
and her dying dreams.

Yet here she stands,

at the threshold
of her becoming,

where life's complicated crossroads
open before her
with too many roads
leading inward.

And she must choose.

One path.

One defining direction.

One sacred opportunity
to turn toward herself.

To take the climb.

To become
the woman she was always meant to be.

But she is standing
at the highest peak
of her war within

between yesterday,
today,
and the fragile promise
of tomorrow.

Here,

winning and losing
seem to carry
the same ultimate cost.

She has already been shaped by duty,

tempered by endless voyages
beyond the edge
of golden horizons,

through uncharted terrains
where reality bends,
where emotions glow
in the midnight chambers
of solitary thought,

where silence
becomes a language
and stillness
becomes a teacher.

But she does not yet understand

she has always been
in training.

Every trial.

Every temptation.

Every wound.

Every door that closed.

Every season
that forced her
to walk alone.

None of it was wasted.

And now,

the universe seems to be testing
the weight of her resolve,

placing her
between the devil
and the deep blue sea,

at that terrifying point
where there is no comfortable choice,

where hesitation
has a price,

where she must risk
everything—

or remain
where she has always been.

Yet even here,

she must find her rhythm.

She must listen
to the percussion
of falling rain,

feel every drop
ebb and flow
through the chambers
of her becoming,

until the storm
is no longer a threat
to her ego,

nor to the shadow
of her alter ego.

She must dance.

Dance with the rain.

Dance with the thunder.

Dance with the wind
that once tried
to carry her away.

Because perhaps
the storm was never sent
to destroy her.

Perhaps it came
to teach her
the music of her own becoming.

She must dance
until the rain
learns her rhythm.

Until the clouds
have nothing left
to mourn.

Until the sky
finally remembers
how to open.

Because she is
the vessel of light
destined to illuminate
the places within her
where darkness once lived.

She is the colour palette
waiting beneath the grey

red,

gold,

violet,

blue,

green,

every impossible shade
of a life refusing
to remain colourless.

She is the rainbow
waiting to break open
after the storm,

not because the storm
never happened,

but because she survived it.

She is the beautiful,
tragic language of poetry

the wound becoming metaphor,

the grief becoming wisdom,

the silence becoming song,

the broken pieces
becoming meaning.

And when everything
inside her finally settles,

when past and present
stop wrestling
for possession of her soul,

when the scales of her inner world
find their balance,

something quiet
will awaken.

Not noise.

Not conquest.

Not perfection.

But power

soft,

unshaken,

unapologetic.

The kind of power
that no longer needs
to prove itself.

The kind that knows
when to fight,

when to surrender,

when to speak,

and when to simply breathe.

And then,

after all the storms,
all the crossroads,
all the wandering,

she will finally understand

she was never lost.

She was being led
through the wilderness
of herself.

And the journey
was never about
finding somewhere else
to become.

It was about
coming home.

Home to her voice.

Home to her light.

Home to her scars.

Home to her softness.

Home to her power.

Home to the woman
beneath the amber flame.

Home

to herself.

And there,

in the quiet sanctuary
of self-love,

she will bloom.

Not into someone new,

but into the woman
who had been waiting
inside her all along.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu

04/08/2026

Title: THE HOURGLASS OF BECOMING

Across the edge of life,
with steadfast courage
that has never tasted defeat,
despair wages war
against the fleeting darkness.

Beneath the surface,
where certainty disappears
into the hollow of shadows,
beyond the golden rim of time,
I carry the burden of power
and mystery,

moving to the rhythm
of an endless circle,
searching for the unseen balance
in the ancient battlefield
of the mind.

But beneath the stillness
of the abyssal waters,
where darkness embraces
what truth has buried,
a hidden light begins to illuminate
the ancient whispers.

Hope blooms.
Peace gathers its petals.

Warmth hums between realms,
and forgotten hues begin to glow
inside a chaotic, dying world
a world bent on greed,
power, possession,
and ceaseless war,
determined to turn abundance
into ruin.

Yet, in the depth
of quiet moments
and inward reflection,
I search for meaning
inside the static void

that unempty silence
where nothing speaks
yet everything whispers.

Beyond the vast unknown
of the golden horizon,
where fading beauty
still remembers how to become magic,
where miracles echo
beyond the veil of reality,

I find tiny blessings

little sparks of wonder
carried like fairy dust
through invisible hands,
sprinkled upon the colorful heart
that still beats with passion
and purpose.

A heart that refuses
to be frightened of dreaming.

A heart that dares
to take impossible things
and weave them
into the architecture of reality.

Defiant against all odds,
it gathers the bleeding fragments
of ancient wisdom,
the ageless grace
worn thin by humanity's mistakes,

and turns them
into a sacred fountain
of answered prayers.

Every earned smile
becomes a reflection
of living potential

a quiet pregnancy of becoming,
an inner stillness,
a knowing that does not need
permission to exist.

Through resilience.
Through burning effort.
Through wounds that refused
to become graves.

I search for healing
where everything seemed lost,
where nothing appeared worthy
of resurrection,
where there seemed to be
nothing left to save.

And then

the cracked hourglass
must be rescued
from its timeless fall.

For loss
is not always an ending.

Sometimes,
it is the sacred transition
between what was
and what is becoming.

Every grain of sand
that slipped through human hands
leaves an imprint.

Every lost moment
etches wisdom
into the architecture of the soul.

Every fracture
becomes an opening
through which another light
can enter.

And so,

what once seemed ordinary
is transformed
into something extraordinary

not perfect,
not finished,
not bound by infinity,

but alive.
Becoming.

Transcending the fragile mathematics
of time itself.

For perhaps
the broken world
does not need another war.

Perhaps it needs bridges

bridges of golden renewal,
built from everything
we thought we had lost.

Bridges across grief.
Bridges across memory.
Bridges across the ruins
of human becoming.

Until we find the path
where time is no longer
the master of our existence,

but merely an observer
watching quietly
as a life that has survived
the wrinkles of time

rises, reclaims its scattered pieces,
and becomes
what it was always
learning to be.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu

02/08/2026

Title: THE MORNING AFTER

You have written enough
about the grave.

Enough about the years
you buried beneath
the weight of almost,
should-have,
could-have,
and never.

Enough mourning
the version of you
that stayed too long
in rooms where your spirit
had already left.

Now

rise.

Not because the past
has suddenly become beautiful,
but because you have finally understood:

a grave is not a home.

You are not the body
they pronounced dead.

You are the pulse
they failed to hear.

You are the hand
still reaching through the soil,
the stubborn root
that refused to surrender
to the darkness.

And look

morning has come.

Not with trumpets.
Not with permission.

Just light.

Spilling through the cracks
you once mistook for endings.

So gather your scattered pieces.

Gather the talent
you abandoned in waiting rooms.

Gather the dreams
you starved with excuses.

Gather the voice
you buried beneath
the noise of other people's expectations.

Call them back.

One by one.

Let ambition return
without apology.

Let curiosity knock
on doors you were once afraid to open.

Let your creativity
crawl out of hiding
like a wild thing
remembering its name.

You have eaten enough
of what life dropped on the floor.

Now

set the table.

Choose what feeds you.

Choose what grows you.

Choose what makes
your spirit sit upright
and remember itself.

And if they tell you
you have wasted too much time

tell them:

seeds do not apologize
for how long they slept
beneath the earth.

They simply break open
when it is time.

So break.

Not apart

but through.

Through fear.

Through shame.

Through hesitation.

Through every invisible hand
that taught you to make yourself small.

Let the old version of you
become compost.

Let every failure
feed the roots.

Let every wasted year
become fertilizer
for what comes next.

You are not beginning
from nothing.

You are beginning
from everything
you survived.

And this time,

you will not merely exist.

You will cultivate.

You will create.

You will become.

You will rise
with dirt beneath your nails
and fire beneath your ribs,

and when the morning asks,

“Who are you?”

you will not answer
with the name
of who you used to be.

You will point
to the life blooming
from the ruins

and say:

I am the one
who woke up.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

01/08/2026

Title: DORMANT FOR TOO LONG

Been dormant for too long

like a co**se in the graveyard,
wasting away
the nutritious richness of intellect
in the trivialities of existence;

where skills,
talents,
and creativity
became manure
for barren ideas.

Been dormant for too long.

Replacing ambition with idleness
the devil's workshop.

Eating every rotten dish
and every crumb
life served me from the floor,

becoming a waste bin
where life's filth
was thrown.

Then forcing myself to believe
my laziness
was never my fault.

Been dormant for too long.

Treating time and season
as inconsequential frivolities,
forgetting their impact,
their imprint
on the existence
of my pregnant tomorrow

and on the lives
my existence could have touched.

Watching moments fade
without a trace
into the quicksand of time.

Laying the foundation
of my empire
on shifting grounds
and fleeting thoughts,

building the legacy
of generations yet unborn
upon the ruins
of dead dreams.

Been dormant for too long.

I lost my grip
on the leash of my reality
to the chaotic winds
of procrastination.

Tossed helplessly
upon the waves
of thoughtlessness,

battered by the heavy storms
of indecisiveness.

Now

I am drowning
in the high tide
of regret,

my shame
and confusion
rippling outward
like waves
from a stone I dropped
into the stillness
of my own life.

Been dormant for too long.

Delaying my growth
because I feared
the wounds
that experience might leave behind.

Basking in the euphoria
of my comfort zone

not knowing
it was quietly becoming
the graveyard
of my youth.

I convinced myself
that opportunity
was merely a random draw
of probability,

that luck
was a spiritual game of chance
requiring neither preparation
nor courage,

and that someday,
at my own convenient time,
I would simply awaken
and spark my transformation

without risk,
without discomfort,
without failure.

That

was the lie
I had been living.

Been dormant for too long.

I allowed others
to become the authors
of my life story.

I let them convince me
that I would never be enough.

So I walked
within the narrow guidelines
of their expectations,

shrinking beneath
the weight of their judgment.

I learned to eat crumbs
of undeserved disrespect
thrown at their feet
just to be accepted.

I held tightly
to a well-written,
well-rehearsed script

the validated pages
of a perfect fake life
they approved

too afraid
to turn the page
and begin again

with the real story
of my life,

authored by me.

Been dormant for too long.

Waiting for someone else's light
to shine through
my darkest hours,

when all along
I needed only
to recognize
the light
already burning within me.

I walked through darkness
searching for truth,

only to wound myself
against the sharp edges
of my own judgment,

caught inside
the web of lies
I had helped weave.

I allowed the whispers
inside my head
to call the shots.

Doubt.
Suspicion.
Insecurity.

They occupied
too much space within me

rent-free.

Been dormant for too long.

I took too long
to wake
from my long slumber.

Mistaking circumstances
for things I could control
with the snap of my fingers.

Too frightened
to take another leap of faith,
to try again
after failure had taught me
what I did not want to learn.

I became trapped
inside the distorted pictures
of my own mirror

staring at reflections
shaped by my deepest fears.

I lost chances
hidden inside
the simple words,

“I'm fine.”

“I'm okay.”

When what I really needed
was to use my voice

not to hide my pain,

but to cry for help.

I missed my best shot
at the stars,

not because the sky
had denied me,

but because my fleeting efforts
fell short of the height
I was capable of reaching.

Then I exiled myself
on a guilty trip
through the wasteland
of a defeated mind.

But I have been dormant
for too long.

And perhaps
the greatest tragedy
is not that I slept

but that I began
to mistake sleep
for destiny.

So this is not
my eulogy.

This is my reckoning.

I have buried enough dreams
beneath excuses.

Fed enough potential
to procrastination.

Handed enough pages
of my story
to other people's hands.

I cannot rewrite
the time already lost,

but I can decide
what the remaining pages
will say.

The graveyard
does not have to be
my destination.

The soil that covered
my dormant dreams
can become
the soil from which
they rise.

I have slept.

I have wandered.

I have wasted.

I have failed.

But I am still here.

And as long as
there is breath
beneath my ribs,

there is still time
to rise.

I have been dormant
for too long.

Now

I WAKE.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

30/07/2026

Title: THE ARCHITECTURE OF REMEMBERING

Beneath the shadowed, starry night,
she sits in solitude
with herself

wrapped in the silent blanket of darkness,
wearing her well-crafted mask,
designed for every emotion,
perfect for every occasion.

Always in active performance,
even in the dead of night
when no one is watching.

It has become difficult
for her to lay down her masquerade,
to remove the costume,
to stop acting
even for a moment.

So she hides her tired, battered self
beneath the flawless performance
she has mastered over the years,
breathing through labored lungs
as though exhaustion
were another emotion
she must learn to disguise.

She trained herself
to brace for the unexpected,
to prepare for every blow
before it arrived.

Every hit designed to break her
became another endurance class.

She made an oath to herself long ago:

No one
and nothing
would be allowed
to decide how her story ends.

She would learn
to turn the worst of her outcomes
into the raw material
of her becoming.

So she let them cast her
into the abyss meant for her destruction.

And instead of dying there,
she stepped barefoot
through flowing lava,
holding buckets of ice
like trophies of survival.

She let them drown her
in the sea of her own tears.

But she learned
to make rock bottom
her reflection ground
the place where she could finally see herself
clearly enough
to find the direction back
to the surface.

She let failure
teach her success
through one more push.

She let every fall
train the stamina
she never knew she possessed.

Pain became passion.
Passion became purpose.

And vulnerability
the very thing they once taught her
to hide
became her power bank.

She discovered
that softness was never weakness.

It was raw strength.

A quiet weapon
no one saw coming.

Abandonment became
her rooted solitude

the sacred room
where doubts,
accusing voices,
and the ghosts of her own negativity
could finally meet her.

There,
her inner wars
began to lose their voices.

There,
clarity found her.

And slowly,
she stopped hiding her wounds.

Stopped apologizing
for her scars.

Every mark became evidence.

Every wound,
a testimony.

Every scar,
a battle insignia

not proof that she was broken,
but proof
that she survived
what was meant to destroy her.

Now

it is time.

Time to let herself
blossom beyond survival.

To cross the threshold
between who she was
and who she is becoming.

To emerge
as the architecture of remembering

the keeper of forgotten paths,
the woman who knows
that even ruins
can remember how to become temples.

Within her,
creation meets chaos.

Wisdom teaches endings
how to give birth
to beginnings.

She becomes
a reflection of beauty and mystery,
a living archive
of buried thoughts,
unspoken truths,
and memories
that refused to disappear.

She carries a peace
that had once been forgotten.

A peace earned
not through the absence of storms,
but through learning
how to stand inside them.

She is no longer merely
the woman who survived the fire.

She is what the fire
could not consume.

She is the memory
of every version of herself
she had to bury
to become whole.

She is the keeper
of what the world forgot.

The witness.

The remembering.

The becoming.

And beneath the same
shadowed, starry sky
where once she sat alone,

she finally removes her mask

not because the world
has become safe,

but because she has finally remembered
who she was
before she learned
to hide.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

28/07/2026

Title: The Awakening

From the deepest chambers
of her abyss,
something ancient awakened.

A forgotten warrior.

A sacred inheritance
older than fear,
older than shame,
older than silence.

Fire settled
inside her eyes.

Resilience
became her heartbeat.

She refused to bow

not to patriarchy,

not to humiliation,

not to inherited traditions
that demanded
the burial
of her becoming,

not to systems
that negotiated
the price
of her dignity,

not to shame
placed upon her womb,

nor to violence
that mistook itself
for power.

She chose instead
the costly path

the price paid
through blood,

through sweat,

through tears,

through discipline,

through unwavering devotion,

through the quiet certainty
of her own becoming.

She rose
beyond condition.

Beyond circumstance.

Beyond limitation.

Beyond every name
the world
had ever used
to imprison her.

No longer surviving
on borrowed time,

she became
the author
of her own eternity.

The chains
did not remember her.

The curses
could no longer recognize her.

The bloodline
ended its suffering
where she began.

For she had crossed
the threshold
between inheritance
and intention.

Between survival
and sovereignty.

Between who she was taught to be
and who she had always been.

And there,
within the sacred womb of time,
she awakened.
Not into another life

but into herself.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

27/07/2026

Title: The Unraveling

She allowed unseen pressures
to seep quietly
into her purpose,
accepting burdens
she had never been destined to carry.

She traded truth
for comfortable lies,
mistook surrender
for survival,
and slowly learned
the language of victimhood.

Every fear.

Every doubt.

Every shame.

Every betrayal.

Every apology
she never owed.

She bargained away her worth
as though it were disposable,
allowed careless hands
to trample her values,
accepted crumbs
from the abundance
she herself had cultivated.

Searching for safety,
she wandered deeper
into the very darkness
that had taught her
to fear the light.

Her body lived
in constant flight,
mistaking survival
for living.

Yet beneath the surface,
she was drowning

upon the altar
where she had sacrificed
herself.

Her cries echoed
through silent chambers,
but denial
had become
its own prison.

Then life arrived
with hands too fierce
to leave her unchanged.

Every illusion
was stripped away.

Every mask
was torn loose.

Every false foundation
collapsed beneath her feet.

Transformation came
like a supernova

violent,

feral,

merciless

destroying only
what could no longer
contain her light.

She stood
among the ashes
of the woman
she used to be.

And for the first time,

she chose
to rise.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

26/07/2026

Title: The Inheritance

She always told herself
she was living on borrowed time,
surviving a life
she never truly chose.

She wandered inherited circles,
mistaking repetition for destiny,
anchored to familiar pain
as though suffering
were the only language
her soul had ever learned.

Ungrounded,
she settled for fleeting comforts
that disguised themselves as peace.

She inherited broken beliefs
without question,
accepting them as sacred truths.

She wore wounds
that were never hers,
mourned battles
she never fought,
and carried burdens
she was never born to bear.

Without knowing,
she walked the ancient corridors
of bloodline curses,
renewing covenants
her spirit had never consented to,
too afraid to step beyond
the walls of what was familiar.

She became the keeper
of stories she did not write,
the guardian of mistakes
she did not make,
reliving wars
her ancestors had fought
so her generation
would never have to.

Yet there she stood—
wearing generations of shame
like medals pinned upon her skin,
celebrated for surviving chains
she was never meant to inherit.

Stagnation became inheritance.
Poverty became identity.
Fear disguised itself as wisdom,
until she could no longer
tell the difference.

She convinced herself
she could never rise
higher than the story
she whispered
to her own reflection.

For the body believes
whatever the mind rehearses.

Like water,
her body remembered everything.

And somewhere
beneath those borrowed memories,
life began asking a question
inheritance could never answer.

UNBROKEN VERSES
‎
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

24/07/2026

Title: Adrift Between Tides.

Adrift upon the rising tides
of my life's chaos,
lost in the echoes of regret,
among the wreckage
of yesterday's remains.

A weariness settled into my bones,
as I lingered too long
inside the chambers of my fears,
drowning in the unfathomable depths
of my own unshed tears.

With no anchor,
no compass,
no bearing,

only your whispers

soft in their embrace,
yet haunting in their echo.

They extinguished the last beacon of hope
and turned my life
into the hollow of an uncharted wilderness,

where every shadow concealed
what desperately longed to be revealed.

Grotesque visions crowded my mind,
tipping me into a timeless fall,
drawing from my chest
a symphony of melancholy

a scream too sacred
for the world to hear.

I stood frozen
upon unfamiliar ground,
with no room to retreat,
no map to return.

My soul hung suspended
upon the fragile line of the in-between,

swaying between holding on
and letting go
a choice that promised
no victory.

My truest self
hid beneath borrowed masks
and carefully crafted disguises,

carrying responsibilities
that shook my spirit
with silent quakes and aching bones.

Within the battlefield of my mind,
a war raged without beginning or end,

an inner world consumed
by the relentless fight
to survive,

while forever bargaining
for the approval
of my own worth.

I was once
a flourishing essence
a starlight,
a glittering wonder,

radiant at the height
of my becoming,

alive in every colour,
anchored in quiet knowing.

But the world believed otherwise.

It fed me whispers
of "less than"
and "never enough,"
until those borrowed voices
contaminated my core,

hoping to watch me wither
into rust and ruin.

Then came the deafening silence
the kind that slowly teaches you
to surrender your own voice
and mistake captivity
for destiny.

Now I drift
through the unstable currents
of an unsound mind,
beneath limiting beliefs
that once protected me,
but have long outlived
their purpose.
Still, I ache

for the familiar,

for the woman I used to be,
for the illusion of comfort
that survival once called home.

Yet beneath the raging sea,
beneath every fractured wave,
something ancient
still remembers
the shoreline.
Perhaps I have not been lost.

Perhaps

I have only been finding
my way back
to myself.

‎UNBROKEN VERSES
‎The rise of HerPhoenix.
‎© Oluchi Amara Nwachukwu
‎

Unbroken Verses

09/08/2026

08/08/2026

04/08/2026

02/08/2026

01/08/2026

30/07/2026

28/07/2026

27/07/2026

26/07/2026

24/07/2026

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