Trina - Hello Poetry

I love you from a distance I had to learn. I wanted you to be there to see me, protect me, choose me. But you were always somewhere else, chasing storms, other loves, other children. I carry sadness, anger, guilt, and confusion from a childhood that never felt safe. I remember doors closing, streets moving, and feeling invisible while the world spun around us. I watched life happen to me without you holding me through it. When I needed you most, you weren’t there. I know you did what you could. I know life has its battles. But some things you cannot give back love, presence, protection. Still, I miss what I never had. I grieve the mother I imagined, the one who stayed, who chose me, without conditions. I am hurting, I am confused, and I am learning to forgive but not to forget. I am learning to love myself enough to step back, to set boundaries, to survive. I give you this because I want you to know: I love you, but I must love me more. I will always be here in my own way, but I will not be lost trying to find a place that doesn’t exist.

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Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 2:45 AM UTC

Storms behind her

I love you from a distance I had to learn. I wanted you to be there to see me, protect me, choose me. But you were always somewhere else, chasing storms, other loves, other children. I carry sadness, anger, guilt, and confusion from a childhood that never felt safe. I remember doors closing, streets moving, and feeling invisible while the world spun around us. I watched life happen to me without you holding me through it. When I needed you most, you weren’t there. I know you did what you could. I know life has its battles. But some things you cannot give back love, presence, protection. Still, I miss what I never had. I grieve the mother I imagined, the one who stayed, who chose me, without conditions. I am hurting, I am confused, and I am learning to forgive but not to forget. I am learning to love myself enough to step back, to set boundaries, to survive. I give you this because I want you to know: I love you, but I must love me more. I will always be here in my own way, but I will not be lost trying to find a place that doesn’t exist.

35

I am from muddy boots by the door, from horseshoes kicked aside, from floors that knew the weight of work before they ever knew rest. I am from hay bales stacked crooked in the yard, from tools left where they last mattered, from toys half-buried in dirt, from broken glass catching the sun like it still had something to say. I am from trees that stood as witnesses, from long clotheslines stretched with patience, from horse buggies rolling slow past open space, from large vegetable gardens that fed more than mouths. I am from Amish friends up the road, where community didn’t need a name to exist. I am from Poppop James Michael Bruno, the best man I ever looked up to, from Carissa, my sister, steady and strong, from Ashley, my sister, always present, from Angela, my sister who passed, whose name still lives in the quiet moments. I am from Michele, my mom, and Ron, my dad, from love that showed itself in rules and reminders. I am from “Lickin’ lookin’ for a place to happen,” from “If you can’t say nothin’ nice, then don’t say anything at all,” from “What happens here in the house STAYS in the house,” words that built walls, and sometimes, shelter. I am from Chicken al Bruno, from homemade mac and cheese that meant everyone was staying awhile. I am from memories stored in a tote in the shed, some I don’t want to see, because photos don’t keep what’s hidden behind the memories. They don’t show the weight, or the strength it took to carry it. I am from what was broken and what was fixed anyway. From open land and open lessons. From loss that shaped me, and love that refused to leave. I am from all of this and from the future I am still building with hands that remember where they learned to work, and a heart that knows exactly where it’s from.

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Jan 19

Jan 19, 2026 at 12:50 AM UTC

Where Im From

I am from muddy boots by the door, from horseshoes kicked aside, from floors that knew the weight of work before they ever knew rest. I am from hay bales stacked crooked in the yard, from tools left where they last mattered, from toys half-buried in dirt, from broken glass catching the sun like it still had something to say. I am from trees that stood as witnesses, from long clotheslines stretched with patience, from horse buggies rolling slow past open space, from large vegetable gardens that fed more than mouths. I am from Amish friends up the road, where community didn’t need a name to exist. I am from Poppop James Michael Bruno, the best man I ever looked up to, from Carissa, my sister, steady and strong, from Ashley, my sister, always present, from Angela, my sister who passed, whose name still lives in the quiet moments. I am from Michele, my mom, and Ron, my dad, from love that showed itself in rules and reminders. I am from “Lickin’ lookin’ for a place to happen,” from “If you can’t say nothin’ nice, then don’t say anything at all,” from “What happens here in the house STAYS in the house,” words that built walls, and sometimes, shelter. I am from Chicken al Bruno, from homemade mac and cheese that meant everyone was staying awhile. I am from memories stored in a tote in the shed, some I don’t want to see, because photos don’t keep what’s hidden behind the memories. They don’t show the weight, or the strength it took to carry it. I am from what was broken and what was fixed anyway. From open land and open lessons. From loss that shaped me, and love that refused to leave. I am from all of this and from the future I am still building with hands that remember where they learned to work, and a heart that knows exactly where it’s from.

53

Poet’s Note: This poem is a reflection of my journey through the past two years — a time marked by loss, perseverance, and growth. Despite homelessness, grief, and countless obstacles, I refused to give up on my education or my family. As I prepare to graduate and turn 27, I carry every hardship as proof that resilience is real and that purpose can rise from pain. Almost There I started this climb in 2024, books heavy, heart heavier. The road to school was paved with loss, with nights I called “home” a place that barely held my name. I carried grief like notebooks my sister’s laughter folded between the pages, a baby I never got to hold still echoing in my ribs. And yet, I kept showing up. Even when the drive from North Carolina drained a tank and half my hope. That old truck was horrible on gas, but I drove it anyway because staying still wasn’t an option. Now I’ve got a car, and somehow, that small mercy feels like a hymn. No paycheck to catch me, no job to make ends meet just faith stitched to hunger, and a dream I refused to bury. My fiancé hurt, both of us breaking and binding in the same breath, fighting courts and odds to bring my nieces and nephew home, to keep our family from scattering like pages in the wind. Before all that, I fought just to get back here back to the chance to finish what life once paused. And now, two years later, I’m standing in the last stretch of a storm that almost took me whole. My son will turn four in January bright-eyed, proof that love grows even through concrete. And in May, I’ll walk that stage. A cap, a gown, and the weight of a thousand prayers. I’ll turn 27 right after older, wiser, carved by survival. No one knows how long these two years have been unless they’ve lived a lifetime inside them. But I did it. I’m almost there. And that almost is already a miracle.

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Oct 22, 2025

Oct 22, 2025 at 11:41 AM UTC

Almost There

Poet’s Note: This poem is a reflection of my journey through the past two years — a time marked by loss, perseverance, and growth. Despite homelessness, grief, and countless obstacles, I refused to give up on my education or my family. As I prepare to graduate and turn 27, I carry every hardship as proof that resilience is real and that purpose can rise from pain. Almost There I started this climb in 2024, books heavy, heart heavier. The road to school was paved with loss, with nights I called “home” a place that barely held my name. I carried grief like notebooks my sister’s laughter folded between the pages, a baby I never got to hold still echoing in my ribs. And yet, I kept showing up. Even when the drive from North Carolina drained a tank and half my hope. That old truck was horrible on gas, but I drove it anyway because staying still wasn’t an option. Now I’ve got a car, and somehow, that small mercy feels like a hymn. No paycheck to catch me, no job to make ends meet just faith stitched to hunger, and a dream I refused to bury. My fiancé hurt, both of us breaking and binding in the same breath, fighting courts and odds to bring my nieces and nephew home, to keep our family from scattering like pages in the wind. Before all that, I fought just to get back here back to the chance to finish what life once paused. And now, two years later, I’m standing in the last stretch of a storm that almost took me whole. My son will turn four in January bright-eyed, proof that love grows even through concrete. And in May, I’ll walk that stage. A cap, a gown, and the weight of a thousand prayers. I’ll turn 27 right after older, wiser, carved by survival. No one knows how long these two years have been unless they’ve lived a lifetime inside them. But I did it. I’m almost there. And that almost is already a miracle.

61

Every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork, You'd welcome me with chocolate-stained hands And that warm smile that crinkled your eyes Just like a real grandmother's would. The pudding cake was always waiting, Dark and moist, your special recipe That took three hours to perfect— Each minute a labor of love. You'd pile chocolate ice cream on top Until it melted into rivers of sweet cream, Creating pools of memories That I still swim in today. Not my blood, they'd say, As if that mattered When you fed my soul With more than just cake. Your kitchen was my sanctuary, Your heart my inheritance Proving some grandmothers Are chosen by love, not birth.

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Feb 6, 2025

Feb 6, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC

Mrs.Beth

Every Sunday afternoon, like clockwork, You'd welcome me with chocolate-stained hands And that warm smile that crinkled your eyes Just like a real grandmother's would. The pudding cake was always waiting, Dark and moist, your special recipe That took three hours to perfect— Each minute a labor of love. You'd pile chocolate ice cream on top Until it melted into rivers of sweet cream, Creating pools of memories That I still swim in today. Not my blood, they'd say, As if that mattered When you fed my soul With more than just cake. Your kitchen was my sanctuary, Your heart my inheritance Proving some grandmothers Are chosen by love, not birth.

20

You came into our lives with open arms, A decision made to be the father figure, Taught me to ride a bike, fixed scraped palms, Your presence felt so solid, seemed to linger. For twelve whole years, you played the perfect part, Family dinners, homework help, and pride, I never thought you'd tear it all apart, Until the day you chose the other side. How could you turn your back so easily? The same hands that braided my hair tight, Weave a web of betrayal free now, With her - my stepbrother's child's mother - in spite Of the promises one made to all of us, The family one said was held dear. Now Mom's heart breaks, and mine's turned to dust, You drift between them, year after year. I learned that fathers are not made by choice alone, But by the strength to stay when times grow hard. You taught me more than you'll ever know - How to deal a man the cruellest card. Now when I see you with her, I just smile, At how you've wasted these precious years. The part you played - just pictures, And Mom still wipes her midnight tears. I wonder if you ever really cared, Or if we were just some scenery, In your make-believe play, you shared Our stage until age eighteen. Some dads are made, and some dads break, You chose to do both, one after the other. But I'm stronger now for your mistake, Standing tall beside my mother.

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Dec 26, 2024

Dec 26, 2024 at 9:05 PM UTC

Stepdads letter

You came into our lives with open arms, A decision made to be the father figure, Taught me to ride a bike, fixed scraped palms, Your presence felt so solid, seemed to linger. For twelve whole years, you played the perfect part, Family dinners, homework help, and pride, I never thought you'd tear it all apart, Until the day you chose the other side. How could you turn your back so easily? The same hands that braided my hair tight, Weave a web of betrayal free now, With her - my stepbrother's child's mother - in spite Of the promises one made to all of us, The family one said was held dear. Now Mom's heart breaks, and mine's turned to dust, You drift between them, year after year. I learned that fathers are not made by choice alone, But by the strength to stay when times grow hard. You taught me more than you'll ever know - How to deal a man the cruellest card. Now when I see you with her, I just smile, At how you've wasted these precious years. The part you played - just pictures, And Mom still wipes her midnight tears. I wonder if you ever really cared, Or if we were just some scenery, In your make-believe play, you shared Our stage until age eighteen. Some dads are made, and some dads break, You chose to do both, one after the other. But I'm stronger now for your mistake, Standing tall beside my mother.

32

In shadows deep, where sunlight feared to tread, A child endured, a life half-lived, half-dead. His father's hand, a cruel and punishing fist, Left marks unseen, yet wounds that would persist. His mother's love, a hollow, starving gaze, A fragile hope, consumed by endless days. A stepmother's touch, a violation's blight, A stolen innocence, forever lost to night. Now, years have passed, a man of twenty-five, But echoes linger, where pain used to thrive. The truth distorted, a twisted, bitter plea, A desperate cry for love he'll never see. Anger's fire, a flicker in his soul, A violent storm, beyond his own control. The scars remain, invisible yet deep, A haunting past, where nightmares never sleep.

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Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 11:20 PM UTC

Echoes of the past.

In shadows deep, where sunlight feared to tread, A child endured, a life half-lived, half-dead. His father's hand, a cruel and punishing fist, Left marks unseen, yet wounds that would persist. His mother's love, a hollow, starving gaze, A fragile hope, consumed by endless days. A stepmother's touch, a violation's blight, A stolen innocence, forever lost to night. Now, years have passed, a man of twenty-five, But echoes linger, where pain used to thrive. The truth distorted, a twisted, bitter plea, A desperate cry for love he'll never see. Anger's fire, a flicker in his soul, A violent storm, beyond his own control. The scars remain, invisible yet deep, A haunting past, where nightmares never sleep.

16

The house holds its breath when I step inside, Its walls, a silent witness to where I’ve cried. The floors creak beneath a heavy weight, Not just my steps—but pain’s quiet freight. The scars on my skin have long since healed, But inside, there are wounds I’ve yet to seal. The ghost of his hand still burns on my face, The kicks and the shoves that time can't erase. Every room is a canvas of violent hues, A story painted in blacks and blues. The air hangs thick, a suffocating dread, As memories linger like whispers unsaid. His’s grip—too tight to ignore, His’s rage—left cracks in the door. Now, no marks remain, no outward trace, But the ache lingers in this haunted space. My chest tightens as if bound by chains, Phantom blows reignite buried pains. The house is a prison, its walls a snare, Each breath a battle with despair. But this time, there’s no bruise to see, No proof of the storm that rages in me. I tell myself this is the last, That I’ll leave behind the echoes of the past. One day, I’ll walk free from this cursed place, Leave behind its ghosts, reclaim my grace. Until then, I carry these scars unseen, A warrior fighting to break free, to dream.

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Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 11:01 PM UTC

The House Remembers

The house holds its breath when I step inside, Its walls, a silent witness to where I’ve cried. The floors creak beneath a heavy weight, Not just my steps—but pain’s quiet freight. The scars on my skin have long since healed, But inside, there are wounds I’ve yet to seal. The ghost of his hand still burns on my face, The kicks and the shoves that time can't erase. Every room is a canvas of violent hues, A story painted in blacks and blues. The air hangs thick, a suffocating dread, As memories linger like whispers unsaid. His’s grip—too tight to ignore, His’s rage—left cracks in the door. Now, no marks remain, no outward trace, But the ache lingers in this haunted space. My chest tightens as if bound by chains, Phantom blows reignite buried pains. The house is a prison, its walls a snare, Each breath a battle with despair. But this time, there’s no bruise to see, No proof of the storm that rages in me. I tell myself this is the last, That I’ll leave behind the echoes of the past. One day, I’ll walk free from this cursed place, Leave behind its ghosts, reclaim my grace. Until then, I carry these scars unseen, A warrior fighting to break free, to dream.

28

One gone forever, sharp and sudden as a knife, Her absence carves a canyon through my life And the others - three sisters standing apart Close in blood, but distant in heart Whispers of memories, fragmented and pale Connections that shattered beyond repair's veil She was the one who might have understood The spaces between us, misunderstood Photographs exist, but they tell no true story Of the silence that echoes, the unspoken worry Four sisters once whole, now scattered like sand Each holding a piece we can't comprehend The eldest who left me before I could speak The others who drifted, connection so weak And her - my lost sister - the one forever young Whose song in my heart remains unsung I carry her memory like a stone in my chest While living sisters remain distant guests No shared secrets, no late-night talks Just polite Christmas cards and awkward walks One taken by death, three by invisible walls Each separation quietly wounds and appalls A family fractured, connections undone Four sisters - yet feeling like none

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Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 2:00 AM UTC

Sisterhood's Broken Threads

One gone forever, sharp and sudden as a knife, Her absence carves a canyon through my life And the others - three sisters standing apart Close in blood, but distant in heart Whispers of memories, fragmented and pale Connections that shattered beyond repair's veil She was the one who might have understood The spaces between us, misunderstood Photographs exist, but they tell no true story Of the silence that echoes, the unspoken worry Four sisters once whole, now scattered like sand Each holding a piece we can't comprehend The eldest who left me before I could speak The others who drifted, connection so weak And her - my lost sister - the one forever young Whose song in my heart remains unsung I carry her memory like a stone in my chest While living sisters remain distant guests No shared secrets, no late-night talks Just polite Christmas cards and awkward walks One taken by death, three by invisible walls Each separation quietly wounds and appalls A family fractured, connections undone Four sisters - yet feeling like none

24

Trucks and dinosaurs scatter the floor, Echoes of laughter I desperately adore With pockets turned inside out, I stand Wondering how to provide, how to expand Grocery bills climb like Jack's magic bean, Shoes outgrown before they're even seen His eyes bright with needs I long to fulfill, Each month a juggle, each paycheck a skill Patches on jeans, hand-me-down shirts, Trying to hide the financial hurts One more snack, one more toy he might desire While I count pennies near the dwindling fire But love doesn't cost a thing, I remind myself tight His smile worth more than any monetary might These boy-sized dreams in my worn-out arms, Richer than money, safer than harm Resourceful and strong, a mother's true art Stretching each dollar with my loving heart Though struggles are real and the path seems so narrow, My son is my treasure, my hope, my sparrow

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Dec 14, 2024

Dec 14, 2024 at 1:58 AM UTC

Tiny Footsteps and Empty Pockets

Trucks and dinosaurs scatter the floor, Echoes of laughter I desperately adore With pockets turned inside out, I stand Wondering how to provide, how to expand Grocery bills climb like Jack's magic bean, Shoes outgrown before they're even seen His eyes bright with needs I long to fulfill, Each month a juggle, each paycheck a skill Patches on jeans, hand-me-down shirts, Trying to hide the financial hurts One more snack, one more toy he might desire While I count pennies near the dwindling fire But love doesn't cost a thing, I remind myself tight His smile worth more than any monetary might These boy-sized dreams in my worn-out arms, Richer than money, safer than harm Resourceful and strong, a mother's true art Stretching each dollar with my loving heart Though struggles are real and the path seems so narrow, My son is my treasure, my hope, my sparrow

20

In shadows cast by cruel disdain, A bully's wrath does cause great pain. With sharpened words, they seek to harm, Leaving scars that leave hearts alarm. They prey upon the vulnerable, Their actions callous, so terrible. Intimidation their chosen game, But their power is truly so lame. For strength lies not in force or might, But in the kindness shining bright. A bully's heart is filled with fear, A mirror reflecting what's not clear. Let's stand together, hand in hand, Against the darkness they command. With love and empathy, let us rise, And silence their venomous cries. In unity, we'll break their hold, Replacing fear with stories bold. For every soul deserves respect, In a world where love we must protect.

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Jul 14, 2023

Jul 14, 2023 at 11:37 PM UTC

A Bully

In shadows cast by cruel disdain, A bully's wrath does cause great pain. With sharpened words, they seek to harm, Leaving scars that leave hearts alarm. They prey upon the vulnerable, Their actions callous, so terrible. Intimidation their chosen game, But their power is truly so lame. For strength lies not in force or might, But in the kindness shining bright. A bully's heart is filled with fear, A mirror reflecting what's not clear. Let's stand together, hand in hand, Against the darkness they command. With love and empathy, let us rise, And silence their venomous cries. In unity, we'll break their hold, Replacing fear with stories bold. For every soul deserves respect, In a world where love we must protect.

20