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Maryann I Feb 20
I never thought the words would stick,
Not in my throat, not in my skin,
But here they are, burning like a wick,
The lies they told, the shape I’m in.

I hear them now, when I close my eyes,
My mother’s voice, sharp and cold,
Telling me that I’m not enough,
That I’ll never be worth the love I’m sold.

“Mary, you’re a disappointment,”
The words hit like a slap in the face.
Every failure is a mark she leaves,
Every tear is a slap to my grace.

She says it’s my fault,
I’m the one who makes her break,
But how do I fix what’s broken,
When I don’t even know where to start or take?

Her last words haunt me in the night,
Telling me I’m wrong, telling me I fight,
Telling me my worth is nothing,
That I’m just a ghost in a family that’s done with loving.
Her last words, sharp as knives,
Cut through the quiet of my fragile life.

She’s always angry, always mad,
Never sees what’s behind the sad.
I’m just a face she can’t embrace,
A reflection of everything she can’t erase.

She tells me I’ll never be enough,
My nose too big, my heart too soft.
She tells me I’ll end up like them,
The ones who couldn’t make it,
Couldn’t win.

She says it so casually,
As though the pain doesn’t stick.
As though she doesn’t see my tears,
As though her words won’t break me quick.

Her last words echo in my chest,
Telling me I’m nothing,
Telling me I’ll never be my best.
Her last words, like a whispered prayer,
Begging me to break, but I’ll never be there.

And every time I try to stand tall,
She pushes me back down again,
Says I’m a failure, says I’ll fall,
And that I’m no better than my biological kin.

But somewhere inside, I still fight,
I still hope that one day I’ll rise,
Even if she can’t see my light,
Even if she only sees the lies.


She yells at Y, tells her the same,
That we’re the problem, that we’re to blame.
She says it’s our fault she feels this way,
But it’s her rage that never fades.
It’s her fear that’s running wild,
Turning her into a broken child.

And every time she calls me out,
I think of what could’ve been,
If love didn’t come with rules and doubt,
If we were just a family, not a war within.

Her last words are the truth I can’t escape,
They’re carved into my skin, into my fate.
Her last words, heavy like stone,
Reminding me that I’m always alone.

And when my breath finally fades away,
It’ll be her words that seal my end.
Not the love I longed for, but the lies she said,
Will be the silence where my heart bends.

The world won’t miss me, they’ll forget my name,
Just another girl lost in a family’s shame.
I’ll be just a shadow, fading fast,
A memory of love that never lasts.

Her last words will haunt me still,
As my body grows cold, my spirit still.
In the end, I’ll finally be free,
From the weight of her love, from what’s left of me.
This poem is inspired by the song Her Last Words by Courtney Parker. I’ve taken elements of the song and shaped them into a poem, capturing the emotions of venting and vulnerability. This piece is a vent—a raw expression of my thoughts—but it doesn’t define me. I am stronger than these moments, stronger than the pain.

Hello Poetry is a space where I can be real, where I can let my thoughts spill out without judgment. These words do not mark the end of me but are part of my process of healing and release. While this poem reflects some of my darker thoughts, it is just one part of my journey, not the whole of who I am.
I'll wait in patience,
Until I see your face,
Until the next time I see you smile.
But I won't rush it
The way I feel.
I love the anticipation,
The way you give me things
To think about.

I'll learn to live through the ache,
I'll learn self-control,
And learn to hold still
Until the next time I see you.
The best stories are told
In pieces.
Not that there's anything wrong
With instant gratification,
Nonetheless,
Waiting allows that time between us
To linger and to grow.

So that the next time I see your face,
I am fully there,
Appreciative of that moment
A kiss that waits in the dark,
Waiting for the light of your lips.
Knowing that a week apart,
This kiss only grows,
Stretched thin, built in
Anticipation.

But I won't rush it.
Every episode is like this,
My favorite show.
If I were to watch all of you now,
Then there wouldn't be anything left.
So I choose to be patient,
My attention solely focused
On you.
Love moves slow,
Although some moments
Move fast.
There is always time to rewatch
And to think
But only after we've taken our time
And lived to do so.
I'll wait patiently
Until the next time I see your face
Georgia Feb 18
I never thought I’d have this life
Brought up on a broken council estate
I was never meant to have this nuclear family
When I look back at my life
And where I came from
To looking at what I have
And where my future is headed
It feels surreal
I’m not meant to have this much promise in my life
I don’t know how to handle it
I’ve got survivors guilt
Because of who I left behind
The past version of me
And the people I cut off along the way
I hope I can forgive past me for sabotaging myself
Because she almost broke the woman I am today
I’m glad to have the life I have I know I’m truly blessed
I just hope I can forgive the woman I used to be, because she was toxic and almost cost us the amazing life we have now
Asher Feb 17
him
when i talk back, do you feel the rage
a storm inside, a tightening cage?
would you strike, would you scream, let the fury begin?
or is that your father, staring within?

i see the shadow in your gaze,
a past that lingers, sharp as blades.
the echo of him, cold and grim
tell me, love… are you just like him?
Vianne Lior Feb 19
They spoke my name in tongues of dawn,
before the world was cast in hues—
before the red could kiss the rose,
before the sky first bruised to blue.

I was the shimmer ‘twixt the stars,
the breath between the night and morn,
a hush of light not seen nor mourned,
a ghost where spectrums are stillborn.

The prisms wept, but left me void—
a sigh unbent by mortal sight,
a whisper lost to time’s embrace,
unwoven from the loom of light.

Yet once, I danced on dreaming lids,
in eyes that dared to look beyond,
but now—I pale, unseen, unknown,
a phantom shade, a severed bond.

So tell me, when your colors fade,
when all grows dim, and light departs,
will you recall the one who lingers—
the color buried in your heart?
Kat M Feb 17
Why is it that a peek into the past
Gleans direction and goals so fast?

But the memories scatter and fizzle out
As they wilt into the present full of doubt
A Couple of Couplets

Feedback Welcome!
TonyNoon Feb 16
We chose this discrete island.
Not cast away as rumoured.
It was space to think things
through that was needed.
In time we found ourselves,
found new skills and learnt
to play with fire and with smoke.

Those first signals, reciprocated
from the far horizon did it.
Like minds entwined above
uncaring water. We wanted more.
We wanted high towers so that
we could see ourselves across
the empty oceans, but towers fall

and dust blows out the flame.

Tony Noon
Vianne Lior Feb 15
Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.
Some nights, the universe feels indifferent. I wrote this to remind myself that I am here—that I matter, even if only to myself. I exist, I question, I feel—what more proof do I need? I thought this wasn’t ready. Turns out, neither am I—but here we are. And if the universe remains indifferent, I’ll take that as permission to laugh :)
Vianne Lior Feb 11
Footsteps on cracked roads,
we rush, yet never look down—
the ground holds our past.
Vianne Lior Feb 10
A cloud hangs low, still,
pressing on the city’s spine—
does it ever breathe?
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