Original Poems Rooted in Thought, Written in Stillness.
These are not poems written to fill space. They are original in the truest sense, drawn from silence, sharpened by reflection, and left to ferment before finding a page.
Welcome to a collection of original poems shaped by solitude and made whole by language. Each piece is an echo of a moment: a gesture toward meaning, a resistance to noise.
Whether you come here often or have stumbled in uninvited—please stay. There’s something in this quiet for you too.
Patterns
The more I write,
the more I see patterns
not symmetrical,
not pleasing,
just the quiet stitching
of things I’ve avoided.
Florence, Or Something Like It
A lyrical poem about memory, longing, and the quiet myths we build around places and selves. Through the haze of Florence and fragments of the past, it reflects on who we are and the stories that carry us.
Reflecting’s become a quiet art
the past a film I play in part,
fog on glass, a softened view
of what was real, and what I knew.
Nice White Lady
I sip my coffee in pink cotton ease,
Mourning a life that comes with no fees.
Journaling woes in pastel ink,
While the world outside begins to sink.
Women bleed where bombs don’t pause,
Blank Piece of Paper
A grounded, reflective poem about creative burnout, unmet expectations, and the quiet grit it takes to keep going. Set in the aftermath of launching something personal, it explores the weight of persistently building in silence, showing up without applause, and finding peace in the slow process.
I call it May, but it feels like dust,
a loop of days I’ve learned to mistrust.
Fresh page, old ink — the same tired spin,
hoping this time, the new month lets me win.
Small Wins
I count my wealth in slow-earned days,
in euros stacked from tired praise.
€350 — not much, they’d say,
but to me, it’s brick upon brick in the endless clay.
I could spiral,
An Encyclopaedia of my Own Life
It’s been a stretch of strange days,
where nothing fits but the word weird.
I write it down like a nervous tick,
hoping ink can make it clear.
The Long, Short Run
Words slip through fingers,
like water in morning light—
I sit with the silence,
dream-echoed and hollow.
Yesterday wore me
A Flicker in the Fog
I write of light as if it’s mine to summon,
a switch to flick when the dark overstays.
But truth seeps in not loud, not violent,
just a slow and heavy knowing.
Something in me has lived beneath the weight
of joy postponed, of silence that doesn’t soothe
Four Years On
It’s our four-year anniversary today.
Strange how close and far it feels
like I could touch that moment still,
but also see how time now steals.
Ink Between the Lines
I thought I’d been writing,
this journal my proof
but pages whispered silence,
forgotten months spoke truth.
Six entries here, none there,
Not Instagram’s Fault
From one good day to a bad one the next, I fall,
Thought quitting the scroll would fix it all.
I silenced the pings, the filters, the feed,
But somehow I’m worse, not even remotely freed.
Would She Have Loved This Time?
I wonder if my mum would’ve liked this day,
Surrounded by pens in a bright array.
She loved her stationery, more than I do
Diaries, journals, a planner or two.
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Why Original Poems Matter
Poetry is not performance.
It is precision.
Intimacy. Study.
With algorithmic verse overflowing in the digital sphere, original poems act as counterweights.
They are not regurgitated stances, nor are they mood board captions that are stretched too thin, They hold intention, form, lineation & subtext.
Through continuous study and research, I explore the traditional forms of poetry (odes, elegies, free verse) with a deliberate deviation, each poem beginning in structure but grows toward rupture.
About the Poet
My name is Nadia Polydorou. I’m the creator and writer of all you see on this page―a personal dedication to my everyday life through poems.
I’m based in Cyprus, but most likely, you’ll find me behind the screens and notebooks of my scribbles - professionally, personally or otherwise.
Want More Like This?
These original poems begin as part of a daily writing practise. Just 30 minutes of journaling each morning, before the world interrupts.
If you’d like to read more of the work as it unfolds, and occasionally receive a quiet prompt or reflection, you’re welcome to join The Quiet Circle, a newsletter sent only when something feels worth sharing.
Join The Quiet Below Circle over at SubStack.
A space where poetry, personal essays, and reflective writing explore the delicate intersections of loss, healing and the quiet strength of human resilience.
