Poetry
In the grip of days
when the heart feels
like a wild thing,
teetering on the edge
of clawing itself
free from my chest,
something shifts,
like the weight of love
breaking ribs,
pouring forth,
desperate to taste
the sweetness of those lips—
Oh, how easily it forgets the cost,
the time it took
to mend from the wreckage,
from honey to bitterness,
those flavors now mingling.
Poetry,
always a balm,
cradling my raw edges
when I want to rage against the sky
for all that is unraveled,
carrying my broken promises
like badges of honor,
holding me accountable
to the injustices shouting
inside my soul,
telling me,
it’s okay.
It’s okay to roar.
With every line,
I find solace in the violence of my past,
the page a witness
to the wounds that linger,
the understanding
that some pieces
cannot be fixed,
only released.
And so, I let go.
In the ink, I submerge,
a saline for the scars
etched deep in my heart,
as words swirl,
filling the empty spaces
that once echoed with echoes.
In this sacred communion,
I douse the flame of fury
with metaphors that dance,
alliteration forming bridges
over troubled waters.
Here, I breathe without fear,
bold enough to seize the day,
to open doors for voices
silenced by shadows,
to foster a place
where suffering can be shared,
where vulnerability becomes a birthright.
I become a lighthouse
for the lost and wandering,
the voice I searched for
in childhood shadows,
filling the void
carved by heartbreak,
where spirits lay shattered,
muffled words
lost in tears,
the disconnected souls
seeking solace.
In poetry, I find home.
And for this,
I love it fiercely.
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 1:53 PM UTC
Poetry
In the grip of days
when the heart feels
like a wild thing,
teetering on the edge
of clawing itself
free from my chest,
something shifts,
like the weight of love
breaking ribs,
pouring forth,
desperate to taste
the sweetness of those lips—
Oh, how easily it forgets the cost,
the time it took
to mend from the wreckage,
from honey to bitterness,
those flavors now mingling.
Poetry,
always a balm,
cradling my raw edges
when I want to rage against the sky
for all that is unraveled,
carrying my broken promises
like badges of honor,
holding me accountable
to the injustices shouting
inside my soul,
telling me,
it’s okay.
It’s okay to roar.
With every line,
I find solace in the violence of my past,
the page a witness
to the wounds that linger,
the understanding
that some pieces
cannot be fixed,
only released.
And so, I let go.
In the ink, I submerge,
a saline for the scars
etched deep in my heart,
as words swirl,
filling the empty spaces
that once echoed with echoes.
In this sacred communion,
I douse the flame of fury
with metaphors that dance,
alliteration forming bridges
over troubled waters.
Here, I breathe without fear,
bold enough to seize the day,
to open doors for voices
silenced by shadows,
to foster a place
where suffering can be shared,
where vulnerability becomes a birthright.
I become a lighthouse
for the lost and wandering,
the voice I searched for
in childhood shadows,
filling the void
carved by heartbreak,
where spirits lay shattered,
muffled words
lost in tears,
the disconnected souls
seeking solace.
In poetry, I find home.
And for this,
I love it fiercely.