They Call Me 'lucky' Poem by Mohammad Yousef

By Mohammad A.Yousef


They call me 'Lucky, '
as if life's coin flips in my favor,
as if dreams come easy,
like sunshine spilling on flowers.

But oh—
they do not see the nights I carried my weight,
the heavy heart that dragged me down,
the bruises I wore like old friends,
the red stains of every fall
I've hidden beneath my pride.

They do not know of my quiet moments,
when the world seemed too much to hold,
and I stumbled,
over my own hopes,
like stumbling over roots
in a tangled forest.

I fell down, so many times,
like a child who learned to walk,
growing up in a world of sharp edges.
Every scrape taught me,
every tear carved my resolve.
I changed, yes,
like the seasons do
when winter whispers secrets
to budding spring.

Through each setback, I harden,
like metal forged in fire,
and with every shift,
I gather strength,
a silent promise to rise again.

They say I'm lucky,
but they never saw the grit,
the hours spent under the weight
of my own doubts,
the laughter I built
from crumbled dreams.

I am the sweat on my brow
as I chase the daylight,
the rhythm of my heart
thumping to a beat of tireless effort.
I have built my happiness
not with four-leaf clovers
but with seeds of hard work
planted in the soil of persistence.

I am not lucky—
I am determination,
the echo of footsteps
fighting against the tide,
the voice that whispers—
"Continue."

So call me "Lucky" if you must,
but know this truth:
I own my story,
woven from struggle,
crafted with care,
where luck isn't given,
but built,
in every fall and rise,
in every scar that speaks.