Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
StormthreadPoems
He wore solitude like a jacket two sizes too big— insisting it fit, insisting he needed the cold. Lonely, but not reaching. Hurt, but calling it freedom. He said he preferred the quiet, though the quiet kept echoing names he refused to answer. His trauma sat beside him like an untrained dog— never leashed, never healed, growling at anything that tried to come close. So he learned to leave first. He learned to call it choice. I found him wandering in circles, mistaking motion for escape, chasing horizons that never asked him to arrive. Every step was distance, every distance felt safer than staying. I tried not to chase— but caring has a gravity of its own. I watched him disappear into the comfort of his own absence, convinced that being alone hurt less than being known. And maybe that was true, once. Maybe loneliness felt familiar, and love felt like a language he was punished for speaking. So he wandered. Not because he wanted emptiness— but because emptiness never demanded his truth. And I learned this: some people aren’t lost. They are hiding. And some wounds don’t bleed— they walk.
0
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 3:01 PM UTC
Chasing a Wanderer
He wore solitude like a jacket two sizes too big— insisting it fit, insisting he needed the cold. Lonely, but not reaching. Hurt, but calling it freedom. He said he preferred the quiet, though the quiet kept echoing names he refused to answer. His trauma sat beside him like an untrained dog— never leashed, never healed, growling at anything that tried to come close. So he learned to leave first. He learned to call it choice. I found him wandering in circles, mistaking motion for escape, chasing horizons that never asked him to arrive. Every step was distance, every distance felt safer than staying. I tried not to chase— but caring has a gravity of its own. I watched him disappear into the comfort of his own absence, convinced that being alone hurt less than being known. And maybe that was true, once. Maybe loneliness felt familiar, and love felt like a language he was punished for speaking. So he wandered. Not because he wanted emptiness— but because emptiness never demanded his truth. And I learned this: some people aren’t lost. They are hiding. And some wounds don’t bleed— they walk.
#poetry#freeverse#love#lonely#sad#trauma#healing#heartbreak#mentalhealth#spokenword
Stormthread
Written by
Stormthread
23/F
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 3:01 PM UTC
Request permission to use this poem