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Maryann I Mar 15
I was not born to break,
but I have shattered
quietly—
like glass beneath velvet footsteps.
Still, I rise,
not whole,
but burning brighter
in every fractured edge.
evangline Mar 14
He was seething,
but I was finally breathing.

I stood in his shadow for far too long,
mesmerized by his siren song.

I apologized for my words and held my sharp tongue,
while he never did so—I remained overstrung.

I resent myself for having endured so much,
but that's okay, as those were the years of my nascence.

Now, I stand tall in the shadow of my own dignity,
away from the wretched hands of his vanity.

He decays now, murderously slow,
while I relish my freedom forevermore.

He is seething,
I am breathing.
My rebellious joy
Heals me
Frees me
from my past
Heals me
Frees me
from my present
My smile was once a mask
sincerity turned it to a shield
A heart filled with gratitude and wonder
leaves no space for fear
I step into my strength
by embracing this
My rebellious joy

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.
This poem and the new attitude it represents are inspired by Episode 13 of Heather Wilde’s podcast Startin’ Some Ripples.  If you are in need of healing, this is the podcast for you.
Today, I want to speak to you,
my brother.

You who are feeling down,
who life is hitting hard.

You who feel alone,
or have a broken heart.

Maybe you've been left for someone else,
or what you're searching for hasn’t been found.

She didn’t deserve you,
and what you're looking for is just around the corner.

You’re not alone,
there are many of us,
with the same thought.

The thought of ending this,
and ending the suffering.

But through all the bad,
there’s always a brother.

A brother with a big ear,
to listen,
to what is resonating
inside of you.

I want you to know that you are strong,
and that I love you.

This is just a fall in life,
and soon you’ll tell it,
as something overcome.
I want you to know that we are many in your situation,
and we haven’t given up.

This battle is ours,
and we are winning it.

Don’t drop your hands,
you are worth a lot,
this is just a delay.

We will all get through this together,
and we will come out strong.

The burdens of today,
are the wings of freedom,
for tomorrow.

If you’re feeling bad,
just talk to me.
Gideon Mar 8
Strength is not a raging river or a roaring tiger.
Strength is bravery in small, significant things.
Even the smallest things can be significant.
Importance is not decided by money or popularity.
It is chosen by value, meaning, and purpose.
We are not brought into this world only to consume.
We are given the strength to create and choose.
Choose strength every time you are given a choice.
The hardest decisions are the most important, and
Great heights are best seen from your lowest point.
Gideon Mar 8
History has always had your back.
Society will always stab you in it.
Let heads roll low on the ground,
While you hold your head high.
Might doesn’t ever make right.
The strongest among us are always
those with naught but compassion
and kindness growing in their hearts.
Weeds, they will always grow back.
Society will tell you that there is no
difference between strength and will.
History tells us that will is stronger.
Heavier than ever,
I lost my strength.
Such a difference— Never!
I wish to go any length.

This is no tale of mass,
For I would carry the world.
It's a burden, that would fail Atlas
Even his grip couldn't hold.

Yet, no tale of mass,
Mass by people.
Feelings, heart all clash
I succumbed to this whirlpool.

Alone, a name I harness,
While I didn't heed
For I never learnt of loneliness,
Until you were all I'd need.
All I'd need.
One never feels as lonely as when he isn't with his beloved.
a poet Mar 6
It starts a slow and silent seed.
A pasture soft, the scarless skin.
Standing in the heaps, the ridges, full of Life.
Stretching it's greens, it's yellows, Oh! the supple sky.

Petal after petal, Leaf after leaf.
Song after song, Dream after dream.
The land loses it's greens, the trees lose their tweets,
and whiteness comes, frozen, her skin.

Suddenly all is replaced, all is buried,
all is white, and all is heavy,
The heart is breathless, cold and weary.
The crackling fire does little to mend this.

But slowly, definitely, it all starts to melt,
At the first rays of the new season, this White is shed
In new birth of seeds, in new birth of dreams,
After snowflakes, the heart is healed.
a poet Mar 5
the weight of the tie
around my neck
and the quivers of my jaw
from what I've said.
a flock sits with downturned heads
and the wolves stand, with mocking hands.

as easily as the pencil glides
over the ****** page,
so also it is for the written to blossom
like forget-me-nots in the slanting rain.

Today,
the heavens wrote me
on the wrong end
where the ground is filled with spit
and the sky, grey with the angst
of mourning heads.

Tomorrow,
the writing would not be the same
and I would be
at the right end.
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