velocity77 - Hello Poetry

Beneath the crushing waves of sorrow deep, I sank where light and breath alike forsook, Grief’s cold and silent currents made me weep, And pulled me down where hope itself was shook. The salt of tears became the sea’s embrace, A drowning soul adrift in endless night, Each gasping breath a plea for mercy’s grace, Yet darkness claimed the last of morning’s light. But lo—my lungs still burn with stubborn fire, My heart, though battered, beats its ragged drum; From drowning’s grip I rise, though weak and tired, A survivor forged where lesser spirits succumb. Proudly I stand, with brine upon my cheek— I drowned in grief, yet lived to see the peak.

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Apr 2

Apr 2, 2026 at 6:55 PM UTC

Drowned, Yet Unbowed 'sonnet'

Beneath the crushing waves of sorrow deep, I sank where light and breath alike forsook, Grief’s cold and silent currents made me weep, And pulled me down where hope itself was shook. The salt of tears became the sea’s embrace, A drowning soul adrift in endless night, Each gasping breath a plea for mercy’s grace, Yet darkness claimed the last of morning’s light. But lo—my lungs still burn with stubborn fire, My heart, though battered, beats its ragged drum; From drowning’s grip I rise, though weak and tired, A survivor forged where lesser spirits succumb. Proudly I stand, with brine upon my cheek— I drowned in grief, yet lived to see the peak.

14

i showed up unsure, half ready to leave— but you were kind in small, quiet ways. a few words, a little light, enough to make it feel like i belonged. thank you for that. i think i’ll stay.

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Mar 30

Mar 30, 2026 at 7:19 PM UTC

To hello poetry

i showed up unsure, half ready to leave— but you were kind in small, quiet ways. a few words, a little light, enough to make it feel like i belonged. thank you for that. i think i’ll stay.

10

Thirty arrives like a quiet room you didn’t mean to enter. You look around— half-built dreams, names you never became, time suddenly loud in your hands. It feels like the ending.

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Mar 27

Mar 27, 2026 at 4:17 PM UTC

Thirty

Thirty arrives like a quiet room you didn’t mean to enter. You look around— half-built dreams, names you never became, time suddenly loud in your hands. It feels like the ending.

7

The house is quiet with your gone, your name still caught in every wall. I tried to face it sober once— the grief was louder than it all. So I leaned into the burning glass, let silence blur, let memory bend, each drink a step away from you, each night pretending not to end. But morning breaks the fragile lie— you’re gone, the truth comes crashing through. No bottle drowns the shape of loss, it only deepens missing you.

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Mar 18

Mar 18, 2026 at 1:14 PM UTC

Quiet

The house is quiet with your gone, your name still caught in every wall. I tried to face it sober once— the grief was louder than it all. So I leaned into the burning glass, let silence blur, let memory bend, each drink a step away from you, each night pretending not to end. But morning breaks the fragile lie— you’re gone, the truth comes crashing through. No bottle drowns the shape of loss, it only deepens missing you.

12

I hate that I didn’t see it— the weight behind your smile. You were drowning quietly right beside me, and I was listening for a splash.

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Mar 16

Mar 16, 2026 at 9:28 PM UTC

I didn't see it

I hate that I didn’t see it— the weight behind your smile. You were drowning quietly right beside me, and I was listening for a splash.

6

There’s a moment my life keeps circling back to— a quiet house, an ordinary afternoon, my hand on a door that used to mean nothing. Before that moment the world was still in one piece. Bills on the table. Shoes by the couch. The sound of the kids arguing about a cartoon down the hall. I didn’t know a life could split between two seconds. The one before I turned the handle. And the one after. People say I was strong. They say someone had to find you. They say it was better that it was me. But sometimes I wish it had been anyone else. A stranger. A neighbor. The police. Anyone whose memories of you wouldn’t have shattered in the same instant. Because I try to remember you the way you were— laughing in the kitchen, dancing with the kids while the radio played, falling asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder. But some nights my mind goes back to that room, to the silence that answered when I called your name. And I hate that the last thing my eyes saw of the woman I loved was not your smile, not your voice, not the way you used to look when you watched the kids play— but a moment I would give anything to return to a door I never opened.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 5:28 PM UTC

I wish I hadn't found you

There’s a moment my life keeps circling back to— a quiet house, an ordinary afternoon, my hand on a door that used to mean nothing. Before that moment the world was still in one piece. Bills on the table. Shoes by the couch. The sound of the kids arguing about a cartoon down the hall. I didn’t know a life could split between two seconds. The one before I turned the handle. And the one after. People say I was strong. They say someone had to find you. They say it was better that it was me. But sometimes I wish it had been anyone else. A stranger. A neighbor. The police. Anyone whose memories of you wouldn’t have shattered in the same instant. Because I try to remember you the way you were— laughing in the kitchen, dancing with the kids while the radio played, falling asleep on the couch with your head on my shoulder. But some nights my mind goes back to that room, to the silence that answered when I called your name. And I hate that the last thing my eyes saw of the woman I loved was not your smile, not your voice, not the way you used to look when you watched the kids play— but a moment I would give anything to return to a door I never opened.

55

The kids still say your name like you’re in the next room. “Mom would know where it is.” “Mom used to do it like this.” “Mom makes the pancakes better.” I don’t correct the grammar. I let makes stay in the present because it hurts them less than the truth. I try. God, I try. I braid our daughter’s hair with hands meant for fixing fences and tying knots in rope. It comes out crooked and she smiles anyway, like she’s helping me pretend. Our son asks questions I don’t have answers for. “Why did Mom get so sad?” “Did she know we loved her?” “Is she coming back someday?” I tell him she loved him more than anything in the world. That part is easy. The rest of the words sit in my throat like stones. At night they crawl into my bed like they used to crawl into yours— small, warm bodies looking for a kind of safety I’m still learning how to build. You were better at it. You remembered the lunches, the lost shoes, the quiet tears before school. You could calm storms with one hand on their backs. I am louder weather. I burn the toast. I forget picture day. I stand in the hallway sometimes watching them sleep and wonder if they can tell how much of the house was you. They miss you in a hundred small ways. And I do my best to fill the spaces you left— but every day I learn again that love is not the same as being you. Still, tomorrow morning I’ll try the pancakes again. For them. For you.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 5:25 PM UTC

I Can't Be You

The kids still say your name like you’re in the next room. “Mom would know where it is.” “Mom used to do it like this.” “Mom makes the pancakes better.” I don’t correct the grammar. I let makes stay in the present because it hurts them less than the truth. I try. God, I try. I braid our daughter’s hair with hands meant for fixing fences and tying knots in rope. It comes out crooked and she smiles anyway, like she’s helping me pretend. Our son asks questions I don’t have answers for. “Why did Mom get so sad?” “Did she know we loved her?” “Is she coming back someday?” I tell him she loved him more than anything in the world. That part is easy. The rest of the words sit in my throat like stones. At night they crawl into my bed like they used to crawl into yours— small, warm bodies looking for a kind of safety I’m still learning how to build. You were better at it. You remembered the lunches, the lost shoes, the quiet tears before school. You could calm storms with one hand on their backs. I am louder weather. I burn the toast. I forget picture day. I stand in the hallway sometimes watching them sleep and wonder if they can tell how much of the house was you. They miss you in a hundred small ways. And I do my best to fill the spaces you left— but every day I learn again that love is not the same as being you. Still, tomorrow morning I’ll try the pancakes again. For them. For you.

57

I turned thirty two months after you left. The cake from my sister sat on the counter too long, icing stiffening like old paint. Someone lit candles and someone sang and I tried to remember how birthdays are supposed to feel. You used to say thirty wasn’t old— that we were just getting started. You said it while folding laundry, while brushing your teeth, while planning trips we never took. Now the house echoes with ordinary ghosts: your mug in the cabinet with the chipped blue rim, a sweater on the back of the chair that still remembers the shape of your shoulders. Everyone says words like strong and healing and time. But time is strange now. It stretches in the quiet mornings when the bed is too wide and the light through the blinds falls on the empty side like it’s waiting for someone. I keep thinking I should have noticed something— some small crack in the day, some tremble in your voice I could have held together. Instead there is this: a life paused mid-sentence, your name still saved in my phone, and a man who is thirty years old standing in the kitchen at midnight holding two mugs before remembering he only needs one.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 5:24 PM UTC

Thirty

I turned thirty two months after you left. The cake from my sister sat on the counter too long, icing stiffening like old paint. Someone lit candles and someone sang and I tried to remember how birthdays are supposed to feel. You used to say thirty wasn’t old— that we were just getting started. You said it while folding laundry, while brushing your teeth, while planning trips we never took. Now the house echoes with ordinary ghosts: your mug in the cabinet with the chipped blue rim, a sweater on the back of the chair that still remembers the shape of your shoulders. Everyone says words like strong and healing and time. But time is strange now. It stretches in the quiet mornings when the bed is too wide and the light through the blinds falls on the empty side like it’s waiting for someone. I keep thinking I should have noticed something— some small crack in the day, some tremble in your voice I could have held together. Instead there is this: a life paused mid-sentence, your name still saved in my phone, and a man who is thirty years old standing in the kitchen at midnight holding two mugs before remembering he only needs one.

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