Brandon-Chamunorwa - Hello Poetry

Letting go is not a single act it is art made in fragments. Like tearing a beloved photograph Pixel by pixel until smile fades. It begins with silence, the kind that grows like moss over memory. You stop correcting their name when people ask. You stop replaying the what-ifs like your breath depends on them It is an unlearning of their laugh, their scent, their rhythm when they walked away. You erase them not with fire, but with absence. There's no applause in this gallery. No frame for your pain. Just the brushstroke of each morning where you choose not to look back. You start to fill your lungs with now, to water seeds you almost forgot to plant. You realize your heart was never meant to be a museum of people who left, but a garden for who you're becoming. Letting go isn't moving on it's moving in. into yourself. into peace. into the blank space where you finally begin again.

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May 24, 2025

May 24, 2025 at 4:48 AM UTC

The Art of Letting go

Letting go is not a single act it is art made in fragments. Like tearing a beloved photograph Pixel by pixel until smile fades. It begins with silence, the kind that grows like moss over memory. You stop correcting their name when people ask. You stop replaying the what-ifs like your breath depends on them It is an unlearning of their laugh, their scent, their rhythm when they walked away. You erase them not with fire, but with absence. There's no applause in this gallery. No frame for your pain. Just the brushstroke of each morning where you choose not to look back. You start to fill your lungs with now, to water seeds you almost forgot to plant. You realize your heart was never meant to be a museum of people who left, but a garden for who you're becoming. Letting go isn't moving on it's moving in. into yourself. into peace. into the blank space where you finally begin again.

38

There's a riot behind my ribs a symphony of shattered thoughts conducted by anxiety in a room with no doors. I wear silence like armor, but inside drums beat with no rhythm, memories clash like cymbals and fear hums like a distant engine that never runs out of gas. Voices I never invited shout louder than the ones I need. They argue in my mind like lawyers with no case, pleading guilty to crimes I didn't commit. I laugh at the wrong times, not because I'm happy but because laughter is louder than the screaming no one else can hear. Some nights, the noise is so loud, I pray for sleep to come like static to a broken radio. Not to fix it just to blur it out. But every morning, I wake to the same frequency a mind wired wrong, but still tuned in.

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May 23, 2025

May 23, 2025 at 5:47 AM UTC

The noise Inside me

There's a riot behind my ribs a symphony of shattered thoughts conducted by anxiety in a room with no doors. I wear silence like armor, but inside drums beat with no rhythm, memories clash like cymbals and fear hums like a distant engine that never runs out of gas. Voices I never invited shout louder than the ones I need. They argue in my mind like lawyers with no case, pleading guilty to crimes I didn't commit. I laugh at the wrong times, not because I'm happy but because laughter is louder than the screaming no one else can hear. Some nights, the noise is so loud, I pray for sleep to come like static to a broken radio. Not to fix it just to blur it out. But every morning, I wake to the same frequency a mind wired wrong, but still tuned in.

31

Him : "You’re nothing without me." Her : "I’m nothing with you."

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Aug 8, 2021

Aug 8, 2021 at 2:47 PM UTC

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