I’ve been under the crushing weight of the world, crippled by an inconceivable load. My tears were for this uncertain hopelessness, and a future I wasn’t sure would emerge with a brilliant shine.

Lower and lower, I sank into the doldrums of melancholy, picked apart by the unbearable pangs of depression.

The morning lacked delight, and the presence of a mustard sun affixed in the skies made no spectacular difference. I wore my soul many sympathies, but that did little to cleanse its foul mood.

My joy was completely disfigured, taking the shape of awful, pathetic miseries. Therefore, all I did was merely exist in the picture and drift with the decisions of directionless winds.

The concept of gold was far-fetched, and to think I’ll be entitled to substance was utterly absurd and rightly ridiculous. The eyes of my soul perched in the distance, hoping to spot the light of a surprising miracle.

But an unexpected intervention did occur, a rare prevailing of chance. Now I’m aligned on the podium of greatness, and all my striving, though of little effort, is with mind-boggling results.

I’ve outshone tycoons and business magnates by the sheer wizardry of entrepreneurial acumen and the abundance of commercial know-how. I market my merchandise with passion and with such remarkable ingenuity.

The standards of excellence are redefined in my context, for I’m a pacesetter for everything uncommon and prestigious. The past is with a gradual, dying fade now I’ve extracted all the toxins of trauma.

I ply intercontinental trade routes, carving myself a niche and initiating virgin markets. My cargoes are transported through high seas and I’ve become the pride beautified in the thoughts of the masses and a trailblazing superstar.

I’m a magnet for high-profile associations as the world allies with my flourishing enterprise. I break glass ceilings and make unprecedented wins in an atmosphere rich with the tune of a star’s rising.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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A Star’s Rising was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The world is so broad, but you’re charged to embark on limitless expeditions, navigating the earth with the compass of a conqueror. Ambition has retained you on both feet because you’re a marvel as a true, independent force.

There are giants in history who stirred catastrophic storms by their exploits and sealed their fame with grit and blood. But you’re a rarity to do the impressive unaided.

Your excellent reputation travels the distance, and you uncover the stars to light your perfected path. Your works sound like fiction and your feats are so unreal.

The days are a majesty that occupy their time, but you adore your solitary moments and the hours that let you hibernate in the thick of silence.

You filter through as an uncommon species and a self-nurtured genius. Those steps are known to tread alone, for you’re unsupervised as you live your best life.

You embody your individuality in all manner, shape and form, and the rumination of your thoughts is all the company you need, for it proves you’re a quintessential homebody.

The world is a crowd in clusters ruled by herd mentality. They’ve chosen to define their identity as a united whole, and their personality is interpreted from the social links they form.

But you’re a masterpiece framed with gold, and you need nothing to prop your ego or endorse your self-esteem. You’re crowned by the constellations to leave distinct, indelible footprints on the sands of time.

I’ve found a lone soldier contending fiercely on battlefronts – an icon of valour, refined to the outcome of a classic gentleman who initiates wonders on terrestrial landscapes.

Your humanity is uncorrupted because you sit with the conscience of a saint. You’re single-handedly able to pioneer your agenda and flaunt your distinguished merits because you’re a solo star.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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Solo Star was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m broken in more ways than one, and nurse wounds from an avoidable disaster. I’m a lowly, feeble creature centred in chaos, and cringing before the handwriting of doom.

Misery bathes me with disgusting waters, so I stink with nauseating odours. I’m at the bottom and can’t get any lower, so my hearing is alert to pick up the tales of hopelessness.

The morning is a dawn of bitter beginnings and a reminder that I’ll never escape the pit experience. The love of a man is a nightmare and an invitation to heart-wrenching pain.

I’ve seen the course of marriage, and I loathe it all. I’m humiliated in what began as a fairytale union, and the walk down the aisle is to mortgage one’s existence.

There’s no pleasure while I sleep, and there’s no excitement being awake. The moments teach me a harrowing lesson, and I’m buried under lest I find the lights of life.

I’ve seen the infidelity of men, and I’m ravaged by the festering diseases of intimacy. My heart is crumpled like a ball of paper so I erupt and spiral into a crippling crisis.

Lower and lower, I sink into the abyss and lose the communication of hope. Marriage has reduced me to an object of battery and a figure tackled by cruel hands.

I hold grief in my heart, waiting for the redemptive winds of salvation. But every passing day incarcerates me with death, so I acknowledge a wedlock that has turned my soul inside out.

I’m lame in this nuptial arrangement, and seek to be excused from this unlivable joke. The altar is the destination of bondage and a mesh where lovebirds are permanently entangled.

Matrimonial spaces hold an occupancy for uncertainty and the steady unveiling of trauma. I recall the church sanctuary in abject horror, for my downfall began from those solemn words that have now become my regretted vows.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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My Regretted Vows was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The intellect is called to independence, and to roam our mindscape without restraints. My thoughts are here to usher sophistication to a seat, and to conjure novelty from dark, unseen recesses.

There’s beauty in a concert of letters and an assembly of carefully handpicked words. Literature is with such lovely musicality on the surface of pages, and it stretches appeal better than the concept of elasticity.

I’m diligent for a literary exploration like I’m keen for a fantastical quest. I seek meaning that rhymes with perfection, holding a smoothness of uncommon eloquence.

My taste is hot for creativity as I hanker for charms that call me yonder in sheer unreality. I commend well-applied diction and the intrigue in suspenseful manuscripts.

I’m bold enough to merit an atmosphere defined by the pen and to believe in the incontestable might of scholarly prowess. My imagination mirrors cosmic phenomena, with starry clusters of many brilliant units.

The sun has a custom to emerge with light, and in my routine is a planned convergence of habit and hard work. I want to go with marvels that settle on white pages, and dissect the mysterious figures of abstraction.

I’m free to expand the scope of a literary talent and search for significance concealed in the dark. There’s greatness where words are mesmerising pieces, holding the thrill that points to good authorship.

The emergence of dawn stirs my pool of inspiration so the muse is charged with powers to influence. I hold words closer than my identity and set them to work in a skilful, compelling style.

Joy is an offspring of delightful events, and the measure of literature is in its ability to spellbind powerfully. The fantasies I desire are in well-written scripts, and I never doubt their origin if they leave an audience utterly flabbergasted.

The impressions to be made must be made now, and those standards to be set must not be delayed. I’m entangled in multiple affairs, but writing gives me the liberty I’ll call mine.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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The Liberty I’ll Call Mine was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ve unbottled my lawlessness for a time as this, a season when I desire to topple the security men so confidently trusted in. I’ve made fury my prime expression and the emotion behind a foul, nasty devastation.

I crawl on the surface of the night, lurking around for prey. My gestures are concealed by a devilish code, with an attitude to lure docile victims into a luckless lair.

Circumstances convict the last piece of my conscience but I’m uncaring when all I love is the pattern of felony and sin. I’m desensitized to pleas of compassion but energised where desperation is a high-pitched, agonizing sound.

Cruelty speaks to me in hushed whispers, and my compassion has derailed – lost and off course. I’m bitter as a loveless creature, and I take my temper to inconceivable limits.

There’s joy when I showcase my undomesticated soul in the attire of a cursed, despicable vagabond. I’ll do anything to sell the presence of peace and incite commotion from nail-biting horror.

Therefore, my hands are bloody when I give men the phobia of midnight. I’m an insensitive monster in all my insanity, and I touch the moments to smoke with dread.

I’ve dissected safety into many useless pieces and tackled the firm, supporting pillars of society. I’m notorious for bludgeoning sensitive skulls in grisly crimes of passion.

I create awareness with my sadistic taste, scheming my way to be a hardcore, most-wanted felon. My fingers are notorious for bloodbaths and a splatter that bears the trademark of all my heinous atrocities.

Why would I give sleep to my eyes when there’s a night to rattle with anxiety and blood-curdling fear? I’m satisfied with nothing but the silence from a final drawn breath.

I’m the offspring from the womb of disaster and the battle-axe drunken in fields of blood. My nature is injurious to humanity as a cold, heartless slaughterman, and I avoid the presence and character of light as an indigene of the dark.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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Indigene of the Dark was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The stars shine with joyful lights and the morning is touched anew with the fragrance of romance. My heart has a fundamental design for affection and the energy for many simmering thrills.

Leave me where the garden of love is pruned with skills of perfection and I want the boldness to lead a pride of lions. I’ve found rhapsody in generous affections and in these tangible, supernatural blisses.

I’m sent to the midst of compelling sentences where I sweep the courtyards of language with strokes of diction. But literature has done little to magnify emotional affairs or unravel the mysteries of the unknown.

My feet are high in a jubilant leap and I know an atmosphere that chokes with the intensity of ecstasy. I drift with fantastic currents, immersed in a sea of popularity.

Love is a destination for soulful beings, a Mecca for enthusiastic lovebirds who want better from a depreciating planet. These moments are pieced together to make couples fabulous and to attach to their esteem a medal of pride.

I’m a wonder on the landscapes of the earth now I drink from the cup of marvel. I shout from rooftops because I prize a phenomenal quality, hosting a torrential surge of power.

I’ve become the newness of resplendent days, rejuvenated in the characteristic youth of vigorous eagles. Romance has washed me with sparkling wine and made me the icon of ageless beauty.

My reputation expands where love is an imperial figure and I’m publicised as the cornerstone of modern civilization. I touch the world with my flame and I’m thrilled when it burns better than the qualities of tinder.

These lips serenade the magnificence of coupling and the delight from impassioned, affectionate affairs. I’m the umpire on grounds of freedom and dictate rules lovers shouldn’t breach.

I give my kisses to the lips of greatness and extend my renown past the furthest frontiers of existence. I’ve found affection in settings that give me completion, and from the streams of my heart is a sentimental narrative.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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A Sentimental Narrative was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m a woman forged with delightful instruments and ornamented to wear charm by accomplished stylists. I gave the occasion of the morning the distinction of gold as it blossomed like roses rooted in fertile soil.

These steps walked where pleasure was a comical figure, and I erupted with humour in settings that held a niche for laughter and cheer. I knew I was in a world of colour, under the rain of accolades and stars.

My game was immersed in romance as I taught my heart the elementary tenets of love and etiquette. Charm redefined sizzling sensations, and I followed alleyways that led to new, brilliant perspectives.

I was high at the pinnacle of rosy moments, applauding propulsions that brought me to the crest of affection. Thrill was stable as an enduring quality in romance, and as an addiction that fortified its firm enslavement.

There was joy in the tenets of merriment, and I went with ecstasy in moments that made me proud to couple. My boastful talk was to brag and publicize the pulsating dynamics of masculinity.

However, I’m toppled from summits that sat with the highs of obsessive love, crouching low to sulk over the inscription of bitterness with attitudes that mirror devastated hearts.

The sourness of love stings like aggressive bees, and I dismiss the impact I thought my kisses had on smitten figures. I’m home to a cluster of unhealthy feelings and mourn the death of my dignity in luckless seas.

My pieces are spread in utter ruin more than the shattered fragments of broken clay pots. I hold an agony of undying resilience in my heart, and my vitality is punctured so it leaks on open streets.

I’ve seen my soul mimic the pattern of languishing identities, and I’m crippled to anticipate love or explore the picturesque paradise of romance. I’m blind to light with a dampened enthusiasm to soldier on.

The morning is an emerging pleasure, but I’m a picture of damnation, silenced in a crossfire of hostilities. I’m a fallen citizen with a strangled spirit, and I disassemble now that I’ve lost my critical pieces.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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My Critical Pieces was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m in circumstances that matter to me more than the fortune of national treasuries or the impressive status of celebrity. I’ve drifted high to a colony of magnificence where my taste is tweaked and refined to perfection.

My soul is reserved in the custody of fondness and I’m preoccupied with a few sentimental affairs. But I’ve found love beyond the imagination of thought or the conception of high ingenuity.

I’m steeped in the constitution of affection as the days cycle on, therefore I’m bold to dismiss my diehard sorrows and embark on new adventures. My eyes have bought the glamour of bliss, and I’m entertained by lyrical tunes with a talent to serenade.

Surrounding me are tall figures with appetites for charming things, but I’ve won the favour of this event as I stoop to give kisses to the hand of delight. My darling, you’re in one accord with the choristers of nature and in the momentum they build.

Your charisma inspires the oracles of femininity and the congregation of divine daughters. I’ve come under the shelter of your heart to feast on substance and drink the undiluted wine of passion.

Crown me with the prestige that goes before your name, and publicise this affair etched on a slab of pure gold. Bring me into your costly habits and redefine the expression of your fine, civilised manners.

You’re a futuristic icon manifested in contemporary times, and your styles coordinate the grandeur of the cosmos. I’m an addict to your supernatural presence, plunging beneath the strength of those daunting impressions.

Order the stars in a parade where they march, and design the complexities of your splendour to leave the human race shocked in utter disbelief. Hold a tempest coupled to a cyclone, and let them attest to your matchless power and immense superiority.

Let your kisses find my lips like a race of swarming entities. Teach me to climb upwards to fetch your phenomenal glory as I cuddle the embodiment of innocence in a virgin, undefiled moment.

I want to find you on the back of a spectacular phoenix as you soar over the setting sun in heartwarming silhouettes. You’ve kept me in an exhilarating thrill that strikes many high notes so I know the exclusive therapies of love.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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The Exclusive Therapies of Love was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m the havoc ordained by events that mentor and inspire me. The morning is not excited to find my presence, for I teach the doctrine of cruelty and the unalloyed styles for perfect brutalities.

The charm of smiles is absent on my face, and I’m embittered except I rule with a fist of iron. My name is a stigma on the trail of history, and I parade my filth like I parade my excellence.

I’ve touched the world aflame and resurrected the ominous notions of disaster. I’m home to violent feelings and plough furrows on the face of rebellious expressions.

My rage is known to offend, and I start altercations that degenerate into vicious skirmishes. I’m loyal to the ferocious gods within me, and my allegiance is to the covenant of destruction.

I was born a nomad, roaming and trespassing on forbidden markers. My heart knew hostility from the feeding bottle of my infancy, and I had a cradle of loveless luxury.

The temper of society was quick to break me like brittle sticks, so I saw affection evaporate from the pit of my soul. My identity has lingered to be toxic, and virtue is a foul, infested rot in the spaces of my heart.

Therefore, I’m a savage monster to bite with undisciplined jaws and I’ll pull down the structure of civilisation, brick by brick. I’m an enemy of undeniable proof, and I’m known when my weight crumbles my foes to powder.

I’ve sealed off the intervention of the night to spread the far-reaching ripples of my menace. Atrocities occupy the seat of my thoughts and I’m thrilled to adopt evil in my insensitive manifesto.

I’m called to a feast of bitter intentions, to a congregation who omit the laws of love from their conscience. We’re in unison as we agree on calamity, and we’re notorious when we align with a detrimental cause.

I’m an indigene of the dark, blinded by the purposes of the underworld. I remain a master of sick, unheard felonies, perfecting the craft of blood and simmering in lethal desires.

© Valentine Nnebe 2026
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Lethal Desires was originally published in Excellent Pages on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You’re enrolled in the school of diction where you teach your intellect the identity of words and the command of elementary sentences. You’ve loved the expression of logic as it floats, settling on the surface of white pages.

The pen does more than mesmerize. At the peak of inscription, it’s a perplexing wonder and a marvel spitting out sophisticated, literary connections.

Your life is woven in a tapestry of complexity, and you’re reborn when pen meets paper. You’ve seen the world in great divisions, yet literature is famous for bridging vast, societal rifts.

Excellence speaks to you in the morning, presenting your thoughts an unseen narrative. You’re exported to invisible realms where you tango and waltz with the symbols of literary supremacy.

Your eyes are acquainted with a universe of content, so you load your mentality with classic digest and rich, phenomenal ideas. You go with the power of hand strokes and permit masterpieces to make their doubtless, dignified impression.

Joy is a presence and a host. Therefore, you feel an exhilarating thrill in the awe of magnificent compositions and in the eruption of truth. You’re the incarnation of a prolific, artistic icon at successive intervals in history.

You’ve exposed the premises of your mind to the mystery of the muse. As a result, you work with extensions of supernatural influences, drifting with an extraterrestrial flow.

You hold the soul of a rare penman, promoting the audacity of your unorthodox style. You’ve employed eloquence and originality in your expert craftsmanship, shoving away the unattainable requirements of perfection.

The world beckons you to its uncensored version, so you head on a pilgrimage to indulge the riveting passions of a wordsmith. You’re before a pantheon of divine figures, yet your courage and confidence are in the depth and appeal of fluent grammar.

A scribe is endorsed by the stars, and miracles are events beyond the intellection of the human mind. The high-end reasoning to group sentences and eject them on paper is the clever expertise of a writer and the way of splendour.

Thanks for reading and have a happy 2026.

© Valentine Nnebe 2025
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The Way of Splendour was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.