#softpain - Hello Poetry

We began like a Kachha Mango raw, restless, alive. We ended like Dairy Milk sweet... but quiet inside. The sweetness never changed, so why did the doting fade? Why so hidden like a god in stone, meant to be felt, never shown? Where did our half-bloom go too flimsy to be real? Real enough to feel, yet not real enough to stay. 🍫 @NomaInfine777

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Mar 10

Mar 10, 2026 at 1:31 AM UTC

NomaInfine

Kachha Mango to Dairy Milk

We began like a Kachha Mango raw, restless, alive. We ended like Dairy Milk sweet... but quiet inside. The sweetness never changed, so why did the doting fade? Why so hidden like a god in stone, meant to be felt, never shown? Where did our half-bloom go too flimsy to be real? Real enough to feel, yet not real enough to stay. 🍫 @NomaInfine777

13

Words alone are not poetry, not every sound deserves a soul. Conversations pass like footsteps, heard once, then lost to time. Poetry is when words learn to feel, when silence between lines starts speaking. It is a gentle ache in the chest, a pause where the heart listens. Poetry is not said — it is felt. It stays after the voice is gone, touching something deep and unnamed each time it’s read, each time it’s heard.

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Dec 20, 2025

Dec 20, 2025 at 11:04 PM UTC

Sid97

When Words Learn to Feel

Words alone are not poetry, not every sound deserves a soul. Conversations pass like footsteps, heard once, then lost to time. Poetry is when words learn to feel, when silence between lines starts speaking. It is a gentle ache in the chest, a pause where the heart listens. Poetry is not said — it is felt. It stays after the voice is gone, touching something deep and unnamed each time it’s read, each time it’s heard.

13

I built a garden in my chest with things you never said— planted hopes in rows of maybes, where your silence softly spread. I watered it with almosts, trimmed the silence like vines, taught the leaves to chase the light you never said was mine. But nothing real grew— just a heart dressed up as soil, soft enough to cradle you, but never meant to spoil. You were the seed that never stayed, the wind that kissed, then flew. And I — the ground where you once rested, but never rooted you.

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Jul 7, 2025

Jul 7, 2025 at 1:48 AM UTC

monue

unrooted

I built a garden in my chest with things you never said— planted hopes in rows of maybes, where your silence softly spread. I watered it with almosts, trimmed the silence like vines, taught the leaves to chase the light you never said was mine. But nothing real grew— just a heart dressed up as soil, soft enough to cradle you, but never meant to spoil. You were the seed that never stayed, the wind that kissed, then flew. And I — the ground where you once rested, but never rooted you.

16

How I wish to you hold you Even just once more All my thoughts distorted Now that you're no more

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Jul 5, 2025

Jul 5, 2025 at 6:24 AM UTC

Nosy

Hold you once more

How I wish to you hold you Even just once more All my thoughts distorted Now that you're no more

4

Darling, you are the trail of salty cheeks and all the sin that reeks. You cried after your very first kiss—the kind that tasted like lies, the kind that convinced you it might last. But lust? Lust is just deceit in disguise— a beautiful trick of the mouth. You tried to overstep the world, but stubbed your toe against life’s edge, pushing harder than you were ever meant to move. And still, no matter how many nightmares rip through your sleep, the bed stays soft. And indifferent. You wrapped all your dreams in an old cloth, thinking maybe passion—true passion—could burn hotter than any of them. Your love is precious, nearly pure. But the purest intent rarely carries you far. It only cuts deeper. And the purest scars are always the ones left by trying to love right— and too hard. The days vanish too quickly beneath passion’s flame. The lame try to stand tall. The insomniac finds the courage to dream again. And I— I wear my faith like a badge, only to have it thrown back in my face. Still, we do what we must. We put on that brave face. We face the morning. We press on. Because that’s what love leaves behind— something unfinished, something heavy, something we wear like the skin on our face.

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Jun 1, 2025

Jun 1, 2025 at 4:04 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

What Love Leaves Behind

Darling, you are the trail of salty cheeks and all the sin that reeks. You cried after your very first kiss—the kind that tasted like lies, the kind that convinced you it might last. But lust? Lust is just deceit in disguise— a beautiful trick of the mouth. You tried to overstep the world, but stubbed your toe against life’s edge, pushing harder than you were ever meant to move. And still, no matter how many nightmares rip through your sleep, the bed stays soft. And indifferent. You wrapped all your dreams in an old cloth, thinking maybe passion—true passion—could burn hotter than any of them. Your love is precious, nearly pure. But the purest intent rarely carries you far. It only cuts deeper. And the purest scars are always the ones left by trying to love right— and too hard. The days vanish too quickly beneath passion’s flame. The lame try to stand tall. The insomniac finds the courage to dream again. And I— I wear my faith like a badge, only to have it thrown back in my face. Still, we do what we must. We put on that brave face. We face the morning. We press on. Because that’s what love leaves behind— something unfinished, something heavy, something we wear like the skin on our face.

21

My stomach does that thing— you know, when the ghost rests a hand there. Not a hit. Just a hush, and fingernails. Like it never left. Like I’m the one who forgot to feed it. It’s always at dawn. Or mid-laugh. Or in line at the dollar store— buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday and an eyelash curler, just in case he sees me from across a decade. Then you paraglide in— a salesman who knew I’d be home. And the floor remembers what I worked so hard to forget. And I gasp—like I tripped. But I didn’t. I remembered. I remembered the ghost you left me to raise alone. Like: “Hi. Just passing through. Don’t stress on my behalf.” I nod. And I don’t. I keep chewing the same nail. My eyelashes are curled. My stomach still does that thing. You know the one.

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Apr 23, 2025

Apr 23, 2025 at 11:30 AM UTC

Kiernan515

You Know the One

My stomach does that thing— you know, when the ghost rests a hand there. Not a hit. Just a hush, and fingernails. Like it never left. Like I’m the one who forgot to feed it. It’s always at dawn. Or mid-laugh. Or in line at the dollar store— buying nail polish I’ll chew off by Tuesday and an eyelash curler, just in case he sees me from across a decade. Then you paraglide in— a salesman who knew I’d be home. And the floor remembers what I worked so hard to forget. And I gasp—like I tripped. But I didn’t. I remembered. I remembered the ghost you left me to raise alone. Like: “Hi. Just passing through. Don’t stress on my behalf.” I nod. And I don’t. I keep chewing the same nail. My eyelashes are curled. My stomach still does that thing. You know the one.

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