#emotionalrelease - Hello Poetry

Birds plucking dirt out of my eyes— this vision scavenged clean. Inner angry voices circling overhead, and ugly choices with hooked beaks. I take the battle into my own hands, knuckles twisted with truth and lies— a courtroom built in my skull, thinking through crime eyes. There's a crime of passion— where the heart gets stabbed first. ***** it—I rip the roof off my thoughts just to see what leaks out. Broken ceilings, exposed skies, biting into life with a missing tooth— survival looks feral, when you’re far from home and even farther from love. So vultures kneel on barren ground, their shadows choking the soil where no seed dares breathe. But something violent is growing in me— ...a rose forcing its way through bone and dirt, thorns clawing out of my eyes to pinch my dreams, awake. Exotic? Ironic? No! Just a body crying more hours than it sleeps— starving in fields where weeds grow faster than food. Still; somewhere beyond this wasteland there has to be a place where something living can finally feed.

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Mar 15

Mar 15, 2026 at 6:22 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

THORNS IN MY EYES

Birds plucking dirt out of my eyes— this vision scavenged clean. Inner angry voices circling overhead, and ugly choices with hooked beaks. I take the battle into my own hands, knuckles twisted with truth and lies— a courtroom built in my skull, thinking through crime eyes. There's a crime of passion— where the heart gets stabbed first. ***** it—I rip the roof off my thoughts just to see what leaks out. Broken ceilings, exposed skies, biting into life with a missing tooth— survival looks feral, when you’re far from home and even farther from love. So vultures kneel on barren ground, their shadows choking the soil where no seed dares breathe. But something violent is growing in me— ...a rose forcing its way through bone and dirt, thorns clawing out of my eyes to pinch my dreams, awake. Exotic? Ironic? No! Just a body crying more hours than it sleeps— starving in fields where weeds grow faster than food. Still; somewhere beyond this wasteland there has to be a place where something living can finally feed.

33

I sometimes fear that one day the lock will crack, and all those quiet whispers will rise at once. The door will open. Light will flood the room. And there it will be— the final chapter, standing in the open. The pain won’t hide anymore. It will step into the daylight, moving through every line I write. What was buried will find its voice in poetry. What was hidden will finally be revealed. And somehow— through the power of verse— the ache I carried will begin to heal.

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Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 7:34 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

When the Silence Breaks

I sometimes fear that one day the lock will crack, and all those quiet whispers will rise at once. The door will open. Light will flood the room. And there it will be— the final chapter, standing in the open. The pain won’t hide anymore. It will step into the daylight, moving through every line I write. What was buried will find its voice in poetry. What was hidden will finally be revealed. And somehow— through the power of verse— the ache I carried will begin to heal.

20

She stands, it calls her From the cold and damp, stale air These walls - a cage now Orange flowers a scatter Past the plethora To the quiet green, she moves Shadowed sussurus Of leaves, root and soil afoot They whisper. She stops, And settles into the grass Her eyes, blinking slow Cool gusts move through her fingers Softly, she exhales She didn't know she'd withheld That breath - Now a tear

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Jul 20, 2025

Jul 20, 2025 at 7:38 PM UTC

Aflame

Sussurus

She stands, it calls her From the cold and damp, stale air These walls - a cage now Orange flowers a scatter Past the plethora To the quiet green, she moves Shadowed sussurus Of leaves, root and soil afoot They whisper. She stops, And settles into the grass Her eyes, blinking slow Cool gusts move through her fingers Softly, she exhales She didn't know she'd withheld That breath - Now a tear

17

It's raining Precipitation I did not foresee The clouds have been there, but when did they grow dark? When did they grow heavy, laden with this buried pain? Kept at bay, the vault to be forgotten Yet here you are, bringing forth the rain Why couldn't you just have stayed safely locked away? Yet it's not all bad, the rain brings comfort, that of familiar sorrow "There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning." It's a terrifying thought, yet a dream I cling to: joy, happiness. We fear the unknown and these things are just that. Though I await the rising sun, I cannot hearken for the morrow.

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Sep 4, 2021

Sep 4, 2021 at 5:12 PM UTC

ethan-titus

An Unexpected Rain

It's raining Precipitation I did not foresee The clouds have been there, but when did they grow dark? When did they grow heavy, laden with this buried pain? Kept at bay, the vault to be forgotten Yet here you are, bringing forth the rain Why couldn't you just have stayed safely locked away? Yet it's not all bad, the rain brings comfort, that of familiar sorrow "There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning." It's a terrifying thought, yet a dream I cling to: joy, happiness. We fear the unknown and these things are just that. Though I await the rising sun, I cannot hearken for the morrow.

12

She learned from a young age that Rage, Anger, Defiance, Meant nothing. Not to her Nor to others. So she kept silent As silent as the sun can When she's raging in the vacuum of space. Her eyes would ***** with tears And her jaw would clench in frustration. But she'd rather stare into hell and cut off her tongue before it meant anything. She is a patient woman they say, She is a proper lady She is as passive as a flower And as kind as sunlight after a thunderstorm. She is a balm to the suffering and to the evil. She is God's child. But I have thorns I can burn you I can drown you She has a child’s temper In a woman’s body. She weeps alone, Rages alone, Starves alone. She quietens her struggle And pretends she is only marble. Grief is an option And Anger is a choice. She chooses neither So she feels nothing. How she would like to Yell and scream! How she would like to hurt, To let go And hold on selfishly to her happiness. Freedom is an option too. She does not choose it.

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Aug 30, 2020

Aug 30, 2020 at 5:30 PM UTC

Ishka_Mhuul

Like Marble

She learned from a young age that Rage, Anger, Defiance, Meant nothing. Not to her Nor to others. So she kept silent As silent as the sun can When she's raging in the vacuum of space. Her eyes would ***** with tears And her jaw would clench in frustration. But she'd rather stare into hell and cut off her tongue before it meant anything. She is a patient woman they say, She is a proper lady She is as passive as a flower And as kind as sunlight after a thunderstorm. She is a balm to the suffering and to the evil. She is God's child. But I have thorns I can burn you I can drown you She has a child’s temper In a woman’s body. She weeps alone, Rages alone, Starves alone. She quietens her struggle And pretends she is only marble. Grief is an option And Anger is a choice. She chooses neither So she feels nothing. How she would like to Yell and scream! How she would like to hurt, To let go And hold on selfishly to her happiness. Freedom is an option too. She does not choose it.

42