#unlearning - Hello Poetry

I ruined it She called it desperation or at least, that’s what she told herself. She wanted him like breath, like something her body couldn’t survive without. She needed him or maybe she just didn’t know how to exist without being needed. Now she stands alone in the place where they once promised forever. Funny how forever can collapse so quietly. She has made peace with it or something that looks like peace. They are not each other’s forever. Still… she lingers in the memory of him. The warmth of his touch, the way his scent clung to her skin, how he could pull laughter out of her when the world felt too heavy to carry. He felt right. God, he felt right. But love has never only been about feeling. Because if he was right for her was she ever right for him? He loved her, that much she knows. But she questioned it, picked at it, held it up to the light until it looked fragile. She searched for flaws in the way he stayed, in the way he cared, in the way he chose her as if love had to hurt to be real. And in the end, it wasn’t him who broke them. It was the quiet war inside her the one that taught her how to doubt softness, how to mistrust peace, how to turn something warm into something that could not survive her.

0

Mar 20

Mar 20, 2026 at 6:43 AM UTC

Tjkate

I ruined something good because I didn't know how to accept love

I ruined it She called it desperation or at least, that’s what she told herself. She wanted him like breath, like something her body couldn’t survive without. She needed him or maybe she just didn’t know how to exist without being needed. Now she stands alone in the place where they once promised forever. Funny how forever can collapse so quietly. She has made peace with it or something that looks like peace. They are not each other’s forever. Still… she lingers in the memory of him. The warmth of his touch, the way his scent clung to her skin, how he could pull laughter out of her when the world felt too heavy to carry. He felt right. God, he felt right. But love has never only been about feeling. Because if he was right for her was she ever right for him? He loved her, that much she knows. But she questioned it, picked at it, held it up to the light until it looked fragile. She searched for flaws in the way he stayed, in the way he cared, in the way he chose her as if love had to hurt to be real. And in the end, it wasn’t him who broke them. It was the quiet war inside her the one that taught her how to doubt softness, how to mistrust peace, how to turn something warm into something that could not survive her.

47

We are the ones who lower our voices before anyone asks. We fold our wants into neat napkins, set them beside plates that were never ours. Kindness is a door left unlatched not because we are foolish, but because we believe the night will knock before it enters. I loved like a lighthouse loves fog: steadily, mistaking closeness for salvation, calling ships that only wanted the rocks. You wore charm like borrowed perfume: sweet, temporary, evaporating the moment I reached for permanence. I mistook your absence for mystery. Somewhere between apologies and patience, I shrank. I learned how to translate neglect into a language that sounded like hope. They say we accept the love we think we deserve; mine arrived chipped, wrapped in newspaper promises, and I thanked it for not cutting too deep. Now silence sits beside me, heavy as unwashed rain. Giving up isn’t loud, it’s the quiet decision to stop setting the table for ghosts. I am unlearning the geometry of less. Re-teaching my heart its original scale. If love comes again, it will have to speak clearly no riddles, no vanishing acts, no bruised constellations posing as fate. Because I am done mistaking hunger for devotion, and I will no longer call the wrong hands home.

0

Feb 6

Feb 6, 2026 at 6:00 PM UTC

poetriesgrave

Glass Atlas

We are the ones who lower our voices before anyone asks. We fold our wants into neat napkins, set them beside plates that were never ours. Kindness is a door left unlatched not because we are foolish, but because we believe the night will knock before it enters. I loved like a lighthouse loves fog: steadily, mistaking closeness for salvation, calling ships that only wanted the rocks. You wore charm like borrowed perfume: sweet, temporary, evaporating the moment I reached for permanence. I mistook your absence for mystery. Somewhere between apologies and patience, I shrank. I learned how to translate neglect into a language that sounded like hope. They say we accept the love we think we deserve; mine arrived chipped, wrapped in newspaper promises, and I thanked it for not cutting too deep. Now silence sits beside me, heavy as unwashed rain. Giving up isn’t loud, it’s the quiet decision to stop setting the table for ghosts. I am unlearning the geometry of less. Re-teaching my heart its original scale. If love comes again, it will have to speak clearly no riddles, no vanishing acts, no bruised constellations posing as fate. Because I am done mistaking hunger for devotion, and I will no longer call the wrong hands home.

40

The pencil in my hand Belongs to a stranger My fingers curl around it Trying to remember the pressure But the signal cuts off somewhere Between wrist and paper And I'm left holding something that Used to resemble a language I spoke frequently Before I forgot how to speak I press the graphite down Expecting a line But nothing happens The page is clinical and bare As it stares back at me Waiting for something I can't give anymore Yet my hand still reaches For the tools Muscle memory refusing to accept That the person who knew What to do with it is gone Art block is merciful compared To this unlearning I can feel it happening From the inside out My own mind erasing the person I spent my whole life becoming The giref is so loud that it's Ringing in my teeth I try to remember the first time I drew something that Truly felt like mine The years of practice The late nights The progress and setbacks The way that art was The only thing listening And all I can find is blank space Where the memory should be As though my brain decided That part of me didn't need to Exist anymore I mourn a childhood companion Who left without saying goodbye I have to live in the house it fled Surrounded by the tools of a trade I can no longer practice The loss is so specific that it has It's own temperature It's own weight and way of Making it hard to breathe

0

Jan 18

Jan 18, 2026 at 2:45 PM UTC

Sorelle

Lament

The pencil in my hand Belongs to a stranger My fingers curl around it Trying to remember the pressure But the signal cuts off somewhere Between wrist and paper And I'm left holding something that Used to resemble a language I spoke frequently Before I forgot how to speak I press the graphite down Expecting a line But nothing happens The page is clinical and bare As it stares back at me Waiting for something I can't give anymore Yet my hand still reaches For the tools Muscle memory refusing to accept That the person who knew What to do with it is gone Art block is merciful compared To this unlearning I can feel it happening From the inside out My own mind erasing the person I spent my whole life becoming The giref is so loud that it's Ringing in my teeth I try to remember the first time I drew something that Truly felt like mine The years of practice The late nights The progress and setbacks The way that art was The only thing listening And all I can find is blank space Where the memory should be As though my brain decided That part of me didn't need to Exist anymore I mourn a childhood companion Who left without saying goodbye I have to live in the house it fled Surrounded by the tools of a trade I can no longer practice The loss is so specific that it has It's own temperature It's own weight and way of Making it hard to breathe

52

As the blossoms would cherish a pretty smile — I keep offering the softest parts of me, hoping someone will notice the bloom, not the trembling stem beneath it. I start plucking away the petals of myself; turning my own hands into the gardeners who decide which version of me should survive. And every time I pull a part of me off, I whisper a blessing and a burial — change this, hide that, soften here, don’t show too much there. It’s strange how becoming better can feel so much like becoming less. I stand in the mirror repeating the ritual: “I love this version… I love not this version of me.” Both truths hold me, both truths undo me. Some days I bloom. Other days I collect the petals I’ve torn off and try to remember what I looked like before I started editing myself into someone else’s _favourite flower._

0

Nov 25, 2025

Nov 25, 2025 at 4:00 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Not Your Favourite Flower

As the blossoms would cherish a pretty smile — I keep offering the softest parts of me, hoping someone will notice the bloom, not the trembling stem beneath it. I start plucking away the petals of myself; turning my own hands into the gardeners who decide which version of me should survive. And every time I pull a part of me off, I whisper a blessing and a burial — change this, hide that, soften here, don’t show too much there. It’s strange how becoming better can feel so much like becoming less. I stand in the mirror repeating the ritual: “I love this version… I love not this version of me.” Both truths hold me, both truths undo me. Some days I bloom. Other days I collect the petals I’ve torn off and try to remember what I looked like before I started editing myself into someone else’s _favourite flower._

17

I was handed fists for as long as I can remember. My curiosity—squashed with screams. I didn’t learn the alphabet— it was beaten into my ribs. I didn’t hold hands. But their grip was tight enough to remind me I’d never leave. I’ve been property since conception, just signed over with a new lease. My tears were never wiped— they were smacked off my face. You must swallow all emotion or you're a disgrace. I was to speak when spoken to and never out of turn. What happens at home stays at home and no one else should learn. It wasn't a phase mom- daughters marry men like their dads. Though I came pre-etched in rules there was a new ruler to be had. I was handed fists, my whole life, disguised as loving encouragement to be better. How was I to know you don't have to yell to show passion?

0

Jun 10, 2025

Jun 10, 2025 at 9:18 AM UTC

Kalliopie

Love is not Meant to be Painful

I was handed fists for as long as I can remember. My curiosity—squashed with screams. I didn’t learn the alphabet— it was beaten into my ribs. I didn’t hold hands. But their grip was tight enough to remind me I’d never leave. I’ve been property since conception, just signed over with a new lease. My tears were never wiped— they were smacked off my face. You must swallow all emotion or you're a disgrace. I was to speak when spoken to and never out of turn. What happens at home stays at home and no one else should learn. It wasn't a phase mom- daughters marry men like their dads. Though I came pre-etched in rules there was a new ruler to be had. I was handed fists, my whole life, disguised as loving encouragement to be better. How was I to know you don't have to yell to show passion?

19

No more foresaking my peace while unspoken conversation choke me, No more letting butterflies flutter more than they need to, No more protecting you, while leaving my safety to chance, No more replaying great days that erase bad days, No more magnifying your moments of sweetness, No more living with you in my dreams, No more building happiness with my tears, No more I love you more than I love me, No more painting red flags with white, No more, No.

0

May 18, 2025

May 18, 2025 at 6:36 AM UTC

Hephzibah_Beulah

I think I am done...

No more foresaking my peace while unspoken conversation choke me, No more letting butterflies flutter more than they need to, No more protecting you, while leaving my safety to chance, No more replaying great days that erase bad days, No more magnifying your moments of sweetness, No more living with you in my dreams, No more building happiness with my tears, No more I love you more than I love me, No more painting red flags with white, No more, No.

11

and i think i'm just so tired of being sad but it's something there's no sense in hurrying the process of yearning, of unlearning there is so much emotional labor that goes into forgetting all of the good the bright, the beautiful before the terrible the painful, the ugly the feeling you used to get when you looked into their eyes and it hasn't been there in months, maybe years but you're chasing the high because you're afraid the memory is all you have left of it remembering what it felt like when you weren't pretending everything was alright

0

Dec 20, 2020

Dec 20, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC

nicolemmutchler

the emotional labor of forgetting things

and i think i'm just so tired of being sad but it's something there's no sense in hurrying the process of yearning, of unlearning there is so much emotional labor that goes into forgetting all of the good the bright, the beautiful before the terrible the painful, the ugly the feeling you used to get when you looked into their eyes and it hasn't been there in months, maybe years but you're chasing the high because you're afraid the memory is all you have left of it remembering what it felt like when you weren't pretending everything was alright

32

Am I putting myself first? Not enough? Too much? i feel im going to burst ..... It took me long to learn to be selfish and now those lessons know no bounds and in certain times I’m found Being petulant And aggressive with my tongue. I hate the feeling Fighting internal bleeding of my very soul the one I finally told to stand up. As she reveals herself from the pit of neglect she rears an ugly head is this something I can regret? Let it go and let her out Learn to grow but I find out a horror in my capabilities Is this unlearning? or is this Me?

0

Aug 19, 2020

Aug 19, 2020 at 8:47 AM UTC

kromo

unlearning.

Am I putting myself first? Not enough? Too much? i feel im going to burst ..... It took me long to learn to be selfish and now those lessons know no bounds and in certain times I’m found Being petulant And aggressive with my tongue. I hate the feeling Fighting internal bleeding of my very soul the one I finally told to stand up. As she reveals herself from the pit of neglect she rears an ugly head is this something I can regret? Let it go and let her out Learn to grow but I find out a horror in my capabilities Is this unlearning? or is this Me?

24

I don’t want you to learn what I am trying to learn to be an untruth: That enduring through pain is somehow worth it at the chance of reciprocated love. Please remember: You are always enough.

0

Nov 12, 2018

Nov 12, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC

SmileNowSunshine

Learning and unlearning

I don’t want you to learn what I am trying to learn to be an untruth: That enduring through pain is somehow worth it at the chance of reciprocated love. Please remember: You are always enough.

4

I am trying to unlearn, I am unloading my bags, Of all the karmic debt, That I owe this form. I have touched and felt, Filled up a part of me, With experiences that feel, As light as nothingness , As heavy as this void. Some lift my heart up, Some burden me down, Both clench my soul tight. I am trying to be free, Empty in my mind , Away from all I have , Accumulated matter , The years that have, Tethered my spirit, Bound into this skeletal form. I am trying to unlearn, Everything that makes me, My thoughts and feelings, Knowledge of the world. Because when I try to look, I get lost inside myself, The labyrinths of my making.

0

Nov 7, 2018

Nov 7, 2018 at 7:36 AM UTC

Blissfulnobody

Learning to Unlearn

I am trying to unlearn, I am unloading my bags, Of all the karmic debt, That I owe this form. I have touched and felt, Filled up a part of me, With experiences that feel, As light as nothingness , As heavy as this void. Some lift my heart up, Some burden me down, Both clench my soul tight. I am trying to be free, Empty in my mind , Away from all I have , Accumulated matter , The years that have, Tethered my spirit, Bound into this skeletal form. I am trying to unlearn, Everything that makes me, My thoughts and feelings, Knowledge of the world. Because when I try to look, I get lost inside myself, The labyrinths of my making.

26

The mountain Is an optical illusion What we normally see In front of us is a world Of insecurities from a lifetime Of forced perspectives And a veil of fears obscuring Our true faith & deepest potential And when we attempt to rise To live up to what's alive within us, they say it's delusion Ugliness planted so deep in the eye All we see is the negativity The beauty of our dreams is beyond Recognition because it was buried alive The mountain is toxic words, So many times we've been told How useless we are How we were born not to make it Even the most earnest of efforts Cannot get us to the top We've been repeatedly told That the kid next door Is better than us because he washes the dishes better and mops the floor Now your confidence and self esteem has become so bruised because you placed it by the doorway like the mat they step on before they step on the tile floor The mountain is society We go to school & work hard To get good grades but to what end? Cause sooner or later Society wants their servants Who must heal the sick? They convince you to become a doctor Who must enforce law and order? They convince you be a lawyer Who must educate our children? They force you to go teach the poor Souls what you've been taught So that the culture of conforming To norms is perpetuated And society can be at "peace". But your soul dances to poetry This they never told you Your soul sings flawlessly Like birds in flight in a cloudless sky On a beautiful summer's day This they never told you Instead they keep on preaching about the endless cries on judgment day You can paint a nation of beauty All you need to do is just grab hold of a canvass and a brush This they never told you All they ever taught you was self-loathing and how to be harsh On yourself but everyone around you. The highest mountain, is yourself You so often want to shift the blame Because its easier believing That someone else contributed To your failure, otherwise admitting the fall would be a shame For this I don't blame you, Nor will I shame you You see we've been told that the worst enemy is out there So we go through life preparing for war, and spend the rest of our lives searching for HIM, and not find HER because she lives within us We spoil her rotten because You cannot conquer That which you do not understand And by the time we open our eyes to the real fight, we've already suffered a couple of blows and knocks from life Grey hair and arthritic limbs cannot guarantee us victory over this fierce and lethal monster that you've become towards yourself The mountain is nowhere, that's to say NOW-HERE We look for greatness without When true greatness lives within Even the earthly mountain is not as high it appears, the real milestone to be reached, is the one within So start today and climb this great mountain To the pinnacle of the self The climb is strenuous But the view up there is priceless All else is but an illusion The real test is here and now.

0

Oct 8, 2014

Oct 8, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC

the-other-umi

The mountain

The mountain Is an optical illusion What we normally see In front of us is a world Of insecurities from a lifetime Of forced perspectives And a veil of fears obscuring Our true faith & deepest potential And when we attempt to rise To live up to what's alive within us, they say it's delusion Ugliness planted so deep in the eye All we see is the negativity The beauty of our dreams is beyond Recognition because it was buried alive The mountain is toxic words, So many times we've been told How useless we are How we were born not to make it Even the most earnest of efforts Cannot get us to the top We've been repeatedly told That the kid next door Is better than us because he washes the dishes better and mops the floor Now your confidence and self esteem has become so bruised because you placed it by the doorway like the mat they step on before they step on the tile floor The mountain is society We go to school & work hard To get good grades but to what end? Cause sooner or later Society wants their servants Who must heal the sick? They convince you to become a doctor Who must enforce law and order? They convince you be a lawyer Who must educate our children? They force you to go teach the poor Souls what you've been taught So that the culture of conforming To norms is perpetuated And society can be at "peace". But your soul dances to poetry This they never told you Your soul sings flawlessly Like birds in flight in a cloudless sky On a beautiful summer's day This they never told you Instead they keep on preaching about the endless cries on judgment day You can paint a nation of beauty All you need to do is just grab hold of a canvass and a brush This they never told you All they ever taught you was self-loathing and how to be harsh On yourself but everyone around you. The highest mountain, is yourself You so often want to shift the blame Because its easier believing That someone else contributed To your failure, otherwise admitting the fall would be a shame For this I don't blame you, Nor will I shame you You see we've been told that the worst enemy is out there So we go through life preparing for war, and spend the rest of our lives searching for HIM, and not find HER because she lives within us We spoil her rotten because You cannot conquer That which you do not understand And by the time we open our eyes to the real fight, we've already suffered a couple of blows and knocks from life Grey hair and arthritic limbs cannot guarantee us victory over this fierce and lethal monster that you've become towards yourself The mountain is nowhere, that's to say NOW-HERE We look for greatness without When true greatness lives within Even the earthly mountain is not as high it appears, the real milestone to be reached, is the one within So start today and climb this great mountain To the pinnacle of the self The climb is strenuous But the view up there is priceless All else is but an illusion The real test is here and now.

75