#poetryofhealing - Hello Poetry

Each morning before the world begins its noise, I come to this quiet corner. Behind clear glass a small grey rabbit keeps watch— soft, patient, like it understands the meaning of waiting. Around its neck rests your St Christopher, the guardian of travellers, the keeper of long roads and safe returns. You’re not lost. You’re not gone. You’re simply walking a path that bends away from me for now. Your picture sits beside him, eyes bright with that fearless little smile— the smile that reminds me why I refuse to give up. Because mothers are strange creatures. We can be broken and still stand. Burned by the world and still carry fire. Maybe that’s why they call me Phoenix. And every day I leave this small promise here: A rabbit to hold your place. A saint to guard your journey. A picture to keep your light in this home. Not because you’re gone— but because one day your footsteps will find their way back through this door. And when they do, the rabbit will no longer need to wait, St Christopher will return to your chest, and the space I’ve kept for you will finally be filled by the sound of my little warrior coming home.

0

Mar 13

Mar 13, 2026 at 4:10 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Space That Waits for you

Each morning before the world begins its noise, I come to this quiet corner. Behind clear glass a small grey rabbit keeps watch— soft, patient, like it understands the meaning of waiting. Around its neck rests your St Christopher, the guardian of travellers, the keeper of long roads and safe returns. You’re not lost. You’re not gone. You’re simply walking a path that bends away from me for now. Your picture sits beside him, eyes bright with that fearless little smile— the smile that reminds me why I refuse to give up. Because mothers are strange creatures. We can be broken and still stand. Burned by the world and still carry fire. Maybe that’s why they call me Phoenix. And every day I leave this small promise here: A rabbit to hold your place. A saint to guard your journey. A picture to keep your light in this home. Not because you’re gone— but because one day your footsteps will find their way back through this door. And when they do, the rabbit will no longer need to wait, St Christopher will return to your chest, and the space I’ve kept for you will finally be filled by the sound of my little warrior coming home.

43

I was built from silence and the spaces between words, from nights where shadows spoke louder than any hand could comfort. I learned to move quietly, to fold my voice into the corners, to carry the storms that weren’t mine to hold. I collected shards of broken moments, pain wrapped in whispers, grief hidden in the edges of a smile. I thought it made me small, but the universe was shaping me like fire shapes iron. Every tear, every fear, every hidden hurt was part of a balance I could not see: the dark teaching patience, the heavy teaching strength, the silence teaching the power of a voice that one day would roar. I am the sum of what tried to break me, the light I discovered in the cracks, the fires I learned to protect even when the world demanded stillness. I carry my past without shame, because each scar is a compass that guided me here— to a self that survives, a self that feels, a self that rises. The universe whispered its lesson: darkness and light, chaos and calm, pain and joy— all must exist to create a soul that knows its own strength. I am that balance now. I am Phoenix. I am rising.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:25 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Balance of Fire

I was built from silence and the spaces between words, from nights where shadows spoke louder than any hand could comfort. I learned to move quietly, to fold my voice into the corners, to carry the storms that weren’t mine to hold. I collected shards of broken moments, pain wrapped in whispers, grief hidden in the edges of a smile. I thought it made me small, but the universe was shaping me like fire shapes iron. Every tear, every fear, every hidden hurt was part of a balance I could not see: the dark teaching patience, the heavy teaching strength, the silence teaching the power of a voice that one day would roar. I am the sum of what tried to break me, the light I discovered in the cracks, the fires I learned to protect even when the world demanded stillness. I carry my past without shame, because each scar is a compass that guided me here— to a self that survives, a self that feels, a self that rises. The universe whispered its lesson: darkness and light, chaos and calm, pain and joy— all must exist to create a soul that knows its own strength. I am that balance now. I am Phoenix. I am rising.

38

Sometimes the past sits on my shoulders, heavy as a winter sky, and I feel the cold of every night I thought I was alone. I learned to keep small fires inside me, to light them quietly, so they wouldn’t startle anyone else. A laugh, a memory, a rhythm— tiny sparks in a world that wanted me to be still. I carry them still, these little fires, proof that I survived, proof that even when the storm rages, a small flame can guide the way home.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:24 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Little Fires in the Dark

Sometimes the past sits on my shoulders, heavy as a winter sky, and I feel the cold of every night I thought I was alone. I learned to keep small fires inside me, to light them quietly, so they wouldn’t startle anyone else. A laugh, a memory, a rhythm— tiny sparks in a world that wanted me to be still. I carry them still, these little fires, proof that I survived, proof that even when the storm rages, a small flame can guide the way home.

15

I grew up collecting shards of words and gestures that cut me more than they healed. I carried them like treasure, thinking sharp edges meant I was stronger. I learned to hide the bleeding under layers of quiet, under smiles I didn’t feel. But the night holds other lessons— even broken glass reflects stars. Even pain can shine when it’s seen in the right light. And I remember now: the universe didn’t forget me, even when I thought I was lost.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:22 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

Broken Glass and Stars

I grew up collecting shards of words and gestures that cut me more than they healed. I carried them like treasure, thinking sharp edges meant I was stronger. I learned to hide the bleeding under layers of quiet, under smiles I didn’t feel. But the night holds other lessons— even broken glass reflects stars. Even pain can shine when it’s seen in the right light. And I remember now: the universe didn’t forget me, even when I thought I was lost.

15

There’s a space I remember, between what I saw and what I was told. A room with no doors, only windows I couldn’t open. I learned to speak in half-truths, to nod when I didn’t understand, to carry the weight of voices that weren’t mine. Time passed like dust in sunlight— soft, blinding, impossible to hold. And yet I moved through it, learning that even when the air is heavy, a breath is still a victory. Somewhere in that room, I left pieces of myself, tiny fragments of courage waiting to be found again.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Room Between

There’s a space I remember, between what I saw and what I was told. A room with no doors, only windows I couldn’t open. I learned to speak in half-truths, to nod when I didn’t understand, to carry the weight of voices that weren’t mine. Time passed like dust in sunlight— soft, blinding, impossible to hold. And yet I moved through it, learning that even when the air is heavy, a breath is still a victory. Somewhere in that room, I left pieces of myself, tiny fragments of courage waiting to be found again.

17

We only spoke through voices, distance humming through the line, but sometimes you don’t need to see someone to recognise a familiar silence. I could hear it in the pauses, in the careful way the words were chosen, like every sentence had already been checked before it was allowed to breathe. Children learn that skill early in houses where storms live. Which truths are safe to say. Which ones must stay buried somewhere behind the ribs. I know that language. I was once a child who heard half the story and carried twice the weight. The quiet conversations behind doors, the names whispered with tension, the strange feeling of understanding things no one ever explained. And somehow the pieces children are given are never the ones that make sense. Sometimes the story changes depending on who is telling it. Sometimes the truth gets bent so the people holding it don’t have to look too closely at themselves. Children don’t question that. They just hold the pieces they’re given and try to make a world out of them. But the heart notices things long before the mind understands them. That quiet confusion. That heavy feeling that something doesn’t quite fit. I remember carrying that too. What I know now that I didn’t know then is something simple but powerful— Children are not responsible for the storms around them. They are only the ones learning how to stand while the thunder rolls overhead. And sometimes, years later, when the world grows quieter, the truth slowly finds its way through the cracks of old stories. When it does, it changes everything. But it also reveals something else— The child who survived it was always stronger than they were ever told.

0

Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Words We Learned to Carry

We only spoke through voices, distance humming through the line, but sometimes you don’t need to see someone to recognise a familiar silence. I could hear it in the pauses, in the careful way the words were chosen, like every sentence had already been checked before it was allowed to breathe. Children learn that skill early in houses where storms live. Which truths are safe to say. Which ones must stay buried somewhere behind the ribs. I know that language. I was once a child who heard half the story and carried twice the weight. The quiet conversations behind doors, the names whispered with tension, the strange feeling of understanding things no one ever explained. And somehow the pieces children are given are never the ones that make sense. Sometimes the story changes depending on who is telling it. Sometimes the truth gets bent so the people holding it don’t have to look too closely at themselves. Children don’t question that. They just hold the pieces they’re given and try to make a world out of them. But the heart notices things long before the mind understands them. That quiet confusion. That heavy feeling that something doesn’t quite fit. I remember carrying that too. What I know now that I didn’t know then is something simple but powerful— Children are not responsible for the storms around them. They are only the ones learning how to stand while the thunder rolls overhead. And sometimes, years later, when the world grows quieter, the truth slowly finds its way through the cracks of old stories. When it does, it changes everything. But it also reveals something else— The child who survived it was always stronger than they were ever told.

55

I went looking for someone to blame for all the cracks in my name, for the mess I made — but that mirror didn’t tell a lie. The culprit wore my face. _I don’t want your love. I don’t want your shame._ Still, somehow, you found me — tongue bitter with the taste of your mistakes; pressed against my teeth like communion for the broken. Tears rose — blooming smoke, clouds of falling flowers. A storm of soft destruction, raining petals made of regret — but it never rained just mine. It rained yours too. Yet you learn to grow from the things that once cut you down. Even the sharpest wounds can become something softer when you let them go. Edges trimmed; old roots shed — and still, I rise. So now, when you see me, don’t mistake me for my damage. I am not the bruise. I am not the blade. I am far better than the sum of my mistakes.

0

Jun 11, 2025

Jun 11, 2025 at 5:21 AM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Better than my mistakes

I went looking for someone to blame for all the cracks in my name, for the mess I made — but that mirror didn’t tell a lie. The culprit wore my face. _I don’t want your love. I don’t want your shame._ Still, somehow, you found me — tongue bitter with the taste of your mistakes; pressed against my teeth like communion for the broken. Tears rose — blooming smoke, clouds of falling flowers. A storm of soft destruction, raining petals made of regret — but it never rained just mine. It rained yours too. Yet you learn to grow from the things that once cut you down. Even the sharpest wounds can become something softer when you let them go. Edges trimmed; old roots shed — and still, I rise. So now, when you see me, don’t mistake me for my damage. I am not the bruise. I am not the blade. I am far better than the sum of my mistakes.

17

There are days when the past hits me like an uninvited guest, its presence sharp, unwelcome. Memories once soft and warm now turn into needles, pricking at the places I thought were healed. I remember laughter that filled the air, and the way we used to talk like time had no hold on us. But now those moments feel foreign, like ghosts drifting in a forgotten room. The sting of a kiss that meant everything now lingers like a wound that refuses to close. I wish I could erase it all, but even the hurt holds pieces of us that I’m not ready to let go of.

0

Apr 26, 2025

Apr 26, 2025 at 8:55 PM UTC

Madelyn

When the Memories Sting

There are days when the past hits me like an uninvited guest, its presence sharp, unwelcome. Memories once soft and warm now turn into needles, pricking at the places I thought were healed. I remember laughter that filled the air, and the way we used to talk like time had no hold on us. But now those moments feel foreign, like ghosts drifting in a forgotten room. The sting of a kiss that meant everything now lingers like a wound that refuses to close. I wish I could erase it all, but even the hurt holds pieces of us that I’m not ready to let go of.

15