pinkbow - Hello Poetry

What happens to a day that comes too bright? Does it press against your eyes like a question you can’t answer? Does it hum in your skull, a hard, hot tune that won’t quiet down? Maybe it swells too sharp, too loud until shade feels like mercy and morning feels like a dare. Or maybe it just waits, burning at the edges, asking you again tomorrow to bear it.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 11:51 AM UTC

Without Shade

What happens to a day that comes too bright? Does it press against your eyes like a question you can’t answer? Does it hum in your skull, a hard, hot tune that won’t quiet down? Maybe it swells too sharp, too loud until shade feels like mercy and morning feels like a dare. Or maybe it just waits, burning at the edges, asking you again tomorrow to bear it.

16

I feel the pull in my bones  a hunger for the horizon, a thirst for a safer place.  I was made to move,  to chase warmth,  to chase life. But they built walls in the air.  Invisible fences that stop my wings. They say I don’t belong, like my feathers are a crime,  like my hunger is a threat. I’m not asking for permission  I’m asking for survival.  I’m asking for the right to breathe  without fear. And if they try to clip my wings,  they will never clip  the part of me  that knows how to fly.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 11:39 AM UTC

A Birds Right to Fly

I feel the pull in my bones  a hunger for the horizon, a thirst for a safer place.  I was made to move,  to chase warmth,  to chase life. But they built walls in the air.  Invisible fences that stop my wings. They say I don’t belong, like my feathers are a crime,  like my hunger is a threat. I’m not asking for permission  I’m asking for survival.  I’m asking for the right to breathe  without fear. And if they try to clip my wings,  they will never clip  the part of me  that knows how to fly.

20

Once, with trembling, borrowed grace, I shaped a pair of hands Quiet things that learned my face By tracing fragile strands. They drew me into crooked lines, A figure faint and slight. Strange how something I designed Could make me feel so slight. And when their strokes began to blur, I watched them slip from me Hands I made now sketching her, As if I couldn’t be.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC

The Girl In My Place

Once, with trembling, borrowed grace, I shaped a pair of hands Quiet things that learned my face By tracing fragile strands. They drew me into crooked lines, A figure faint and slight. Strange how something I designed Could make me feel so slight. And when their strokes began to blur, I watched them slip from me Hands I made now sketching her, As if I couldn’t be.

12

I wake up tasting rust, and call it breakfast. The sun looks guilty, but I still blame the rain. I hate the chairs, the way they wait for me. I hate the air, how it touches without asking. And I hate that I hate like a dog chewing on its own tail, thinking it's a bone, thinking it's a gift.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 11:33 AM UTC

Rust In My Mouth

I wake up tasting rust, and call it breakfast. The sun looks guilty, but I still blame the rain. I hate the chairs, the way they wait for me. I hate the air, how it touches without asking. And I hate that I hate like a dog chewing on its own tail, thinking it's a bone, thinking it's a gift.

12

I ask a question Like tossing a pebble into a lake, hoping ripples will tell me what I can't say out loud. Is she pretty? The words feel small, but they echo in my chest like a secret knocking to get out. They laugh, and I smile like it doesn't matter, but it does, Because pretty feels like a door I've never been invited through. I watch the sun paint their hair gold, their voices easy, their bodies sure, and I wonder if beauty is something you wear, or something you are. I tie my laces tighter, as If that could hold me together, and whisper to the wind, maybe one day someone will ask if I am pretty too.

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Feb 19

Feb 19, 2026 at 11:31 AM UTC

''Is She Pretty?''

I ask a question Like tossing a pebble into a lake, hoping ripples will tell me what I can't say out loud. Is she pretty? The words feel small, but they echo in my chest like a secret knocking to get out. They laugh, and I smile like it doesn't matter, but it does, Because pretty feels like a door I've never been invited through. I watch the sun paint their hair gold, their voices easy, their bodies sure, and I wonder if beauty is something you wear, or something you are. I tie my laces tighter, as If that could hold me together, and whisper to the wind, maybe one day someone will ask if I am pretty too.

25