EmiLiz00 - Hello Poetry

The shadow above my door looks like an alligator, Or maybe a crocodile. Logically, I know shadows are a reflection of light, But still, I am afraid. I worry about what might be under my bed, Not a monster, But perhaps a movie character, Someone who causes physical pain to others. The floor creaks underneath my brother’s weight. I wonder if an intruder is coming for me, Intent to leave valuable items, To prey on a little girl. I’m too warm underneath my covers, But I cannot take them off. They protect me from the darkness, Don’t you know? My door rattles in it’s frame. I push my back against the wall. Maybe there’s hope for me yet, Hope that comes with the morning light. A few years older, I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. My mind is a much darker place, Than the shadows could ever be. The darkness is where I find solitude, A break from days of fake smiles and pretending. At night, I feel safe. More than any other time of the day. I used to be afraid of the dark, Until it became my friend. I used to be afraid of the dark, Until the darkness became a part of me.

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Jan 27

Jan 27, 2026 at 6:58 AM UTC

Afraid of the Dark

The shadow above my door looks like an alligator, Or maybe a crocodile. Logically, I know shadows are a reflection of light, But still, I am afraid. I worry about what might be under my bed, Not a monster, But perhaps a movie character, Someone who causes physical pain to others. The floor creaks underneath my brother’s weight. I wonder if an intruder is coming for me, Intent to leave valuable items, To prey on a little girl. I’m too warm underneath my covers, But I cannot take them off. They protect me from the darkness, Don’t you know? My door rattles in it’s frame. I push my back against the wall. Maybe there’s hope for me yet, Hope that comes with the morning light. A few years older, I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. My mind is a much darker place, Than the shadows could ever be. The darkness is where I find solitude, A break from days of fake smiles and pretending. At night, I feel safe. More than any other time of the day. I used to be afraid of the dark, Until it became my friend. I used to be afraid of the dark, Until the darkness became a part of me.

32

I have always been a writer. I have always wanted to write something Lasting. Something with meaning. Something that would exist beyond, The confines of my mortal life. As a young child, I told stories. Caverns of imaginary worlds, Existed within my mind. Why walk the halls of my home, When I could be anywhere else instead? For a few years, I became enamored with fantasy, With the beauty of make-believe. Where anything was possible, And even the worst of people, Could be redeemed and have Their happily ever after. I wrote pages and pages of fantasy, Largely stealing ideas from my favorite books, Unbeknownst to my younger self, Who thought our ideas to be original, Uniquely our own. Slowly, over time, My reading tastes changed. It was no longer the imaginary, For which i craved. But snippets of reality, Glimpses into human emotions. For someone to say, "You're not crazy, I feel that way too". The real world might not have dragons, But there are heroes within its borders. Fairy tales may not be true, But I have to believe, Happily ever after still exists, Even though it may look different For each person. Despite hours of brainstorming, I have not yet found a way, To write about the real, raw world In its entirety. One story alone could not encompass the depth, Of joy, grief, laughter, and despair. So to poetry I turned, Eager to express through writing, That which I struggle to express externally, But I feel very much internally. When words are given to explain pain, The burden becomes less heavy. Maybe someday, I will write a story. One that expresses life in full. But for now, I am content to spit out verses, Hinting at the depths of suffering. Waiting for someone to say, "You're not crazy, I feel that way too". Isn't that better than not trying at all?

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Jan 27

Jan 27, 2026 at 6:51 AM UTC

Why Poetry

I have always been a writer. I have always wanted to write something Lasting. Something with meaning. Something that would exist beyond, The confines of my mortal life. As a young child, I told stories. Caverns of imaginary worlds, Existed within my mind. Why walk the halls of my home, When I could be anywhere else instead? For a few years, I became enamored with fantasy, With the beauty of make-believe. Where anything was possible, And even the worst of people, Could be redeemed and have Their happily ever after. I wrote pages and pages of fantasy, Largely stealing ideas from my favorite books, Unbeknownst to my younger self, Who thought our ideas to be original, Uniquely our own. Slowly, over time, My reading tastes changed. It was no longer the imaginary, For which i craved. But snippets of reality, Glimpses into human emotions. For someone to say, "You're not crazy, I feel that way too". The real world might not have dragons, But there are heroes within its borders. Fairy tales may not be true, But I have to believe, Happily ever after still exists, Even though it may look different For each person. Despite hours of brainstorming, I have not yet found a way, To write about the real, raw world In its entirety. One story alone could not encompass the depth, Of joy, grief, laughter, and despair. So to poetry I turned, Eager to express through writing, That which I struggle to express externally, But I feel very much internally. When words are given to explain pain, The burden becomes less heavy. Maybe someday, I will write a story. One that expresses life in full. But for now, I am content to spit out verses, Hinting at the depths of suffering. Waiting for someone to say, "You're not crazy, I feel that way too". Isn't that better than not trying at all?

62

I want to write something poetic, But the inside of my head is not poetic, it is chaos. I want to write something beautiful, Something that you will remember, Long after this moment. But I doubt myself, and I am afraid. Because what is art if it is not remembered? What is art if it is never shared? Poetry only seen by one person, Is just a journal or a diary. I long to see my words in a book, But then I can’t control who reads them. Because right now, I am the ruler Of an army of words. Words sharp enough to cut your skin. Like every other human being who has ever existed, I long for significance. But I have my grand grandfather’s journals, And I have never read them. They sit in a cupboard, wasting away While I’m unwilling to take the time To decode his handwriting. His looping cursive tells a story, One I’m sure he hoped would be read. I’m sure I probably take after him. I wonder if he too left his great grandfather’s writing To collect dust in a cupboard. Of this I am ashamed. And terrified. Because what if my great grandchildren do the same? And I’m forgotten by my own bloodline. And yet these feelings and experiences Feel important enough to record. And if even one person reads these words And feels a stirring in their soul. Then I have accomplished what I have been born to do. To make people feel less alone. I’m sorry great grandpa.

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Jan 27

Jan 27, 2026 at 6:50 AM UTC

Significance

I want to write something poetic, But the inside of my head is not poetic, it is chaos. I want to write something beautiful, Something that you will remember, Long after this moment. But I doubt myself, and I am afraid. Because what is art if it is not remembered? What is art if it is never shared? Poetry only seen by one person, Is just a journal or a diary. I long to see my words in a book, But then I can’t control who reads them. Because right now, I am the ruler Of an army of words. Words sharp enough to cut your skin. Like every other human being who has ever existed, I long for significance. But I have my grand grandfather’s journals, And I have never read them. They sit in a cupboard, wasting away While I’m unwilling to take the time To decode his handwriting. His looping cursive tells a story, One I’m sure he hoped would be read. I’m sure I probably take after him. I wonder if he too left his great grandfather’s writing To collect dust in a cupboard. Of this I am ashamed. And terrified. Because what if my great grandchildren do the same? And I’m forgotten by my own bloodline. And yet these feelings and experiences Feel important enough to record. And if even one person reads these words And feels a stirring in their soul. Then I have accomplished what I have been born to do. To make people feel less alone. I’m sorry great grandpa.

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