Who is the most confident person you know?
Questionably ME!
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Author: Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
I live to write; I write for a living. Because I breath words in and out, everything I pen down must be epic!
You think you’re impervious.
You think you’re too strong to be changed.
But even the brightest lemon turns green in a moldy jar.
It’s slow. It’s quiet. It’s “just one conversation.”
Until one day, the decay is all you have left.
Stop testing your strength against toxic environments. Just leave the room.
Happy Monday. Protect your light.
Quotefiedhq #TheJarMatters #ProtectYourLight #MindsetMatters #MondayRealTalk #EnvironmentIsEverything #GrowthMindset #WordPorn #PoetryCommunity #InnerPeace #VibeCheck #LifeLessons #IntentionalLiving #NigeriaCreatives #VerbalCraft
🤔 When was the last time you gave something up not because you had to, but because you wanted to?
🤔 What piece of pride have you gently laid down for something greater than yourself?
🤔 Where is life inviting you to choose “us” over “me”?
🤔 If love kept no score, how differently would you show up?
Sometimes love is not about grand gestures, but quiet surrender, the soft strength of choosing connection over ego, devotion over defense, and togetherness over tally.
When the butterflies are gone,
and love no longer trembles in your ribs
like a secret trying to be born,
do not panic.
Love was never meant
to live only in the flutter.
The butterflies were the introduction
soft wings brushing against uncertainty,
color against fear,
hope learning how to pronounce a new name.
But wings tire.
And what replaces them
is quieter.
Heavier.
Real.
When the butterflies are gone,
what remains is choice.
Choice to stay when moods are not musical.
Choice to speak when silence would be easier.
Choice to build when feelings refuse to bloom on command.
The world taught you
that love must always feel like fireworks
but fireworks die in smoke.
Real love
becomes sunrise instead.
It rises whether you clap or not.
It shows up on ordinary mornings
with sleepy eyes and steady hands.
When the butterflies are gone,
you begin to see clearly.
Not the fantasy
but the flaws.
Not the poetry
but the patterns.
And here is the sacred question:
When the flutter fades,
is there still respect?
Is there still peace?
Is there still kindness in the room?
Because butterflies are feelings.
But foundation is character.
If the butterflies are gone
and bitterness takes their place,
listen.
If the butterflies are gone
and calm remains
stay curious.
There is a deeper love
that does not shake you,
but steadies you.
It does not rush your pulse,
but regulates your soul.
And sometimes,
when the butterflies are gone,
what is left
is not emptiness
but maturity.
Love growing up.
Quotefied (Quotefiedhq)
http://www.ifedolapoogunniyi.com
(For Mothers with ❤️)
A load I carried for nine long months,
Heavy beneath my ribs, heavy beneath my pulse.
A secret swelling inside my bones,
Alive, restless, yet unknown.
It pressed against my fragile sleep,
Turned in the dark where silence weeps.
I felt its hunger, felt its cry,
Felt it stretch where fears would lie.
It fed on my blood, drank from my veins,
Wrote its story through my pains.
My back bent low, my ankles swelled,
My breath grew thin where hope once dwelled.
People smiled and touched my skin,
Asking what treasure grew within.
Was it joy wrapped soft and small
Or a storm waiting to fall.
I loved what I had never seen.
I feared what I had never seen.
I sang to a shadow.
I prayed to a mystery.
Nine months of carrying a question.
Nine months of loving a secret.
Nine months of surrendering control
To something that would not reveal its face.
I bore the weight with trembling grace,
Kissed the curve of my own unknown fate.
So close to my heartbeat it lived,
Yet not once was I given the mercy
To know what I held inside.
A load I carried.
A life I nurtured.
A truth I was denied.
And still I carried it.
© Quotefied
The pages were patient…
white as untouched dawn,
holding their breath
for a voice brave enough to arrive.
Then the ink came
not gently,
but like rain that had waited too long,
spilling its secrets
from the marrow of memory.
Dust stirred.
Silence cracked open.
Old whispers rose from forgotten corners
and stitched themselves into sentences.
Each word burned softly at first
then brighter.
A quiet rebellion of letters
refusing to be erased.
Names once fading
found their pulse again.
Moments once buried
stood upright and breathing.
Time tried to close the book
but the story would not bow.
It stretched beyond margins,
climbed past endings,
and wrote itself into forever.
The pages were patient…
but truth was restless.
And now that it has spoken,
even if years gather like shadows,
even if hands tremble and seasons shift
This story will remain.
Not as ink.
But as imprint.
Not as sound.
But as echo.
Unfading.
Unforgotten.
Undone by nothing.
Categories
What do you complain about the most?
People
Noise
Being caged
I just want to be alone, no unnecessary noise or triggers, nobody tossing me around like I am a toddler. I love my own company…A LOT!
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In what ways do you communicate online?
Writing my thoughts down in their raw state . I do mostly chats with friends, poetry when a thought flashes or my emotions are going through a roller coaster 😀 or even a story when the issue lingers.
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I Take A Breath
I Take a Breath
I take a breath
not because life is gentle,
but because it isn’t.
Because my chest is full
of unsaid things,
and my mind keeps running
like it owes time an explanation.
The breath arrives quietly.
No announcement.
No miracle.
Just air reminding my body
it doesn’t have to stay on guard
every second.
For a moment,
the noise steps back.
Not gone
just far enough
for me to hear myself again.
I exhale
and something loosens.
Not the problem.
Not the weight.
Just the grip
of pretending I’m fine.
Maybe that’s what breathing really is
not healing,
not strength,
but honesty in motion.
A soft way of saying:
I’m still here.
I’m still trying.
I can pause
before I break.
And sometimes,
that pause
is enough
to keep going.
© @quotefiedhq
(aka Quotefied on Facebook)
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Christmas in My Village
(A Child’s Telling)
The village slept beneath the frosty moon,
But I awoke much earlier than noon.
A secret smell of spices filled the air,
A call to join a magic I could share.
I tiptoed past the kitchen, keen to see
The mystery of what this day would be.
A bubbling pot of promise,deep and grand,
Was stirred by my dear Mama’s careful hand.
Then Mama Ade, with laughter in her eyes,
Gave me a treasure,hot and crisp and wise.
A golden akara,wrapped in leaf so green,
The finest little snack I’d ever seen.
The drums began to boom across the land,
A thrilling,deep, and mighty sound so grand.
They pulled us to the square with steady beat,
And set the rhythm for our dancing feet.
The feast was laid with joy on every plate,
We ate and celebrated,late and late.
Then sleepy,’neath the stars so soft and deep,
I held the magic as I fell asleep.
© Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
http://www.ifedolapoogunniyi.com
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 