#healinginprogress
I count time
in four-hour windows
that never quite reach four.
In cold air cutting minutes short,
in outdoor benches and supervised doors,
in play-centre laughter
that wears him out
because we try to fit a month
into an afternoon.
He falls asleep heavy in my arms,
joy-drunk and safe,
and I pretend
the clock isn’t watching.
They made their decision
in a room of rules and paperwork —
said it was caution,
said it was process,
said it was necessary.
I stood still.
Because sometimes strength
is not in shouting
“this isn’t fair,”
but in saying,
“watch me remain steady.”
I won’t let anger raise him.
I won’t let bitterness speak for me.
I won’t teach him
that love fights *****
If there were whispers,
they will thin out in daylight.
If there were accusations,
they will meet time
and evidence
and consistency.
The system moves in procedure.
I move in resolve.
Every meeting attended.
Every form signed.
Every box ticked.
Every visit where I show up
warm, calm, certain.
He doesn’t measure me
in court language.
He measures me
in eye contact.
In arms that don’t hesitate.
In the way I say his name
like it belongs to my heartbeat.
Yes, I feel the missing.
Yes, I feel the months stacking up.
Yes, I ache for the ordinary —
bedtime stories,
messy mornings,
home.
But I am not collapsing.
I am building.
And one day
these supervised hours
will be a chapter,
not the ending.
Not because I screamed loudest.
But because I stayed steady longest.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 5:06 AM UTC
When the nights were loud
and the house felt hollow,
I almost disappeared
into old patterns,
old promises,
old pain.
I almost believed
I was still that girl
waiting at the window
for someone to come home
and choose me.
But this time —
I stayed.
When the memories rose
like smoke in my lungs,
when my hands shook
with the weight of everything
no one saw —
I stayed.
Not perfectly.
Not bravely.
But deliberately.
I sat with the ache
instead of running from it.
I let the tears fall
without calling myself weak.
I spoke gently
to the child inside me
who still flinches at silence.
And I said,
“I’m here.
I’m not going anywhere.”
There were days
I wanted to fold —
to shrink,
to hand my healing
back to the people
who dropped it.
But I didn’t.
I stayed.
Because leaving myself
was the one habit
I refuse to keep.
And slowly —
quietly —
the ground stopped shaking.
Not because the past vanished.
Not because the hurt erased itself.
But because I chose
to stand.
To stay.
To become
the safety I searched for
in everyone else.
And that’s the part they don’t see —
how powerful it is
to remain
with yourself.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 6:11 PM UTC
Feeling like a door
falling off its hinges—
faith hinging on the day’s events.
Eventually, we learn to fall.
falling into what ifs; fears,
failures, depression, out of friend
groups, into feelings — in & out
of our dreams ; in & out of love…
And just like my bedroom door
falling off its hinges— what’s left
to hide my shame?
Feb 2
Feb 2, 2026 at 4:33 PM UTC
Umbrella terms for the verse—
kept an extra dollar in my phone cover
for a rainy day, just in case.
Courting my days until judgment day,
wondering if faith takes card or cash,
or if there’s a direct line to the man
upstairs—
’cause these blessings keep pouring
and my umbrella’s got holes in it.
And all of the things we’ve created,
wouldn’t you want be called the greatest?
Colouring my hopes in white, to the joys
of a racist— simple options just to live,
all in this really complicated life.
No one’s ever created basic,
so praises to the
Greatest.
Breaking away mirrors
just to dodge self-reflection.
Don’t cry in the clear water,
the image looking back isn’t that impressive.
And I’m not so good at first impressions;
always coming off a little
under the weather.
Still thank God for umbrella terms,
to explain how I’m feeling.
The patient patient— trying to master
more patience, while taking care of more
patients.
Thank God for umbrella terms, just to explain
how glad I am that
I made it.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 4:55 PM UTC
It’s not that I want to be a bad person—
There are just too many bad people
Trying to edge all the bad out of me...
It’s not that I expect the worst from love—
I’ve just experienced the worst out of love...
It’s not that I don’t want to love someone—
It’s the fear of loving someone who hasn’t
Fully learned how to love themselves...
It’s not that I make myself expensive—
I just refuse to discount my worth, to meet
Someone’s inflated expectations...
_I’m not trying to mask my anxiety—
I’m learning to master my patience._
Jan 1
Jan 1, 2026 at 5:13 PM UTC
Am I here right now, with my head still in the clouds
and my heart learning to lift from the ground?
My tears make no sound, they fall unheard—
but they are proof I’m still alive in the quiet.
Sometimes I feel like a noun, existing in a moment,
right here, right now, while time hangs back, waiting
for me to catch up. And if I could feel my conscience,
I wonder what shape it would take. Maybe it never
left, or maybe it just got tired of yelling.
So I stand between past years, bruised but breathing,
carrying what hurt and leaving what hollowed me out.
I don’t need to be whole yet— just moving, just enough
light to say, _"Hello, January;"_ the ground is no longer
my ceiling; not to arrive early, just to keep on walking.
Dec 26, 2025
Dec 26, 2025 at 11:38 AM UTC
I wake before the sun,
and it feels like the world forgot to ask if I slept.
My bones sing songs of labor,
aching hymns to bills and survival,
while my heart hums a softer tune
one I barely remember the words to.
Two jobs, two faces.
One I wear for the world, painted with tired smiles
and “I’m okay”s that sound convincing enough.
The other one,the real one
I leave on my pillow each night,
staring at the ceiling,
wondering when the light will come back inside me.
I laugh sometimes,
but the laughter feels rented,
borrowed from a version of me who used to feel joy.
And when I’m alone,
it’s like the silence knows my name.
The tears come easy,
falling without permission,
like they’ve been waiting their turn.
I tell myself not to break,
because the bills don’t stop for broken people.
Rent doesn’t care about exhaustion.
And the world…
the world just keeps spinning,
as if my tired hands aren’t the ones keeping it steady.
I want love
not the kind that fades when it gets hard,
but the kind that stays,
that listens when words run out,
that doesn’t mistake my strength for being unbreakable.
I want someone who sees me,
not just the version of me I perform to survive.
But trust…
trust feels like walking barefoot over glass.
I’ve given chances to hearts with sharp edges,
and I’ve bled enough to know
not everyone means it when they say “I care.”
Still
I try.
Because something in me refuses to let hope die,
even when it feels like I already have.
Some nights, I dream of leaving.
Not dying
just disappearing.
A quiet vanishing act into someplace where the noise stops,
where I can breathe without guilt,
where my body and my mind can finally rest.
A place where I don’t have to be “strong” just to exist.
And yet…
each morning,
I rise again.
I get dressed in my courage,
tie my faith around my tired heart,
and face another day that asks for more than I have to give.
Because deep down, I think
maybe there’s still a reason.
Maybe there’s a light hidden beneath all this pain.
They say time heals all wounds,
but time alone just watches.
Healing… healing is what happens
when the broken pieces of you decide to keep breathing anyway.
And that’s what I do ....breathe.
Even when it hurts.
Even when I feel invisible.
Even when I doubt if anyone would notice if I disappeared.
I’m still here.
Not because it’s easy.
Not because I’m fearless.
But because somewhere inside this tired soul,
there’s a whisper that refuses to fade:
You still matter.
You’re still worthy.
You’re still here.
And maybe
just maybe
that’s the start of becoming whole again.
#HealingInProgress#CryingInSilence
#PoetryOfTheSoul#PainToPoetry
Nov 13, 2025
Nov 13, 2025 at 4:56 PM UTC