#highlysensitive - Hello Poetry

I wish I had a different mind A different personality I am too sharp for my own good Too intense Everything I feel is twice the size of me And I fight until my last breath for stability To feel safe in an emotion In a feeling In a bond But the inevitability gets to me, and I always respond And at the first sign, I scream Because nothing is worse than an ending that came too early Or the aftermath of a fading dream.

0

Sep 15, 2018

Sep 15, 2018 at 5:43 PM UTC

notagaintylo

The End.

I wish I had a different mind A different personality I am too sharp for my own good Too intense Everything I feel is twice the size of me And I fight until my last breath for stability To feel safe in an emotion In a feeling In a bond But the inevitability gets to me, and I always respond And at the first sign, I scream Because nothing is worse than an ending that came too early Or the aftermath of a fading dream.

13

I wish I didn't bear the burden Of feeling it all so heavily at once The weight of my heart About to erupt Self destruct You were just right here by my side Hands grasping each other's so tight Our essence and being So gracefully entwined In a flicker of time All of that can feel like we've hit rewind We were just two lonely people in search of another To confirm that we do in fact have a purpose In a great big world that lacks emotional explainability The void is difficult to face on your own When all you can see is a sea of uncertainty But it was you and I against the time Until our unforeseen, inevitable decline Oh but why Did these delicately cultivated memories Shatter at the seams like they were never truly reality But I'm aware that it's out of my control All I ask is that you please don't forget The way you used to look into my soul

0

Dec 1, 2019

Dec 1, 2019 at 7:57 PM UTC

tamara-lynn

Inevitability

I wish I didn't bear the burden Of feeling it all so heavily at once The weight of my heart About to erupt Self destruct You were just right here by my side Hands grasping each other's so tight Our essence and being So gracefully entwined In a flicker of time All of that can feel like we've hit rewind We were just two lonely people in search of another To confirm that we do in fact have a purpose In a great big world that lacks emotional explainability The void is difficult to face on your own When all you can see is a sea of uncertainty But it was you and I against the time Until our unforeseen, inevitable decline Oh but why Did these delicately cultivated memories Shatter at the seams like they were never truly reality But I'm aware that it's out of my control All I ask is that you please don't forget The way you used to look into my soul

24

I don’t try to read you — I just hear you before you speak. Your silence has a frequency, and my ribs are a tuning fork. I was trained in the language of flinches, in the dialect of door-slams, in the grammar of breath held too long. So when your smile sits crooked on a sentence that says “I’m fine,” I see the typo. I don’t mean to notice — it’s muscle memory. My nervous system grew up studying micro-expressions like scripture. I can feel the bruise beneath your bravado. Smell the smoke from fires you swear are out. You think you’re hidden — but hurt has a posture. Trauma has a tone. And I have lived there long enough to recognise the furniture. People open to me like overfilled drawers — secrets spilling into my lap before they’ve learned my surname. They say, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” And I want to say, because I know the shape of breaking. Because my eyes don’t judge fractures — they map them. I don’t go looking for pain. It just hums. And I hum back. Maybe it’s the way I hold space like a door that’s never slammed. Maybe it’s the softness survivors carry when they refuse to harden. Maybe it’s because I survived what should have silenced me and chose to stay gentle anyway. Empathy isn’t a gift I unwrapped — it’s a scar that learned to listen. I can spot the child still standing inside the adult. The tremor behind the temper. The apology lodged in a throat that never learned safety. And I don’t expose it. I cradle it. That’s the strange thing — I never meant to be a lighthouse. I was just trying to stay afloat. But ships find me. Storm-worn. Hull cracked. Carrying cargo they can’t dock anywhere else. And I let them anchor. Not because I’m strong all the time — but because I know what it feels like to pray someone would see through me and not turn away. I don’t read minds. I read survival. And when your past recognises mine, it relaxes. That’s not magic. That’s mirror. And maybe the reason they tell me everything is because somewhere in my eyes they see this: You’re safe here. I’ve been there too.

0

Feb 13

Feb 13, 2026 at 1:07 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Tuned In

I don’t try to read you — I just hear you before you speak. Your silence has a frequency, and my ribs are a tuning fork. I was trained in the language of flinches, in the dialect of door-slams, in the grammar of breath held too long. So when your smile sits crooked on a sentence that says “I’m fine,” I see the typo. I don’t mean to notice — it’s muscle memory. My nervous system grew up studying micro-expressions like scripture. I can feel the bruise beneath your bravado. Smell the smoke from fires you swear are out. You think you’re hidden — but hurt has a posture. Trauma has a tone. And I have lived there long enough to recognise the furniture. People open to me like overfilled drawers — secrets spilling into my lap before they’ve learned my surname. They say, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” And I want to say, because I know the shape of breaking. Because my eyes don’t judge fractures — they map them. I don’t go looking for pain. It just hums. And I hum back. Maybe it’s the way I hold space like a door that’s never slammed. Maybe it’s the softness survivors carry when they refuse to harden. Maybe it’s because I survived what should have silenced me and chose to stay gentle anyway. Empathy isn’t a gift I unwrapped — it’s a scar that learned to listen. I can spot the child still standing inside the adult. The tremor behind the temper. The apology lodged in a throat that never learned safety. And I don’t expose it. I cradle it. That’s the strange thing — I never meant to be a lighthouse. I was just trying to stay afloat. But ships find me. Storm-worn. Hull cracked. Carrying cargo they can’t dock anywhere else. And I let them anchor. Not because I’m strong all the time — but because I know what it feels like to pray someone would see through me and not turn away. I don’t read minds. I read survival. And when your past recognises mine, it relaxes. That’s not magic. That’s mirror. And maybe the reason they tell me everything is because somewhere in my eyes they see this: You’re safe here. I’ve been there too.

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