#poetryofsilence - Hello Poetry

A burden sits heavy. A secret runs deep. It lives in the heart’s dark corners, where shadows quietly seep in. There’s no ache quite like the story you never tell— a ship of sorrow caught and lost in its own storm. Inside, it presses against the ribs, wanting out. In the fire of silence, it smoulders. A door never opened. A road never walked. A book left closed— pages full of words that were never spoken.

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Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 7:22 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

The Weight of What I Never Said

A burden sits heavy. A secret runs deep. It lives in the heart’s dark corners, where shadows quietly seep in. There’s no ache quite like the story you never tell— a ship of sorrow caught and lost in its own storm. Inside, it presses against the ribs, wanting out. In the fire of silence, it smoulders. A door never opened. A road never walked. A book left closed— pages full of words that were never spoken.

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Sometimes I feel my insides have dried; I am only three percent alive—yet still alive. Three percent alive is still being alive. I won't say I’m doing terribly; I've been lying dead for so long. To be clear: only three percent of me breathes— and even that is life. No one speaks, as if nobody’s there, but there’s one mercy: I don't have to hide how I feel. Everyone assumes I’m gone. No—perhaps I’m only three percent alive; even that is being alive. Someone left? I don't bring them back, I keep no watch for anyone now. I walk the world’s circumference, far from the center. It doesn't hurt—I'm numb, as if already dead. Truth is: I am still alive. Even three percent is still life.

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Sep 16, 2025

Sep 16, 2025 at 1:13 AM UTC

shoaib005

Only 3% Alive

Sometimes I feel my insides have dried; I am only three percent alive—yet still alive. Three percent alive is still being alive. I won't say I’m doing terribly; I've been lying dead for so long. To be clear: only three percent of me breathes— and even that is life. No one speaks, as if nobody’s there, but there’s one mercy: I don't have to hide how I feel. Everyone assumes I’m gone. No—perhaps I’m only three percent alive; even that is being alive. Someone left? I don't bring them back, I keep no watch for anyone now. I walk the world’s circumference, far from the center. It doesn't hurt—I'm numb, as if already dead. Truth is: I am still alive. Even three percent is still life.

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"Real?" "Sure, why not?" No purpose. Just stillness. (presence...) Drowning in it with you — no air, no need, no expectations. Just there. Some questions don’t need answers. (just presence...)

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Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 9:17 PM UTC

JDHiggins

No Purpose. Just There

"Real?" "Sure, why not?" No purpose. Just stillness. (presence...) Drowning in it with you — no air, no need, no expectations. Just there. Some questions don’t need answers. (just presence...)

17

Beat (still) Beat (still) Listen— Can you hear it? Life. From nothing. Pause— sit within the emptiness. Let it become the beat and the (still) Eyes, wide with wonder. A heart beats to the rhythm of tiny, pitter-patter feet. Beat (still) Beat (still) Listen— Can you hear it? Life. From everything.

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Jun 18, 2025

Jun 18, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC

JDHiggins

From Nothing, From Everything

Beat (still) Beat (still) Listen— Can you hear it? Life. From nothing. Pause— sit within the emptiness. Let it become the beat and the (still) Eyes, wide with wonder. A heart beats to the rhythm of tiny, pitter-patter feet. Beat (still) Beat (still) Listen— Can you hear it? Life. From everything.

34

She entered like dusk slips through curtains— slow, deliberate, never asking to be noticed. The lamp flickered. He watched as her earrings swung like pendulums measuring silence. She undressed without touching a seam. The room tilted as if memory had gravity. His fingers hovered over the curve of her hip like a prayer he no longer believed in. They moved like fire learning its shape in a spoon of oil— quiet first, then chaos. Somewhere, a rain began they could not hear but tasted in the salt between breaths. Then— stillness. Not peace, but aftermath. She lay back, a wound wrapped in moonlight. He stared at the crack in the ceiling— noticing it for the first time. The room smelled of iron and orange peel, as if something holy had burned and vanished. She left before the hour turned. Her body stayed for days in the folds of the sheet— a crease, a heat, a warning. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

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Jun 4, 2025

Jun 4, 2025 at 7:34 PM UTC

khaali_qalam

A Wound Wrapped in Moonlight

She entered like dusk slips through curtains— slow, deliberate, never asking to be noticed. The lamp flickered. He watched as her earrings swung like pendulums measuring silence. She undressed without touching a seam. The room tilted as if memory had gravity. His fingers hovered over the curve of her hip like a prayer he no longer believed in. They moved like fire learning its shape in a spoon of oil— quiet first, then chaos. Somewhere, a rain began they could not hear but tasted in the salt between breaths. Then— stillness. Not peace, but aftermath. She lay back, a wound wrapped in moonlight. He stared at the crack in the ceiling— noticing it for the first time. The room smelled of iron and orange peel, as if something holy had burned and vanished. She left before the hour turned. Her body stayed for days in the folds of the sheet— a crease, a heat, a warning. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

57

Your hand moved like silence on my shoulder— not asking, not waiting. The sheet slid down just enough to forget its name. Your breath settled between my ribs and the window. We didn’t speak. The night had already been told. The fan spun above bare skin and promises no one made. You traced a path below my navel— a sentence you never said aloud but I remembered for days. Later, you left without shoes. Your steps soft as permission. I lay there, the sky warming, your warmth still turning in the folds. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

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Jun 4, 2025

Jun 4, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC

khaali_qalam

Traced in Silence

Your hand moved like silence on my shoulder— not asking, not waiting. The sheet slid down just enough to forget its name. Your breath settled between my ribs and the window. We didn’t speak. The night had already been told. The fan spun above bare skin and promises no one made. You traced a path below my navel— a sentence you never said aloud but I remembered for days. Later, you left without shoes. Your steps soft as permission. I lay there, the sky warming, your warmth still turning in the folds. - THE END - © 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh. All rights reserved.

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