Overflowingpoetry4 - Hello Poetry

In the realm of words, where ink meets page, I summon the courage to weave a tale of love, loss, and the human heart. With fingers poised, and imagination aflame, I embark on a journey to capture the essence of the human experience. I am a writer, a weaver of dreams, A scribe of emotions, a painter of schemes. My pen scratches, my heart beats fast, As characters come alive, and stories unfold at last. In the silence, I find my voice, A world of words, my heart's choice. I write of love, of loss, of strife, And in the writing, I find my life.

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Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 7:10 AM UTC

"I am a writer"

In the realm of words, where ink meets page, I summon the courage to weave a tale of love, loss, and the human heart. With fingers poised, and imagination aflame, I embark on a journey to capture the essence of the human experience. I am a writer, a weaver of dreams, A scribe of emotions, a painter of schemes. My pen scratches, my heart beats fast, As characters come alive, and stories unfold at last. In the silence, I find my voice, A world of words, my heart's choice. I write of love, of loss, of strife, And in the writing, I find my life.

12

He gave his heart, a love so pure, But it was shattered, beyond repair. The weight of sorrow, too much to bear, He lost his way, in the darkest air. His smile, once bright, now faded away, As heartache's waves, crashed through the day. He couldn't find, a reason to stay, And in the silence, he went astray. His story ended, far too soon, A life of promise, lost to the pain. Let his memory, be a lesson learned, That love and loss, can be a heavy burden. If you're struggling, there are people who care. Please reach out, don't be afraid to share. Resources are available, help is near, Crisis lines, a listening ear 💔.

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Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 7:06 AM UTC

"Echoes of Silence"

He gave his heart, a love so pure, But it was shattered, beyond repair. The weight of sorrow, too much to bear, He lost his way, in the darkest air. His smile, once bright, now faded away, As heartache's waves, crashed through the day. He couldn't find, a reason to stay, And in the silence, he went astray. His story ended, far too soon, A life of promise, lost to the pain. Let his memory, be a lesson learned, That love and loss, can be a heavy burden. If you're struggling, there are people who care. Please reach out, don't be afraid to share. Resources are available, help is near, Crisis lines, a listening ear 💔.

16

In the shards of a shattered dream, A heart once full, now emptied seems. The echoes of love's sweet, tender touch, Lingering whispers, "It's not too much." Memories dance, a bittersweet refrain, Tearing at wounds that won't regain. Yet in this pain, a glimmer shows, A chance to heal, to let love grow. Broken hearts don't shatter souls, They're vessels, cracked, yet made to hold. The lessons learned, the love that's given, Will mend this heart, and a new path's woven.

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Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 7:03 AM UTC

Fractured yet whole

In the shards of a shattered dream, A heart once full, now emptied seems. The echoes of love's sweet, tender touch, Lingering whispers, "It's not too much." Memories dance, a bittersweet refrain, Tearing at wounds that won't regain. Yet in this pain, a glimmer shows, A chance to heal, to let love grow. Broken hearts don't shatter souls, They're vessels, cracked, yet made to hold. The lessons learned, the love that's given, Will mend this heart, and a new path's woven.

12

He never held a heavy pen or stained a page with ink, He didn’t dwell on metaphors or pause a beat to think. He couldn’t tell a dactyl from a sonnet’s rigid line, But every breath he took was silk, and every step, a sign. While others trapped their feelings in a frantic, rhyming cage, He simply walked the world as if it were an open stage. His silence was a stanza, deep and echoing and wide, The rhythm of a spirit with no secrets left to hide. His laughter was a lyric that the summer wind would hum, A beat upon the pavement like a distant, silver drum. The way he shared his bread with those who had no crust to spare Was a couplet written softly on the cold and winter air. He didn’t need a lexicon to make his meaning known, For grace was in his marrow and the marrow in the bone. An epic in a gesture, or a ballad in a glance, He turned the grayest morning into one long, sweeping dance. So let the poets scramble for the words that feel just right, To capture flickers of the sun before they turn to night. He lived the lines they longed to write, a masterpiece in motion— A single drop of living soul within a paper ocean.

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Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 9:07 PM UTC

Untitled

He never held a heavy pen or stained a page with ink, He didn’t dwell on metaphors or pause a beat to think. He couldn’t tell a dactyl from a sonnet’s rigid line, But every breath he took was silk, and every step, a sign. While others trapped their feelings in a frantic, rhyming cage, He simply walked the world as if it were an open stage. His silence was a stanza, deep and echoing and wide, The rhythm of a spirit with no secrets left to hide. His laughter was a lyric that the summer wind would hum, A beat upon the pavement like a distant, silver drum. The way he shared his bread with those who had no crust to spare Was a couplet written softly on the cold and winter air. He didn’t need a lexicon to make his meaning known, For grace was in his marrow and the marrow in the bone. An epic in a gesture, or a ballad in a glance, He turned the grayest morning into one long, sweeping dance. So let the poets scramble for the words that feel just right, To capture flickers of the sun before they turn to night. He lived the lines they longed to write, a masterpiece in motion— A single drop of living soul within a paper ocean.

20

He never bought a leather book or carved a wooden quill, He never sought a quiet hill to make the world stand still. While others bled their ink away to capture what they felt, He was the fire that didn't speak—he’d simply watch you melt. His grammar was the way he stood against a bitter wind, The punctuation of his life was where his mercy sinned. He didn't need a rhyming scheme to make his purpose clear, He was a living metaphor for conquering a fear. The Verse: The way he fixed a broken gate. The Chorus: How he’d listen and he’d wait. The Bridge: The calloused palms and steady hands. The Ending: Something no one understands. He was a psalm without a choir, a ballad without sound, A secret sort of literature that walked upon the ground. And when he’s gone, the scholars look for pages on the shelf, But fail to see the greatest poem... was the man himself.

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Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 9:05 PM UTC

The Unwritten Verse

He never bought a leather book or carved a wooden quill, He never sought a quiet hill to make the world stand still. While others bled their ink away to capture what they felt, He was the fire that didn't speak—he’d simply watch you melt. His grammar was the way he stood against a bitter wind, The punctuation of his life was where his mercy sinned. He didn't need a rhyming scheme to make his purpose clear, He was a living metaphor for conquering a fear. The Verse: The way he fixed a broken gate. The Chorus: How he’d listen and he’d wait. The Bridge: The calloused palms and steady hands. The Ending: Something no one understands. He was a psalm without a choir, a ballad without sound, A secret sort of literature that walked upon the ground. And when he’s gone, the scholars look for pages on the shelf, But fail to see the greatest poem... was the man himself.

15

She is the "wished-for child," a grace note in a minor key, A compound of the bitter sea and God’s ancient courtesy. To some, she is the "Jackpot," a fiery spirit in a green dress, The one who sees the hero when he’s just a boy in distress, Oh Mary Jane. She’s the strap across a leather shoe, a step back into the past, A vintage ghost of Hollywood, built for a dance that was meant to last. She’s the quiet smoke in a glass bowl, a temporary escape from the rain, The "rock" for the broken-hearted, the medicine for every kind of pain, Oh Mary Jane. But beneath the slang and the celluloid, beneath the name’s dual light, She is the person you go to when the rest of the world turns out the light. Whether she’s the girl next door or the herb that sets your spirit free, She is the only one who knows the version of you that nobody gets to see,

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Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 8:58 PM UTC

The Constant of Mary Jane

She is the "wished-for child," a grace note in a minor key, A compound of the bitter sea and God’s ancient courtesy. To some, she is the "Jackpot," a fiery spirit in a green dress, The one who sees the hero when he’s just a boy in distress, Oh Mary Jane. She’s the strap across a leather shoe, a step back into the past, A vintage ghost of Hollywood, built for a dance that was meant to last. She’s the quiet smoke in a glass bowl, a temporary escape from the rain, The "rock" for the broken-hearted, the medicine for every kind of pain, Oh Mary Jane. But beneath the slang and the celluloid, beneath the name’s dual light, She is the person you go to when the rest of the world turns out the light. Whether she’s the girl next door or the herb that sets your spirit free, She is the only one who knows the version of you that nobody gets to see,

14

You say the bridge is gone because the wood began to rot, But I am still standing on the bank, tied in a sailor’s knot. It’s cheesy, I know, to say you are my north and my south, While the taste of "goodbye" sits like ash in my mouth. We are two stars that collided and thought it was a home, Now we’re just cosmic dust, learning how to bleed alone. You call it "moving on," like a train leaving the track, But I’m the station waiting for a ghost that isn't coming back. I’m a "repeat offender," guilty of loving the way you breathe, A poet who forgot that sometimes, the most beautiful souls leave. If our love was a crime, I’d serve a life sentence in your arms, Protected from the world, and shielded from my own alarms. The ink is heavy now, sinking deep into the floor, I am a locked room, and you were the only door. But even in the dark, I’ll write your name upon the air, Because a love this deep doesn't end—it just stays there.

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Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 8:52 PM UTC

The Architecture of an Ending

You say the bridge is gone because the wood began to rot, But I am still standing on the bank, tied in a sailor’s knot. It’s cheesy, I know, to say you are my north and my south, While the taste of "goodbye" sits like ash in my mouth. We are two stars that collided and thought it was a home, Now we’re just cosmic dust, learning how to bleed alone. You call it "moving on," like a train leaving the track, But I’m the station waiting for a ghost that isn't coming back. I’m a "repeat offender," guilty of loving the way you breathe, A poet who forgot that sometimes, the most beautiful souls leave. If our love was a crime, I’d serve a life sentence in your arms, Protected from the world, and shielded from my own alarms. The ink is heavy now, sinking deep into the floor, I am a locked room, and you were the only door. But even in the dark, I’ll write your name upon the air, Because a love this deep doesn't end—it just stays there.

16

I etched her name into the wind, but the world was deaf. My heart is a masterpiece of a man who never learned to say goodbye.

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Feb 26

Feb 26, 2026 at 8:45 PM UTC

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