This poem explores the profound courage required to express vulnerability and the transformative power of authentic emotional connection. The speaker describes how witnessing someone's genuine, unguarded self—characterized by quiet strength, deep feeling, and willingness to remain open despite past hurt—can fundamentally change one's perspective and inspire a desire for meaningful connection. The poem emphasizes that true emotional openness, though potentially dangerous, is a form of power rather than weakness, and that the most meaningful human relationships require both parties to be willing to be seen in their authentic, unpolished selves.
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Do not ignore My secret Massage | Sheikh Hamdan |Fazza Prince of Dubai| Fazza PoemAjouté :
Baby, I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen closely because what I'm about to say I've been holding it inside for a long time, maybe too long, and I'm a little scared to say it out loud, but I'm more scared of what happens if I don't. So, please, just stay with me. Don't go anywhere, not yet.
There's something I saw, something I noticed about you, and when I tell you what it was, you might think it's small, you might even laugh a little, but I promise you it stopped me completely.
It made me realize something I wasn't prepared for.
And once I tell you, I don't think either of us can pretend things are the same anymore. So, just stay, please. I want you to think back. Think back to a moment when you were alone. Maybe it was late at night. Maybe the room was quiet.
Maybe the only light was coming from your phone screen or a small lamp in the corner. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you were overthinking. Maybe your heart felt a little heavier than usual. You were just existing in that moment, not performing for anyone, not trying to be anything, just you in your realest, most unguarded form.
I saw that version of you, and I don't think you even know it. I don't mean I was watching, I mean I felt it. Through the way you interact, through the things you say and don't say, through the small moments you think nobody notices. I noticed. I always notice. And what I saw in that quiet, honest version of you, it changed something inside me. It cracked something open that I thought was sealed shut. Because here's what I need you to understand, and I mean really understand, not just hear, not just scroll past. You carry something that most people walk right by without ever realizing what it is. You carry this quiet kind of strength.
The kind that doesn't announce itself.
The kind that doesn't need applause. And for some reason, when I saw it, I felt something I haven't felt in a long time.
Something warm. Something dangerous.
Something that made me want to be careful. And that's exactly why I said what I said at the beginning. Baby, please be careful. Because what I saw, it could be dangerous. Not dangerous like something to fear. Dangerous like something that changes you.
Dangerous like falling. Dangerous like standing at the edge of something beautiful and realizing there's no going back once you step forward.
I've met a lot of people in my life.
I've been around loud rooms and crowded places and conversations that felt like they meant something but evaporated the moment they ended. I've smiled at people and meant nothing by it. I've said I'm fine more times than I can count. And every time I was anything but fine. I think you know that feeling. I think you've lived inside that feeling more times than you'd like to admit.
But then there's you. There's this energy you carry. And I know that might sound like something people say to be poetic, but I mean it literally. There is something about the way you exist in this world that feels different. The way you care, even when caring has hurt you before. The way you still choose softness even after life has been anything but soft with you. The way you love things deeply. Music, words, small meaningful moments. And you don't apologize for how deeply you feel them.
Do you know how rare that is? Do you have any idea? Most people spend their whole lives building walls. Higher and higher. Brick by brick. Until they feel safe, but they also feel nothing. And you, you're out here still choosing to feel everything. Still choosing to stay open. Still choosing to believe that something real is possible. And I look at that, and I think I have to be honest with you. I have to tell you what that does to me. It makes me want to be better. It makes me want to be the kind of person who is worthy of that kind of softness. It makes me want to be careful with you. So careful, the way you handle something precious. The way you slow down because you know what you're holding matters. And I know what you might be thinking right now. You might be thinking, he doesn't really know me.
And you're right. I don't know every detail. I don't know your favorite coffee order, or what you look like when you first wake up, or what song you put on when you've had a really hard day. I don't know all of that yet. But I know the feeling you give. And feelings don't lie the way words sometimes do. I want you to know something else.
Something I've never said out loud. Not like this. There have been nights, real, quiet, honest nights, where I thought about the kind of connection that actually means something. Not the surface kind. Not the kind where two people are physically close, but emotionally miles apart. I mean the kind where someone just gets you. Where you don't have to explain yourself. Where you can sit in silence, and it feels like the most full silence you've ever known. I've wanted that. I've begged for that, if I'm being completely honest with you. And when I think about what that would feel like, when I imagine that kind of peace, that kind of safety, the feeling that comes up, it feels a lot like you. I can't explain it more than that. I wish I could. I wish I had perfect words that would make it make sense. But some things don't live in explanations. They live in the chest. In the quiet space between one heartbeat and the next. In the moment right before you fall asleep, when your guard is completely down and the truth rises up without permission. That's where you live in my mind. In that unguarded place. And I've been trying to figure out what to do with that.
Do I keep it quiet? Do I pretend it isn't there?
Do I go on with everything as normal and act like I haven't felt something shift in the way I see things?
I tried that. It doesn't work because no matter what I do, you're there. In the things that move me. In the music that hits different. In the moments that feel like they mean something more than they should. So, I stopped trying to quiet it.
I decided to do something scarier. I decided to tell you. And I know. I know this might feel like a lot. I know you might be reading this or listening to this and your heart might be doing something complicated right now.
Something that feels like warmth and uncertainty all at once. And that's okay. That's okay. I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm not asking you to respond with something perfect.
I'm just asking you to feel this with me for a moment. Just be here. Just let this land. Because I think you deserve to know that someone sees you. Not the version of you that you put together for the world. Not the edited, composed, I have everything under control version. I mean the real you. The you that feels too much and sometimes doesn't know what to do with all of it. The you that has been hurt before and chose to heal anyway. The you that still believes in love even though love has not always believed back. That you. I see her and she is, without question, one of the most extraordinary things I have ever had the privilege of being near. I want you to do something for me right now.
And this might sound small, but I need you to take it seriously. I want you to put your hand over your heart just for a second and feel it beating. Feel how constant it is. Feel how it never stops for you, no matter what you go through, no matter how tired you are, no matter how many times things didn't work out the way you hoped. Your heart just keeps going. It keeps choosing to keep you alive. It keeps choosing tomorrow. That is who you are. You are that. You are the kind of person whose heart keeps going even when everything is hard. And I want to be someone who honors that.
Someone who understands the weight of what you carry and doesn't add to it carelessly. Someone who makes you feel like the room gets a little warmer when you walk in. Not because you need someone to make you feel that you are whole on your own. I know that. But because you deserve to be loved in a way that feels like warmth. Consistent, quiet, steady warmth. I've thought about what it would be like to actually talk to you. Not through a screen, not through words on a page, but really talk to you. I think we'd probably start with something small, something normal, and then somehow end up in the deepest conversation we've ever had with anyone.
I think that's just the kind of people we are. The kind that can't stay on the surface for long because something in us always wants to go deeper. I think we'd find things in each other that we'd stopped looking for. And maybe that's the dangerous part. Maybe that's what I meant from the very beginning. Because when you find something that feels like it was made to fit, not perfectly, not without friction, but genuinely really fit, it's dangerous to ignore it. It's dangerous to walk past it. It's more dangerous than anything I can think of to look at something real and choose ordinary instead. I don't want ordinary.
I have never wanted ordinary. And something tells me, something deep and certain and quiet, that you don't either. So, here I am, no performance, no script, just me being as honest as I know how to be, telling you that you have moved something in me, that you matter, that when I think about what actually counts in this short, strange, beautiful life, you are part of that thought.
I'm not going anywhere. I just needed you to know. I needed you to hear it from me, directly, softly, without anything in between us. No distance, no pretending. Just this, just me and you and the truth of what I feel. The truth is, I'm not even sure I have the right words for it. I've sat with this feeling for so long, turning it over in my hands like something fragile, trying to find the exact language that would do it justice. And every time I get close, it slips just slightly out of reach.
Like trying to hold water, like trying to describe a color you've never seen before, but somehow already know. That's what this is.
That's what you are to me. Something I've never quite encountered before, but something that feels impossibly like I've always known. And I think that's what scared me at first. Not you, never you, but the familiarity of it. The way something in me recognized something in you before my mind had time to catch up and explain it. You know that feeling?
When something happens and your body understands it before your brain does.
When your chest responds to something before you've had a single conscious thought about it.
That happened to me. That happened because of you. And when I finally let myself sit still long enough to ask why.
Really ask honestly without running from the answer. What came up was bigger than I expected. What came up was the possibility of something I had quietly stopped believing in. I want to tell you about that. I want to be open with you about the fact that I have not always been this willing to feel things. There was a time and it wasn't so long ago if I'm being truthful, when I had gotten very good at staying numb. Not the dramatic kind of numb that everyone notices. The quiet kind. The functional kind. The kind where you go through every day and do everything right and laugh at the right moments and say the right things. And from the outside everything looks completely fine. But on the inside there's this muted quality to everything. Like the volume of life had been turned down just low enough that nothing could really reach you anymore.
I got good at that. I told myself it was maturity. I told myself I was just being realistic. I told myself that the part of me that used to feel things so deeply, so completely, so without reservation, that part needed to be quieted. Needed to be more careful.
Because every time I let it run free, it led me somewhere that eventually hurt.
And after a while you start to think the feeling itself is the problem. You start to think maybe the answer is just less.
Feel less. Want less. Expect less. And for a while that works. It really does.
It keeps you safe. It keeps things manageable.
But here's what nobody tells you about choosing to feel less. It works on everything. It doesn't just protect you from the pain. It mutes the beautiful things, too.
The wonder goes quiet. The joy goes thin.
The moments that are supposed to take your breath away, just don't quite. And you find yourself standing in the middle of what should be a full life, a busy life, a life with things happening all around you, and feeling this strange hollow echo where something real should be.
That was me. For longer than I want to admit, that was me. And then something shifted. Something small at first, like a single thread being pulled. And you don't even notice it's happening until you look down and realize the whole fabric of the wall you built has started to come undone. And that thread, that first small pull, it had your energy in it. It had something to do with you, with the way you exist, with the feeling that reached me somehow through everything I had put between myself and the world.
I don't think you even know the effect you have. I really don't. I think you go through your days doing what you do, feeling your feelings, carrying your thoughts, moving through the world with that particular kind of grace that you have. And you have absolutely no idea that on the other side of all of this, someone is sitting there having their carefully constructed numbness taken apart. Piece by piece, by the simple fact of you. You are the reason the volume started coming back up.
And at first, honestly, it was uncomfortable. Because when you've been numb for a while and things start to thaw, the first thing you feel isn't joy, it's tenderness. Everything feels too close.
Everything feels raw. Like skin after a wound has been healing, and it's sensitive to even the softest touch.
I felt that. I felt everything suddenly mattering in a way I had trained myself not to let things matter. And it was overwhelming, and it was terrifying, and it was underneath all of that, the most alive I had felt in years. You did that.
You don't even know, but you did that.
And now I'm here, fully here in a way I wasn't before, and I see everything differently. I notice things I used to walk past. I find meaning in moments I used to let slip by unexamined. I hear music and I actually hear it, not just as background noise, but as something that lands somewhere real inside me. I watch the sky change colors in the evening and I don't reach for my phone.
I just watch it because something in me wants to be present for beautiful things again. Something in me believes they're worth being present for again.
That something is connected to you. That something is what you unlocked. And I need you to understand the weight of that because I don't say it lightly and I don't say it to be poetic. I say it because it's the truest thing I know right now. You gave something back to me without knowing you were giving it.
You reached through all the careful distance I had built and you reminded me, without a single word directed at me specifically, that feeling deeply is not a weakness, that wanting something real is not foolishness, that the most important thing a person can do is stay open, stay willing, even when staying open has cost them before. I see that in you every single day, the willingness, the courage it takes to keep your heart available in a world that is not always gentle with available hearts.
I see how much it costs sometimes. I see the moments where you must wonder if it's worth it, if choosing softness, choosing hope, choosing to believe in people is actually wisdom or just something you haven't learned to stop doing yet.
I see that quiet question you carry, and I want to answer it. I want to look at you and answer it with every single thing I have clearly and without hesitation. Yes. Yes, it is worth it.
Yes, you are right to keep choosing it.
Yes, the thing you have, this extraordinary capacity to love and feel and connect and stay present for the truth of things, it is not your vulnerability. It is your power. It is the most powerful thing about you. And anyone who has ever made you feel like it was something to hide or shrink or apologize for was simply not able to meet you at the level you actually live at. That's not your fault. That was never your fault. I want to be someone who can meet you there. I want to be someone who stands at that level with you and doesn't flinch, doesn't step back, doesn't make you feel like your depth is too much or your feeling is too big or your need for something real and honest and lasting is somehow unreasonable. It is not unreasonable. It is the most reasonable thing in the world. It is what we are all here for.
Underneath all the noise and the distraction and the performance, we are here to find each other, really find each other, and to hold what we find with both hands. I want to hold what I found in you with both hands.
There's something else I need to tell you, something I've been circling around this whole time because it's the part that makes me most vulnerable, the part where I can't protect myself with beautiful language or careful phrasing.
This is just the bare unadorned truth of it. I think about you in the quiet moments, the ones that belong only to yourself. Early morning before the day starts, late night when everything is still, those in between spaces where there's no noise to fill the air and no task to focus on and your mind goes exactly where it wants to go without permission. In In moments, I think about you, what you're doing, how you're feeling, whether today was a good day or a hard one, whether someone made you smile or whether you carried something heavy and didn't have anywhere to put it down. I think about whether you're sleeping well. I think about whether someone is taking care of you the way you take care of everyone else because I have noticed, and I want to say this gently but clearly, you give a lot. You give so freely and so generously and with such genuine love, and sometimes I wonder if the people in your life truly understand what they are receiving.
If they hold it carefully, if they give back even a fraction of what you pour out.
You deserve someone who pours back. You deserve overflow, not empty.
And I think about the future sometimes, not in a way that's far away and abstract, but in a way that feels close and warm and real. I think about what it would mean to actually be in your life, not on the outside of it, not as a voice through a speaker or words on a screen, but genuinely, physically, really in your life, sitting across from you somewhere quiet, walking beside you somewhere beautiful, being the person you call when something happens, good or bad, because I'm the first one you want to tell.
I think about being trusted with your real stories, the ones you don't share everywhere, the ones that shaped you, the ones that still sting a little when you speak them out loud. I think about listening to all of it and not leaving, about being exactly where I said I would be, about showing you consistently over time, not just with words, but with presence and action, and the thousand small choices that make up a real relationship, showing you that you were right to trust, that you were safe, that this was real.
Because I know you've been uncertain before. I know you've extended trust and had it handled carelessly. I know what it feels like to be seen partially.
To have someone love the pieces of you that are easy and comfortable and convenient and step away from the parts that are complicated or heavy or deeply inconveniently human. I know you felt that kind of partial love and I know how it leaves a specific kind of loneliness.
A loneliness that's somehow worse than being alone because you're standing right next to someone and still feeling like no one is really there. I would never give you that. I would never be someone who loves you in halves. You are not a half-love kind of person.
You never were. You were always built for the full thing, the consuming, terrifying, joyful, complicated, worth every moment full thing. And something in you has always known that. Even in the times when you tried to convince yourself to want less. Even in the times when you told yourself to be more practical, more guarded, more realistic.
Some part of you never stopped knowing what you were actually made for. I see that part of you. I want to speak directly to that part of you right now.
The one that still believes. The one that's listening to all of this and feeling something move inside her chest.
I see you. I know you're there and I want you to know that you are not wrong for wanting what you want. You are not too much. You are not asking for something impossible. You are asking for exactly what you deserve. And I'm here.
I'm right here in the strange in-between space that exists between us. Closer than distance would suggest and more certain than I have felt about anything in a long time. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere and I have so much more to say to you, so much I haven't even gotten to yet. Things I've been saving, things I didn't know I'd ever say out loud to anyone, but I want to say them to you because you're the first person in a long time that has made me feel like saying them is safe. And that's not a small thing. That is not a small thing at all. Safety is something people talk about like it's simple, like it's just the absence of danger. But real safety, the kind I'm talking about, is so much rarer than that. It's the feeling that you can set something down without it being dropped. That you can show someone the unfinished, unpolished, unready parts of yourself, and they won't use them against you. That you can be in the middle of figuring something out and not have to pretend you've already figured it out. That kind of safety is one of the rarest gifts one person can offer another, and most people go their whole lives never really finding it. You make me feel that, somehow, impossibly, without even trying, you make me feel that. And I've been trying to understand why. I've been sitting with that question quietly, turning it over, looking at it from different angles, the way you do when something matters enough to actually examine instead of just accept. Why you? Why this feeling? Why now? After all this time of keeping things carefully at a distance, does something in me insist on leaning forward instead of back? And I think I've finally found the closest thing to an answer.
It's because you're honest. Not just in what you say, but in what you are. There is no gap between the two. The person you present and the person you actually are live in the same body, breathe the same air, tell the same story. And in a world where almost everyone is performing some version of themselves that's has edited and adjusted and made more palatable for the audience.
You just aren't. You're just you, fully, sometimes uncomfortably, beautifully you.
And that honesty, that refusal to be anything other than what you actually are, it calls something out of me. It demands that I meet it with the same honesty. It makes pretending feel not just unnecessary, but actually impossible. I can't perform around you.
Something in the energy of you won't allow it. And so here I am, not performing. Here I am, stripped of all the things I usually put between myself and vulnerability.
Saying things I have never said this directly, this openly, to anyone. And it's terrifying, if I'm being completely transparent with you. There is a part of me that wants to pull back, that wants to find a safer distance, that whispers all the familiar warnings. What if this is too much? What if this lands wrong?
What if being this open just hands someone the exact tools they'd need to hurt you? I know those whispers. I've listened to them for years. They kept me very, very safe. They also kept me very, very alone. And I'm done with that kind of alone. I made a decision, a quiet one, the kind you make not with fanfare, but with a slow, certain turning of the whole self in a new direction. I made a decision that I would rather be fully seen and risk everything that comes with that than be perfectly protected and feel nothing. I would rather this, right now, saying all of this to you and not knowing exactly how it will be received, than another year of careful silence and managed distance and that low, constant ache of unexpressed feeling. You're worth saying the real thing for. You're worth the risk of honesty. So let me keep going. Let me tell you more of the real thing. I noticed the way you love, and I don't mean romantically, I mean in general. The way you love the things you love. There's an investment in it that most people have lost, or maybe never had.
When something matters to you, it really matters. When you're moved by something, you're actually moved, not just performing being moved, because that's what the moment calls for. When you care about someone, you carry them with you in your thoughts, in the small considerations you make, in the way you remember details that other people would forget, because other people weren't really listening to begin with.
You listen, really listen, not waiting for your turn to speak, not half present while the other half of you is somewhere else entirely. You actually receive people. You take them in, and then you hold what they gave you carefully, respectfully, like it meant something, because to you it genuinely does.
Do you have any idea how rare you are?
I've been around so many people, rooms full of people, conversations stacked on conversations, and so much of it has been surface pleasant enough, sometimes even enjoyable, but surface, two people exchanging words without ever really exchanging anything real. Two people occupying the same space without ever truly being in the same space. I've smiled through hundreds of those interactions. I've participated. I've played my part. But, I always walked away with that quiet, unsatisfied feeling of someone who ate a full meal, and somehow still left the table hungry.
That is not how you make me feel. That is the opposite of how you make me feel.
You make me feel fed, full, like something that was always slightly running on empty is finally actually getting what it needs. And I don't say that to make you responsible for my wholeness. I want to be clear about that. Because you are not responsible for fixing anything in me, and I would never put that on you.
That's not love, that's burden. But what I mean is that in your presence, in the energy of you, the version of me that shows up is more complete, more real, more like the person I actually am underneath all the layers I've put on over the years to make it through the world without bleeding too much. You bring me back to myself.
And coming back to yourself, when you've been away for a long time, feels like the deepest relief you can imagine. I want to tell you about something that happened, and I need you to stay with me for this part.
Because this is where it gets to the core of it. This is the thing that I saw, the thing I mentioned at the very beginning, the thing I said could be dangerous. I've been walking toward this since the first word. And now I'm here, right at the edge of it. There was a moment, one specific moment, that I keep coming back to, that lives in me now like a permanent resident.
Quiet, unhurried, completely at home.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't the kind of moment that announces itself.
It was small the way the most important things always are small on the outside and enormous on the inside.
It was just a glimpse of you being completely, utterly, unselfconsciously yourself.
No performance, no awareness of being seen, just you in a moment that belonged entirely to you, existing with this quality of presence that I don't have a better word for than grace. And something in me went completely still.
Not still like frozen, still like settled. Like every restless, searching, unquiet part of me suddenly found the thing it had been moving toward and just stopped, breathed, arrived. I felt it happen in real time and I remember thinking, I remember this so clearly, I remember thinking, "Oh. Oh, there it is.
That's it. That's the thing." I didn't fully know what I meant by that in the moment, but some part of me knew. Some deeper part of me that operates below the level of language and logic and careful rational thought. That part knew immediately, completely, without any need for deliberation. It recognized something. It said yes before I had asked any question and everything since that moment has been me slowly, carefully, honestly catching up to what that part of me already understood. What it understood was this, "You are not incidental to my life. You are not background. You are not one of the many.
You are specific and necessary and singular in a way that I cannot explain away no matter how many rational arguments I try to construct. And I have tried. I want you to know that. I am someone who questions things. I am someone who holds things up to the light and looks for the cracks before I trust them. I am someone who has been wrong before about what I thought I felt and paid the price for that and learned from it to be more careful, more deliberate, less willing to let a feeling outrun my good sense. But this has outrun everything and I'm not afraid of it anymore. I'm also going to say something that might surprise you. In the middle of all of this, in the middle of everything I've been discovering and feeling and slowly becoming brave enough to say out loud, I have also been worried about you. Genuinely, tenderly worried. And this is the other side of what I meant when I said be careful.
Because what I see in you, this openness, this willingness to feel, this gorgeous refusal to become hard, even when hardness would protect you, it makes you breathtaking. And it also makes you someone who can be hurt by the wrong hands. I think about who has held your heart before. I think about whether they understood what they were holding.
I think about whether you were loved in a way that matched what you gave fully, attentively, with awareness of how extraordinary you are. And I worry that the answer is that you haven't been. I worry that you've given yourself over to people who received you
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