I Am Not Proud, I Am Confident
The sun does not apologize for its heat,
Nor does it admire itself
It does not seek the approval of the wheat,
Implicit in its fire and its grace.
To burn is not a boast, but a decree,
A function of a core that knows its weight.
So too, I stand in what I’ve come to be,
Beyond the reach of vanity or fate.
Pride is a hunger, a hollow, reaching thing,
That feasts upon the nectar of the crowd;
It needs the chorus for the song to ring,
It speaks in echoes, desperate and loud.
It builds its towers on a shifting sand,
Trembling if the world should look away,
A gilded glove upon a shaking hand,
Terrified of what the critics say.
But confidence is quiet; it is stone.
It does not ask the room to yield its floor.
It is the marrow, deep within the bone,
The silent hinge upon the heavy door.
I do not need to raise my stature’s reach
By standing on the shoulders of the small;
I do not need the violence of speech
To prove that I am upright, standing tall.
Confidence is coal conserved steadily
Failure turned into valuable energy;
It is the peace that comes when you’ve defined
The flame, and not the smoke that comes of it.
It does not fear the error or the slide,
For truth is not a thing that can be shamed.
While pride is busy finding spots to hide,
Confidence stands open and unnamed.
So do not mistake my carriage for a sneer,
Or think my steady gaze is meant to slight.
I have no use for arrogance or fear,
I only wish to carry my own light.
I am not proud—for pride is but a mask
Pushed forward to protect a hollow chest.
I am confident; I am equal to the task,
And in that simple knowledge, I can rest.
Shattered by Love, Rooted in Love
In the quiet hour when lightning split the sky,
I offered you my chest—open, trembling, and beating.
You took the blade of sweetness, kissed it sharp,
and carved your name into the tender dark.
Glass rained where once my laughter used to live,
each shard a memory too bright to forgive.
I gathered them in bleeding, open palms,
and still I whispered, stay, despite the harm.
Yet in the ruin, something older stirred—
not fragile stem, but root, deep and unheard.
Down through the wreckage, past the broken bone,
love drove its hungry fingers into stone.
The same wild force that felled me fed the ground.
The same fierce tide that tore me turned me round.
From every fracture, green defiant things
pushed toward the light on shattered wings.
I Hope I Can Be a Better Lover
I hope I can be a better lover—
not the one who arrives with flowers after the storm,
but the steady hand that holds the sail
before the wind turns cruel.
I’ve been clumsy with hearts,
promising oceans yet offering drops,
quick to defend instead of soften.
Forgive the boy who learned love from screens.
Let me listen to your silences
with the same care I give your laughter,
patient as dawn on Lagos rooftops,
brave enough to stay and try again.
I will practice loving you
the way morning practices rising—
slowly, surely,
until even the shadows trust the light.
About the Author
Lawrence Junior is a brand identity designer, mental health consultant, life coach and Writer. He believes there is so much to read and write about and so he does not have a specific nichè.
Featured image by Mauro Shared Pictures on Unsplash