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Zywa 4d
Happy: not wanting,

solely letting go of what --


I no longer want.
Novella "Gezien de feiten" ("Considering the facts", 2018, Griet Op de Beeck), chapter 25

Collection "No wonder"
Phoebe Feb 10
I am allowing you to believe
everything is fine,
but to me, it is not.
Our dynamic is irrevocably changed,
never to be the same.
Over-politeness strikes our conversations,
but truly, it was never normal.
You planted a seed of dislike,
and it grew—
A tree.
It has been chopped,
but the stump remains,
roots tangled deep beneath.
Our cycle is over,
thank God.
And you—
you will now be left in the past.
O lord,
Grant me the strength,
To let go,
With love.
So,
No part of me,
Will die in vain.
I feel that letting go is like two sides of a coin. As you gain something, you also lose something. So, to let go of worldly people and things, I need strength from someone bigger than the world itself.
dead poet Jan 31
if i could, i’d let it go -
long ago,
so you’d never know
how i felt
when you had me knelt
before the sinister
price i owe.

i gave you my world
with fists uncurled;
you gave me your spite
with a tongue that twirled
at the whims of a curse
so foul, it reeked
of a bane too vile,
and unreasonably
perverse.

can’t blame you, though,
the things i know
could rip the heart,
and have it show
the crimson shards of
memories jarred,
and a quiver so bare
from all the blows.  

perhaps,
there’s still a place for you
in my heart, that’s yet
to know what’s true;
but i cannot allow
my head to bow
to scorn, and spite,
to name a few…
Charan P Jan 30
I failed to fail,
Stopped trying to stop.
Holding on to not holding on,
now I’ve given up on giving up.

Each attempt to crumble
only made me more resilient.
I reached for surrender,
but found myself still here.

I tried to let go,
but clung tighter instead.
I fought to end the battle,
only to discover,
I’m still in the fight.
oops, guess I failed at the note too. 😅
Here’s the real deal: it’s about trying to quit but somehow sticking around.
Charan P Jan 30
And the truth you can’t escape,
the one you bury under every brave smile,
is that a part of you still misses him.
Not the man he was—because he was never that man—
but the version you created,
the lie you clung to like a lifeline.
The lie that said he loved you back.

You hate yourself for it.
For the nights you still cry his name,
for the quiet corners of your mind where he still lives,
for the twisted hope that maybe, just maybe,
he looks at someone else and realizes what he lost.

But the part that destroys you the most?
It’s knowing that even now,
even after all he did,
if he showed up today,
with the same broken promises
and the same hollow smile—
you’re not sure you’d say no.

Because love, real love, doesn’t just leave.
It festers. It infects.
It becomes a parasite you can’t cut out,
even when it’s killing you.

And you know what the world doesn’t want to hear,
what no one dares admit?
You don’t hate him.
Not really.
You hate yourself.

For staying. For loving. For breaking.
For still wishing,
in the deepest, darkest part of you,
that he would come back
and this time—
this time—
it would be different.

But it won’t.
It never will.
And the hardest truth of all?
You’d have to tear yourself apart to finally let him go.
And the scariest part?
You’re not sure you want to.
~poem 1 of 5 from my collection-- “stages of grief.”

Denial—the first stage of grief. This poem isn’t just about missing someone; it’s about clinging to the illusion of who they could have been. It’s the battle between knowing the truth and refusing to accept it, the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, they’ll come back and finally be who you needed them to be. But deep down, you already know—they never will.

~written for a friend. (Female POV).
i’m convinced we let go
twice

once
in order to
leave ourselves broken
and alone
on a cold floor

till we flatline

then once more
to realize
we always were

broken
and alone

we
always
were

ironic
ain’t it?

it’s special
that kind of silence
somehow comforting
only after the eeriness
of no one caring
truly
sets in

and no one is supposed to

i was surprised to learn this

especially as a child

i learn it every day still

especially as a man

and you’re lucky
if momma does

some mommas don’t
some mommas can’t

yes
as a man
i must learn
to bloom

not only bloom
but to hide
the uglier colors
and only display
the primaries
the strong ones
the vividness of manliness

never my grays
and blacks
where i tend to color
most of my mind

i sometimes hate it
and sometimes i like it like that
there’s no lines
or borders i can’t cross
i’m not expected to be
good
at it

i’m asked to
handle things
and to listen
intently
while i can barely
handle the echoes
to begin with

nobody asks about those
nobody needs to
nobody should
not even momma

why would i worry her?
she’s the only one
ever around
when lingering drumming sounds
rise

it’d be nice to be asked
but a lot of things would be nice

and this silence is nice
sometimes

most of the time it ain’t
but i lay
alone
drama free
and no amount of company
can take that peace from me
or piece from me

givers give
and
takers take

beware the silence
that roams that
strong silhouette of his

for he definitely
opens up fully
to his shadows

and his shadows
really listen

he doesn’t have
to let go of them

they never leave
in fact
they’re his followers

and after a chat
and a quiet cry
he goes back

to momma
and no one else

as it should be

as it is
and
as it will be.

-melancholicreator
love ya, momma
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