#quietpoetry
Some mornings open clear,
the kind of sky that makes you believe
in uncomplicated days.
Thoughts move easily,
like birds that know exactly
where the warm air rises.
Other mornings
a name drifts in
like a small, persistent cloud
that forgot it had somewhere else to be.
It doesn’t storm.
It doesn’t darken the room.
It simply occupies a corner of the sky—
a quiet weather pattern
I’ve learned not to argue with.
By noon
the usual winds arrive:
errands, emails,
the steady friction of ordinary hours.
The cloud shifts toward the edges,
thinner now,
though still present.
Evening makes it visible again.
When the kettle clicks
and the apartment settles
into its soft, familiar creaks,
the mind clears enough
to notice what never quite left.
I used to think
the sky should obey me.
But weather has its own patience.
So I let the cloud drift,
let it thin,
let it pass through the open air of thought
at its unhurried pace.
And on the days
when the sky stays clear
from morning to night,
I simply look up
and accept the blue.
Weather passes.
Even inside a mind.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 6:11 AM UTC
(Sometimes the smallest pauses reveal the most about how we move through the world.)
The rain arrives without ceremony.
It settles –
a steady rehearsal against the plastic roof
of the shelter
where three of us pretend
not to notice each other.
Water gathers at the curb
like a thought that can’t quite cross the street.
The red numbers blink:
2 mins, then DUE.
The man in the parka shifts his weight,
his sneakers making that heavy, wet suction
against the concrete.
I watch my breath bloom and vanish on the glass,
thinking how easy it is
to let the world happen without me.
A bus roars past the opposite lane,
spraying a thin arc of water
that freckles the timetable.
No one flinches.
The woman beside me scrolls her phone,
thumb moving in small, practiced swipes
polishing the surface of another life
while this one waits.
The rain thickens,
not harder,
just more certain.
The brakes groan – a metallic sigh.
She pockets her phone,
the blue glow ghosting her face for a second.
The doors fold open with a soft hydraulic breath.
They climb in, one by one,
as if answering a name
I don’t remember being called.
Warm light spills onto the pavement,
turning the rain into falling wires.
For a moment, I consider stepping forward.
Instead, I stay.
The driver glances once –
not impatient,
just confirming I exist.
Then the doors close.
The bus dissolves into the wet dark,
and the shelter grows larger
without the others in it.
The rain resumes its even speech
against the roof.
I watch my breath bloom again,
proof I am still here,
even when I don’t go.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 11:54 AM UTC
(A quiet reflection on the patient, impartial way a window holds two worlds at once.)
A window never goes anywhere,
yet it understands waiting
better than doors do.
It frames the street
with the calm precision
of someone who has learned
not to interfere.
In the morning
it pretends to be nothing at all,
just air with a boundary –
letting the sun take credit
for every bright idea.
By evening
it becomes a quiet mirror,
catching your reflection
as you straighten your collar
or hesitate at the door,
unsure whether to step out
or stay inside your thoughts.
It knows the seasons intimately:
the sideways rain,
the impatient blossoms,
the long, blue‑grey sigh of winter.
A window doesn’t judge.
It keeps both worlds
within reach –
one made of weather,
one made of breath
against the glass.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 4:03 PM UTC
Find a ‘perfect girl,’
Quoted the imperfect guy
Ten thousand women
In this world—stitched together,
Unfinished, still imperfect
_Flaws
Insecurities
Soft breaks._
I only need one
Who lets me love her
With ten thousand reasons—
Including all the parts she
Thinks need fixing.
Dec 28, 2025
Dec 28, 2025 at 1:31 PM UTC
No matter how far we go,
when a life ends
in the deep, dark sea,
where does it return?
Sinking and sinking,
down to the place
no one has ever known—
to the closest point
beneath this planet’s skin,
does it become
a part of it there?
And a life that ends in the sky—
where does it drift away to?
Floating softly,
wandering through the air,
perhaps becoming
a small piece of the wind
that someday passes
quietly by our side.
If so…
that wouldn’t be so bad.
But if a life ends
in that far, faraway universe,
what will become of us?
Far from the home
where we were born,
in that silent, dark expanse—
what could we ever
belong to?
If only we could become
a single flower
on some distant star.
But even that flower
will never be found by us.
In that endless silence,
what will hold us,
what will we rest our hearts upon,
so we may sleep
in peace?
If I truly understood
that longing,
I would pick up my pen,
and gently write
my feelings here.
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
I stopped listening to songs
with bridges—
they always begged.
I shrunk my appetite
until it fit inside
your gaze.
Then I shrunk
my gaze.
I killed the part of me
that expected softness.
She died
like a deer:
slow,
staring,
unconvinced
until the end.
I buried all of it
in poems
and told myself
that was healing.
But I check
the dirt
sometimes.
And things
move.
Apr 23, 2025
Apr 23, 2025 at 11:51 AM UTC