#spokensilence - Hello Poetry

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

For many, I am just an object — A thing that shows reflection, That breaks when anger is thrown, That helps with selfies, That assists in dressing up well. But there’s a side no one sees: I help build their confidence, I make them feel beautiful, I help them reverse safely, Reflecting both their presence and pain. I listen to their talks, Their silent stares, their tears. I’m there through their highs and lows, Feeling their every emotion Without ever saying a word. And yet, I’m just an object Lying in a corner. Forgotten. Until needed again.

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Jul 12, 2025

Jul 12, 2025 at 2:35 AM UTC

Arna_writes

I Am Just a Mirror

For many, I am just an object — A thing that shows reflection, That breaks when anger is thrown, That helps with selfies, That assists in dressing up well. But there’s a side no one sees: I help build their confidence, I make them feel beautiful, I help them reverse safely, Reflecting both their presence and pain. I listen to their talks, Their silent stares, their tears. I’m there through their highs and lows, Feeling their every emotion Without ever saying a word. And yet, I’m just an object Lying in a corner. Forgotten. Until needed again.

21

endure gracefully. bleed beautifully. but never too much, never enough to make them uncomfortable. cry. but wipe your tears when you're done. open your eyes wider, don't look so depressed, you're ruining the photo. girly you can text me anytime until we actually do then its, im not ur ******* therapist. and a lingering guilt. why has mental illness also produced standards we must meet, standards in order to be accepted. why are some shunned and some welcomed? we are not an aesthetic. not broken people in soft lighting. i scream, i rot, i flinch when someone shows me affection, i hate being hugged, but still crave it the most. am i still worthy of love?

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Jul 1, 2025

Jul 1, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC

ivorymusings

worthy of love

endure gracefully. bleed beautifully. but never too much, never enough to make them uncomfortable. cry. but wipe your tears when you're done. open your eyes wider, don't look so depressed, you're ruining the photo. girly you can text me anytime until we actually do then its, im not ur ******* therapist. and a lingering guilt. why has mental illness also produced standards we must meet, standards in order to be accepted. why are some shunned and some welcomed? we are not an aesthetic. not broken people in soft lighting. i scream, i rot, i flinch when someone shows me affection, i hate being hugged, but still crave it the most. am i still worthy of love?

25

1st step. 2nd. 3rd— ...pause. 2 steps back. reset. again. again. How does it end? I ask like I haven’t already broken the answer in my hands a hundred times. One moment, I swear I see the path— lit, clear, like maybe I was meant for more. The next, I’m sinking into myself, slow, silent, like grief with no name. Hope is a ghost I keep chasing in my sleep. She never stays. Not for me. I smile like it means something. Breathe like I’m not falling apart every second I’m awake. No one sees the cracks I carry in my chest. I call it progress, this pretending. But it’s just a prettier way to bleed. How will it turn out? Maybe it won’t. Maybe this— this looping, this aching— is the only ending I’ll ever know.

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Apr 21, 2025

Apr 21, 2025 at 6:08 PM UTC

hermit96

The Next Moment I...

1st step. 2nd. 3rd— ...pause. 2 steps back. reset. again. again. How does it end? I ask like I haven’t already broken the answer in my hands a hundred times. One moment, I swear I see the path— lit, clear, like maybe I was meant for more. The next, I’m sinking into myself, slow, silent, like grief with no name. Hope is a ghost I keep chasing in my sleep. She never stays. Not for me. I smile like it means something. Breathe like I’m not falling apart every second I’m awake. No one sees the cracks I carry in my chest. I call it progress, this pretending. But it’s just a prettier way to bleed. How will it turn out? Maybe it won’t. Maybe this— this looping, this aching— is the only ending I’ll ever know.

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