#griefjourney - Hello Poetry

I love dancing when I’m alone. I love when my soul bleeds into ink on paper. I love crying under the covers, letting my spirit stretch and breathe. I love the sound of my own feet moving across the floor. I love when music breaks the walls and makes me feel free. And I want to celebrate how far I’ve come even if no one is there. Because it will be special to me even if I do it alone. It will live in my heart.

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May 12

May 12, 2026 at 3:00 PM UTC

NoctraWrites

Even If I Do It Alone

I love dancing when I’m alone. I love when my soul bleeds into ink on paper. I love crying under the covers, letting my spirit stretch and breathe. I love the sound of my own feet moving across the floor. I love when music breaks the walls and makes me feel free. And I want to celebrate how far I’ve come even if no one is there. Because it will be special to me even if I do it alone. It will live in my heart.

17

words can't explain the anger I feel, you promised, you swore so much. anger and hate drips down, ever so real, the hand which reaches out to touch. you said you'd watch that flower bloom, took care of it every day, morning till noon. kept me by your side, as a child I lie, concerned expressions, a tongue, tied. I now lie behind the box of mould, knowing nothing apart from what's told, my mouth forms shapes to try and talk, no sound comes out, and so I must walk. that flower bloomed, beautifully too, the child that lie, grew in strife, boiling anger from the cauldron flame blue, infectious, poisonous, sharp as a knife. words that should've been left unsaid, mad at you, and especially the world end, I won't forget, not again, how tears flew, that day I saw you, do you see me too? you weren't supposed to leave, I wasn't ready to say those things, drugged eyes that grieve on my sleeve, I want to fly with you, with or without wings. I can't hate you, yet the late night says so, it took your mind, body, heart and soul, times I wanted to join you, you know? I see you near me, silhouette not whole. That voice which I knew so well, said the words I dreaded, farewell, However, I was never good at reading lips, sound which I once knew, nothing but a script.

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Apr 23

Apr 23, 2026 at 7:22 PM UTC

freeword

Too Little, Too Late

words can't explain the anger I feel, you promised, you swore so much. anger and hate drips down, ever so real, the hand which reaches out to touch. you said you'd watch that flower bloom, took care of it every day, morning till noon. kept me by your side, as a child I lie, concerned expressions, a tongue, tied. I now lie behind the box of mould, knowing nothing apart from what's told, my mouth forms shapes to try and talk, no sound comes out, and so I must walk. that flower bloomed, beautifully too, the child that lie, grew in strife, boiling anger from the cauldron flame blue, infectious, poisonous, sharp as a knife. words that should've been left unsaid, mad at you, and especially the world end, I won't forget, not again, how tears flew, that day I saw you, do you see me too? you weren't supposed to leave, I wasn't ready to say those things, drugged eyes that grieve on my sleeve, I want to fly with you, with or without wings. I can't hate you, yet the late night says so, it took your mind, body, heart and soul, times I wanted to join you, you know? I see you near me, silhouette not whole. That voice which I knew so well, said the words I dreaded, farewell, However, I was never good at reading lips, sound which I once knew, nothing but a script.

33

I didn’t cry that day. Not the way a mother should when the world splits open. I think shock is a strange kind of mercy; it stiffens your spine, sets your jaw, keeps you breathing when breath should fail. I stayed upright because everyone else needed a place to lean. There were details to decide, hands to hold, people who needed me to nod, to listen, to steady their shaking when mine hadn’t started yet. I wrote his obituary. I wrote his sermon. Two poems because one wasn’t enough to carry the weight of a boy I made, a man I loved. I arranged flowers, Photos and words; pieces of a life while mine quietly fractured beneath my feet. I didn’t cry that week. Not really. A tear here and there, but nothing close to the storm inside me. Shock held the dam in place, like I was made of stone, like grief had missed me when really it was crouched in the corner, waiting. But now, God, now, I cry every day. The dam has burst. I cry in the mornings, in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the noise, in the space where his voice should be. I don’t understand how I kept myself together outside his house, waiting to be let in, knowing he was gone and still standing, still breathing, still whole enough to function. I don’t understand how shock made me steel when I needed to be water. All I know is this: the tears I couldn’t shed then have found me now. And they come like truth, like confession, like the body finally remembering what the mind tried to forget. I didn’t cry that day. But now; every day is that day, and the tears finally know their way out.

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Nov 19, 2025

Nov 19, 2025 at 1:16 PM UTC

Krisolver

I didn't cry that day

I didn’t cry that day. Not the way a mother should when the world splits open. I think shock is a strange kind of mercy; it stiffens your spine, sets your jaw, keeps you breathing when breath should fail. I stayed upright because everyone else needed a place to lean. There were details to decide, hands to hold, people who needed me to nod, to listen, to steady their shaking when mine hadn’t started yet. I wrote his obituary. I wrote his sermon. Two poems because one wasn’t enough to carry the weight of a boy I made, a man I loved. I arranged flowers, Photos and words; pieces of a life while mine quietly fractured beneath my feet. I didn’t cry that week. Not really. A tear here and there, but nothing close to the storm inside me. Shock held the dam in place, like I was made of stone, like grief had missed me when really it was crouched in the corner, waiting. But now, God, now, I cry every day. The dam has burst. I cry in the mornings, in the car, in the kitchen, in the quiet, in the noise, in the space where his voice should be. I don’t understand how I kept myself together outside his house, waiting to be let in, knowing he was gone and still standing, still breathing, still whole enough to function. I don’t understand how shock made me steel when I needed to be water. All I know is this: the tears I couldn’t shed then have found me now. And they come like truth, like confession, like the body finally remembering what the mind tried to forget. I didn’t cry that day. But now; every day is that day, and the tears finally know their way out.

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