Nev18 - Hello Poetry

I was not born in a garden. I was born on a battlefield where silence was louder than thunder and grief wore my name like armor. There are days I still wake up with loss sitting on my chest, a weight I pretend is just muscle. I have carried anger like Achilles carried his blade; sharp, necessary, heavy enough to cut the hands that hold it. Sometimes I miss who I was before I understood that people can disappear. There are nights I descend into myself like a pilgrim without a map, corridors of doubt, rooms lined with every word I wish I had said louder. I have knelt before mirrors as if they were judges. I have counted my flaws like prayer beads. I have mistaken survival for strength. I have wanted love like oxygen, and feared it just the same. But listen: Even in the underworld there are stars if you dare to look up. Even in the wreckage there are bones that refuse to break. Time may bruise the body, may fracture pride, may scatter the voices we once followed; but it cannot erase the girl who kept getting up. The girl who learned how to breathe underwater and call it living. I am not the rage. I am not the ruin. I am not the ache that visits at 2 a.m. I am the cathedral built from what tried to destroy me. And if time comes with its steady hands to fold me into dust; let it find that something in me still burns.

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Mar 5

Mar 5, 2026 at 9:45 AM UTC

Cathedral of the Unfinished

I was not born in a garden. I was born on a battlefield where silence was louder than thunder and grief wore my name like armor. There are days I still wake up with loss sitting on my chest, a weight I pretend is just muscle. I have carried anger like Achilles carried his blade; sharp, necessary, heavy enough to cut the hands that hold it. Sometimes I miss who I was before I understood that people can disappear. There are nights I descend into myself like a pilgrim without a map, corridors of doubt, rooms lined with every word I wish I had said louder. I have knelt before mirrors as if they were judges. I have counted my flaws like prayer beads. I have mistaken survival for strength. I have wanted love like oxygen, and feared it just the same. But listen: Even in the underworld there are stars if you dare to look up. Even in the wreckage there are bones that refuse to break. Time may bruise the body, may fracture pride, may scatter the voices we once followed; but it cannot erase the girl who kept getting up. The girl who learned how to breathe underwater and call it living. I am not the rage. I am not the ruin. I am not the ache that visits at 2 a.m. I am the cathedral built from what tried to destroy me. And if time comes with its steady hands to fold me into dust; let it find that something in me still burns.

58

Something has changed its posture. The air stands straighter now. Conversations lower themselves mid-sentence. Streetlights blink like they're counting. Houses learn new habits; curtains drawn earlier, names spoken softer. Stories arrive already edited. Corners sanded down. Everyone's handed a fragment and told it's the whole. Footsteps pause at doorways. Schools rehearse silence. Love learns how to hide without forgetting how to beat. History doesn't knock; it lets itself in, sits comfortably, asks why no one stopped it last time. Fear becomes routine. Anger turns useful. And the world tightens its jaw, bracing for the moment someone finally says this isn't normal.

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Jan 23

Jan 23, 2026 at 9:23 AM UTC

Familiar

Something has changed its posture. The air stands straighter now. Conversations lower themselves mid-sentence. Streetlights blink like they're counting. Houses learn new habits; curtains drawn earlier, names spoken softer. Stories arrive already edited. Corners sanded down. Everyone's handed a fragment and told it's the whole. Footsteps pause at doorways. Schools rehearse silence. Love learns how to hide without forgetting how to beat. History doesn't knock; it lets itself in, sits comfortably, asks why no one stopped it last time. Fear becomes routine. Anger turns useful. And the world tightens its jaw, bracing for the moment someone finally says this isn't normal.

28

The weather changed without asking permission. No storm warning. No clear line between before and after. Just a heaviness in the air that made people restless, short-tempered, alert to sounds that used to mean nothing. Some boarded their windows. Some stood outside insisting the sky had always looked like this. Everyone felt it in their lungs. Animals hid first. Then children started asking questions no one answered directly. The adults argued about forecasts; whose fault the coulds were, whether the rain was necessary, who deserved shelter. Meanwhile, houses creaked. Trees leaned. Things rooted for decades began to test their grip. It wasn't the storm that scared people. It was the waiting. The way time stretched thin under a sky that refused to decide. Some people prayed for rain. Some prayed it would pass. Some were already soaked and didn't bother looking up anymore. All of us lived under the same pressure. But only some of us were told it was normal to feel like we couldn't breathe.

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Jan 16

Jan 16, 2026 at 8:44 AM UTC

Barometric Pressure

The weather changed without asking permission. No storm warning. No clear line between before and after. Just a heaviness in the air that made people restless, short-tempered, alert to sounds that used to mean nothing. Some boarded their windows. Some stood outside insisting the sky had always looked like this. Everyone felt it in their lungs. Animals hid first. Then children started asking questions no one answered directly. The adults argued about forecasts; whose fault the coulds were, whether the rain was necessary, who deserved shelter. Meanwhile, houses creaked. Trees leaned. Things rooted for decades began to test their grip. It wasn't the storm that scared people. It was the waiting. The way time stretched thin under a sky that refused to decide. Some people prayed for rain. Some prayed it would pass. Some were already soaked and didn't bother looking up anymore. All of us lived under the same pressure. But only some of us were told it was normal to feel like we couldn't breathe.

37

I keep collecting advice like I'm going to use it someday. Be patient. Be fearless. Trust yourself. They stack up in my head like unopened letters addressed to someone more capable than me. I know exactly what to do. That's the problem. There's a gap between understanding and believing that no one prepares you for. I watch myself hesitate as if from another room; aware, alert, still unmoving. Potential is a strange burden. It promises everything and demands nothing; until you realize it's been quietly accusing you the whole time. I don't fear failure. I fear proving that I was never meant to be more than this. So I stand still, perfectly informed, perfectly unsure, waiting for certainty to arrive like permission. It never does.

0

Jan 15

Jan 15, 2026 at 8:58 AM UTC

Instructions I Never Follow

I keep collecting advice like I'm going to use it someday. Be patient. Be fearless. Trust yourself. They stack up in my head like unopened letters addressed to someone more capable than me. I know exactly what to do. That's the problem. There's a gap between understanding and believing that no one prepares you for. I watch myself hesitate as if from another room; aware, alert, still unmoving. Potential is a strange burden. It promises everything and demands nothing; until you realize it's been quietly accusing you the whole time. I don't fear failure. I fear proving that I was never meant to be more than this. So I stand still, perfectly informed, perfectly unsure, waiting for certainty to arrive like permission. It never does.

35

There are absences that don't echo. They settle. The kind that change how a room feels even when nothing moves. I still reach for guidance out of habit; the reflex of believing someone stronger is about to speak. When no one does, I feel the drop all over again. Grief didn't arrive loud. It arrived instructional. It taught me how to function without expecting rescue. Anger came later; not explosive, just dense. Heavy enough to slow my days. I kept moving because stopping felt dangerous. I kept going because quitting felt permanent. Somewhere in that motion I misplaced myself. Dreams dulled. Doors closed quietly. I didn't fight them. People think time heals. What it really does is teach you how to carry something without letting it spill. I don't forgive myself. I coexist with it. And I have learned that love doesn't vanish when someone does; it becomes weight, and asked to be lived with instead.

0

Jan 15

Jan 15, 2026 at 8:36 AM UTC

The Space That Stayed

There are absences that don't echo. They settle. The kind that change how a room feels even when nothing moves. I still reach for guidance out of habit; the reflex of believing someone stronger is about to speak. When no one does, I feel the drop all over again. Grief didn't arrive loud. It arrived instructional. It taught me how to function without expecting rescue. Anger came later; not explosive, just dense. Heavy enough to slow my days. I kept moving because stopping felt dangerous. I kept going because quitting felt permanent. Somewhere in that motion I misplaced myself. Dreams dulled. Doors closed quietly. I didn't fight them. People think time heals. What it really does is teach you how to carry something without letting it spill. I don't forgive myself. I coexist with it. And I have learned that love doesn't vanish when someone does; it becomes weight, and asked to be lived with instead.

43

I didn't stop because I didn't want him. I stopped because my knees buckled at how fast I was falling and there was no ground in sight. This wasn't desire. This was gravity finding me. I felt myself rearranging; values loosening, future bending, the careful architecture of who I am starting to crack under the weight of him. And I knew; if I let it happen, there would be no reverse. No "me" untouched. No safe version to return to. So I froze mid-fall. Do you know what that does to a body? To stop when every instinct is screaming to surrender? I suspended myself between becoming and disappearing, muscles burning, lungs locked, pretending stillness wasn't a choice. He didn't leave all at once. He slipped. Gravity recalimed him. And now I live with the phantom sensation; the constant pull of something I was never meant to survive resisting. This isn't heartbreak. This is structural damage. Because the worst thing isn't that I lost him. It's that my body remembers exactly how it felt to almost let go. And I will never know if I would have broken- or finally landed.

0

Jan 14

Jan 14, 2026 at 10:54 AM UTC

Gravity Lesson

I didn't stop because I didn't want him. I stopped because my knees buckled at how fast I was falling and there was no ground in sight. This wasn't desire. This was gravity finding me. I felt myself rearranging; values loosening, future bending, the careful architecture of who I am starting to crack under the weight of him. And I knew; if I let it happen, there would be no reverse. No "me" untouched. No safe version to return to. So I froze mid-fall. Do you know what that does to a body? To stop when every instinct is screaming to surrender? I suspended myself between becoming and disappearing, muscles burning, lungs locked, pretending stillness wasn't a choice. He didn't leave all at once. He slipped. Gravity recalimed him. And now I live with the phantom sensation; the constant pull of something I was never meant to survive resisting. This isn't heartbreak. This is structural damage. Because the worst thing isn't that I lost him. It's that my body remembers exactly how it felt to almost let go. And I will never know if I would have broken- or finally landed.

41

I learned early how to listen for footsteps. How to read tone. How to tell the difference between silence that means nothing and silence that means I did something wrong. I am always adjusting. Volume. Posture. Words I haven't even said yet. I rehearse conversations that never happen. I imagine disappointment before it arrives. Sometimes I imagine pride too; just to see what it might feel like. Nothing I do feels finished. Everything feels almost. Almost good. Almost right. Almost enough. Even when you're not here, I still hear you. I correct myself mid-thought. I downplay wins. I tighten my chest before relaxing it because ease feels undeserved. I wonder what you see when you look at me. A problem? A project? A kid who should be doing more with everything she's been given? I keep score against myself so you don't have to. I punish the parts of me that might disappoint you. I call it motivation. I call it discipline. I don't call it what it is. I wish you knew how heavy that wondering gets. How tiring it is to live like love is conditional and I'm one wrong step away from losing it. I don't want to leave because I hate you. I want to leave because I don't know who I am when I'm not trying so hard. Graduation feels like a door I keep my hand on. Not to run; just to breathe without checking the room first.

0

Dec 23, 2025

Dec 23, 2025 at 7:57 AM UTC

House With Thin Walls

I learned early how to listen for footsteps. How to read tone. How to tell the difference between silence that means nothing and silence that means I did something wrong. I am always adjusting. Volume. Posture. Words I haven't even said yet. I rehearse conversations that never happen. I imagine disappointment before it arrives. Sometimes I imagine pride too; just to see what it might feel like. Nothing I do feels finished. Everything feels almost. Almost good. Almost right. Almost enough. Even when you're not here, I still hear you. I correct myself mid-thought. I downplay wins. I tighten my chest before relaxing it because ease feels undeserved. I wonder what you see when you look at me. A problem? A project? A kid who should be doing more with everything she's been given? I keep score against myself so you don't have to. I punish the parts of me that might disappoint you. I call it motivation. I call it discipline. I don't call it what it is. I wish you knew how heavy that wondering gets. How tiring it is to live like love is conditional and I'm one wrong step away from losing it. I don't want to leave because I hate you. I want to leave because I don't know who I am when I'm not trying so hard. Graduation feels like a door I keep my hand on. Not to run; just to breathe without checking the room first.

55

Growing up is learning that time doesn't ask permission. It takes your favorite people, your safe places, the sound of laughter that once lived in your house and leaves behind echoes you pretend not to hear. It's realizing the adults didn't know what they were doing either, they were just older, braver-looking carrying their own quiet disasters in their pockets. Growing up is bruised knees turning into bruised hearts. It's learning how to smile through it because crying in public makes people uncomfortable. It's understanding that some goodbyes don't come with closure, they just....happen. And you carry them anyway. Getting older means loving things you know you'll lose. It means taking pictures because memory isn't as loyal as you thought. It means missing versions of yourself who didn't yet know how hard the world could be. But here's the gold they don't warn you about; It's the way you survive things you once swore would break you. It's the strength that shows up quietly, unannounced, when you thought you had none left. It's finding beauty in late-night conversations, in laughter that comes after the tears, in realizing you're still here; still trying, still loving, still becoming. Growing up hurts. Getting older humbles you. But somewhere between the loss and the living, you learn this: The heart may crack, but it also widens. And somehow, miraculously, it keeps making room.

0

Dec 18, 2025

Dec 18, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC

What We Keep

Growing up is learning that time doesn't ask permission. It takes your favorite people, your safe places, the sound of laughter that once lived in your house and leaves behind echoes you pretend not to hear. It's realizing the adults didn't know what they were doing either, they were just older, braver-looking carrying their own quiet disasters in their pockets. Growing up is bruised knees turning into bruised hearts. It's learning how to smile through it because crying in public makes people uncomfortable. It's understanding that some goodbyes don't come with closure, they just....happen. And you carry them anyway. Getting older means loving things you know you'll lose. It means taking pictures because memory isn't as loyal as you thought. It means missing versions of yourself who didn't yet know how hard the world could be. But here's the gold they don't warn you about; It's the way you survive things you once swore would break you. It's the strength that shows up quietly, unannounced, when you thought you had none left. It's finding beauty in late-night conversations, in laughter that comes after the tears, in realizing you're still here; still trying, still loving, still becoming. Growing up hurts. Getting older humbles you. But somewhere between the loss and the living, you learn this: The heart may crack, but it also widens. And somehow, miraculously, it keeps making room.

44

Snow drifts against the window, soft as a thought I'm afraid to say aloud. The night smells like a cold pine and engines cooling, cars lined on the street like quiet witnesses to everything we never tell each other. Christmas lights blur in the glass, little fractured colors, pulsing like emotions I keep trying to rearrange into something simple. But feelings don't fold neatly; they spill, they echo, the frost over. And somehow the whole environment knows, the street, the sky, the hush before the wind moves. It's like the world pauses just long enough for me to breathe and finally admit the truth. Some moments arrive like winter, unexpected, sharp, beautiful, leaving the heart both colder and more awake than before.

0

Dec 3, 2025

Dec 3, 2025 at 1:36 PM UTC

Winter Truths

Snow drifts against the window, soft as a thought I'm afraid to say aloud. The night smells like a cold pine and engines cooling, cars lined on the street like quiet witnesses to everything we never tell each other. Christmas lights blur in the glass, little fractured colors, pulsing like emotions I keep trying to rearrange into something simple. But feelings don't fold neatly; they spill, they echo, the frost over. And somehow the whole environment knows, the street, the sky, the hush before the wind moves. It's like the world pauses just long enough for me to breathe and finally admit the truth. Some moments arrive like winter, unexpected, sharp, beautiful, leaving the heart both colder and more awake than before.

20

They don't hand you a manual when you're born. No step-by-step on how to breathe through heartbreak, how to stitch your own heart back together after someone tears it open just to see what's inside. Growing up feels like walking barefoot through glass- you'll bleed, you'll learn, and you'll still have to keep walking. People will love you until they don't. They'll build you up, break you down, try to fix what was never broken, and sometimes, they'll destroy you just to feel whole themselves. And yeah- there are days the world feels like it's out to get you, but maybe it's just trying to teach you how to fight without losing yourself. Because life isn't fair, but it's honest. It gives and it takes and still expects you to show up tomorrow. No one gave you a book of rules, so write your own. Messy pages. Crossed-out dreams. Ink-stained hands. Grow anyway. Love anyway. Live anyway. Because the truth is- everybody's just trying to figure it out, one heartbeat at a time.

0

Oct 24, 2025

Oct 24, 2025 at 11:46 AM UTC

No Rulebook

They don't hand you a manual when you're born. No step-by-step on how to breathe through heartbreak, how to stitch your own heart back together after someone tears it open just to see what's inside. Growing up feels like walking barefoot through glass- you'll bleed, you'll learn, and you'll still have to keep walking. People will love you until they don't. They'll build you up, break you down, try to fix what was never broken, and sometimes, they'll destroy you just to feel whole themselves. And yeah- there are days the world feels like it's out to get you, but maybe it's just trying to teach you how to fight without losing yourself. Because life isn't fair, but it's honest. It gives and it takes and still expects you to show up tomorrow. No one gave you a book of rules, so write your own. Messy pages. Crossed-out dreams. Ink-stained hands. Grow anyway. Love anyway. Live anyway. Because the truth is- everybody's just trying to figure it out, one heartbeat at a time.

31