#unspokentruths - Hello Poetry

The eyes have a face, unto themselves, sincerities confessional As the ears trace the mind, weary and irksome shames, knowing the hearts flutters, pausing the wrapping of the heart. Deciding what may be seen, she is a tragedy, unveiling

0

Mar 8

Mar 8, 2026 at 1:51 PM UTC

kevin-8

I Have Not Spoken, Yet She....

The eyes have a face, unto themselves, sincerities confessional As the ears trace the mind, weary and irksome shames, knowing the hearts flutters, pausing the wrapping of the heart. Deciding what may be seen, she is a tragedy, unveiling

11

Hidden between these lines, there’s a story— a blessing and a curse all at once. Every word holds a chapter. Every rhyme carries a life— the joy, the love, and the quiet, hidden strife. My poetry is a mirror. It shows you my soul without ever raising its voice. The pain I carry, the story I rarely share, finds its way into the verses— raw, honest, and laid bare.

0

Mar 3

Mar 3, 2026 at 7:14 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Verses of the Unspoken

Hidden between these lines, there’s a story— a blessing and a curse all at once. Every word holds a chapter. Every rhyme carries a life— the joy, the love, and the quiet, hidden strife. My poetry is a mirror. It shows you my soul without ever raising its voice. The pain I carry, the story I rarely share, finds its way into the verses— raw, honest, and laid bare.

15

I Chose I thought they were just eyes, two quiet circles of light, so I stepped closer—not brave, just curious. No one warns you that some eyes are not meant to be looked into, they are meant to be understood. I didn’t understand.I mistook depth for beauty, calm for safety.Only later did I realise— they were not eyes.They were seas. Seas with moods,with silence heavier than storms,with beauty that invites you in and depth that never explains itself. I entered without permission,without preparation, without knowing how to swim.And here I am— not swimming,not drowning,suspended in between,where survival feels like hope and hope feels like punishment. Reaching land was never part of the syllabus. No one taught me how to leave something this beautifulwithout breaking myself. For a long time I believed I was learning how to swim. I told myself I was growing, getting stronger,becoming enough. I mistook staying alive for learning.The truth came quietly— I am not floating because I learned to swim. I am floating because the sea allows it. Because the winds move beneath me, holding me up without asking why, saving me without promising tomorrow. And even now, those same winds could throw me out, push me back to shore,end this suffering. But they don’t. Maybe because I love the wind. Maybe because I love the sea. Maybe because I love whatever this is— even if it is slowly unmaking me. I chose the sea knowing I couldn’t swim. And that is my confession!

0

Jan 2

Jan 2, 2026 at 9:06 AM UTC

to-her-who-already-knows

Confession from the Sea

I Chose I thought they were just eyes, two quiet circles of light, so I stepped closer—not brave, just curious. No one warns you that some eyes are not meant to be looked into, they are meant to be understood. I didn’t understand.I mistook depth for beauty, calm for safety.Only later did I realise— they were not eyes.They were seas. Seas with moods,with silence heavier than storms,with beauty that invites you in and depth that never explains itself. I entered without permission,without preparation, without knowing how to swim.And here I am— not swimming,not drowning,suspended in between,where survival feels like hope and hope feels like punishment. Reaching land was never part of the syllabus. No one taught me how to leave something this beautifulwithout breaking myself. For a long time I believed I was learning how to swim. I told myself I was growing, getting stronger,becoming enough. I mistook staying alive for learning.The truth came quietly— I am not floating because I learned to swim. I am floating because the sea allows it. Because the winds move beneath me, holding me up without asking why, saving me without promising tomorrow. And even now, those same winds could throw me out, push me back to shore,end this suffering. But they don’t. Maybe because I love the wind. Maybe because I love the sea. Maybe because I love whatever this is— even if it is slowly unmaking me. I chose the sea knowing I couldn’t swim. And that is my confession!

39

I remember a day— still and silver as morning light, when my loneliness felt almost sweet, a quiet refuge where I could lose myself in you. At our parting you swore, “This time, I will keep my word.” You bound that vow by the wings of birds, as if the open sky itself would bear witness to the truth of your promise. But I know— you have spoken such words before: to flowers, to birds, to the old banyan that has stood a hundred years, to the half-read novel gathering dust on your shelf. And now I understand— you are one who can promise anyone, perhaps even love itself. Tell me then, in the end, whose promise did you truly keep? Did you hold to it, or let it slip away, just another small thing, too light to matter? Does the breaking of words never trouble your mind? If not, how can a person walk so freely through the days, while the world grows heavy beneath the weight of what you left unkept? And still— I remember the day you promised the flowers, you promised the birds. I wonder—did you find the road of no return, or did you simply forget? For you gave so many promises, but not a single one was ever kept.

0

Sep 14, 2025

Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 AM UTC

shoaib005

Whose Promise Did You Keep?

I remember a day— still and silver as morning light, when my loneliness felt almost sweet, a quiet refuge where I could lose myself in you. At our parting you swore, “This time, I will keep my word.” You bound that vow by the wings of birds, as if the open sky itself would bear witness to the truth of your promise. But I know— you have spoken such words before: to flowers, to birds, to the old banyan that has stood a hundred years, to the half-read novel gathering dust on your shelf. And now I understand— you are one who can promise anyone, perhaps even love itself. Tell me then, in the end, whose promise did you truly keep? Did you hold to it, or let it slip away, just another small thing, too light to matter? Does the breaking of words never trouble your mind? If not, how can a person walk so freely through the days, while the world grows heavy beneath the weight of what you left unkept? And still— I remember the day you promised the flowers, you promised the birds. I wonder—did you find the road of no return, or did you simply forget? For you gave so many promises, but not a single one was ever kept.

32

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful

0

Aug 4, 2025

Aug 4, 2025 at 2:04 PM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

What Cannot Be Said, Only Felt

I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful

1

Chandelier tears—pretty faces, pretty tears, pretty much falling, _crashing._ Clear the room—this empty space sobers me; I’ve been drunk on emotion again. The heavier ones don’t bring me peace anymore, they only hit as hard as another strong drink. Should I speak? And in the same breath admit defeat— these dark thoughts are so creative they become destructive, crafting a beautiful kind of ruin I can barely reason with. Hey—just speaking truth for those interested in it. __Truth is...__ I’m not always okay. I pretend to be, just to survive the weight of another day. It’s a dark space, and I clear the room to break down quietly, to feel like I’ve repented something, to write myself into a better place—hopping over the pen, jumping the fence of a mind that sometimes cages me in. I’m not so pent-up anymore— not when I let the ink do the talking. And yes, I try to wear a brave face—but every face sheds a heavy tear, every person caves eventually. Pitted against themselves. As even the strongest people, the loudest, or the proudest— they cry too. Just…not in front of you.

0

Jun 29, 2025

Jun 29, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Chandelier Tears

Chandelier tears—pretty faces, pretty tears, pretty much falling, _crashing._ Clear the room—this empty space sobers me; I’ve been drunk on emotion again. The heavier ones don’t bring me peace anymore, they only hit as hard as another strong drink. Should I speak? And in the same breath admit defeat— these dark thoughts are so creative they become destructive, crafting a beautiful kind of ruin I can barely reason with. Hey—just speaking truth for those interested in it. __Truth is...__ I’m not always okay. I pretend to be, just to survive the weight of another day. It’s a dark space, and I clear the room to break down quietly, to feel like I’ve repented something, to write myself into a better place—hopping over the pen, jumping the fence of a mind that sometimes cages me in. I’m not so pent-up anymore— not when I let the ink do the talking. And yes, I try to wear a brave face—but every face sheds a heavy tear, every person caves eventually. Pitted against themselves. As even the strongest people, the loudest, or the proudest— they cry too. Just…not in front of you.

20

Stopped writing in diaries... Fearing someone might read them. Gave up typing on Word documents... Afraid her privacy might be shattered. She let people walk away — Without sharing a word, Not because she didn't want to, But because she was done with sympathy... Something she had seen too much of in life. And so, she grew silent. Tired. She let it be... Until her heart whispered: "You're safe with me." Privacy restored. But the heart grew heavier than ever.

0

Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 2:51 AM UTC

Arna_writes

The Unspoken Pages

Stopped writing in diaries... Fearing someone might read them. Gave up typing on Word documents... Afraid her privacy might be shattered. She let people walk away — Without sharing a word, Not because she didn't want to, But because she was done with sympathy... Something she had seen too much of in life. And so, she grew silent. Tired. She let it be... Until her heart whispered: "You're safe with me." Privacy restored. But the heart grew heavier than ever.

16

They say family is everything— A haven when the world turns cold, A soft place where weary souls fall, Where calming hands soothe worried heads, And love is supposed to wrap us whole. But love here is a double-edged lullaby, Sung sweetly with a bitter tongue. Dramas bloom like wildfires, And the walls remember every fight, Even when the silence pretends to forget. Can peace live where tension breathes? Where hugs feel rehearsed, And kindness comes with rules? When a sigh can spark an argument, Is it home or a house of thorns? We say parents love, and children too But when truth is seen as rebellion, And emotion is met with "don’t talk back," How do we call that understanding? What does respect really mean? Comparison is the family heirloom Polished and passed around at dinner. Why can't you be like her? Be more like him? Praise is rationed, affection delayed, While bonding visits like a distant cousin. Secrets are tucked beneath trembling tongues, Because honesty has consequences here. What you say today might betray you tomorrow, So fear builds a fortress around the heart, And vulnerability dies in its sleep. So tell me... what is family really? Is it love wrapped in tradition's chains? Is it fear dressed as structure? Is it warmth? Is it war? Or just… A name we carry, heavy and unsure?

0

Apr 22, 2025

Apr 22, 2025 at 1:55 AM UTC

Ana_s-Escape_03

"Family?"

They say family is everything— A haven when the world turns cold, A soft place where weary souls fall, Where calming hands soothe worried heads, And love is supposed to wrap us whole. But love here is a double-edged lullaby, Sung sweetly with a bitter tongue. Dramas bloom like wildfires, And the walls remember every fight, Even when the silence pretends to forget. Can peace live where tension breathes? Where hugs feel rehearsed, And kindness comes with rules? When a sigh can spark an argument, Is it home or a house of thorns? We say parents love, and children too But when truth is seen as rebellion, And emotion is met with "don’t talk back," How do we call that understanding? What does respect really mean? Comparison is the family heirloom Polished and passed around at dinner. Why can't you be like her? Be more like him? Praise is rationed, affection delayed, While bonding visits like a distant cousin. Secrets are tucked beneath trembling tongues, Because honesty has consequences here. What you say today might betray you tomorrow, So fear builds a fortress around the heart, And vulnerability dies in its sleep. So tell me... what is family really? Is it love wrapped in tradition's chains? Is it fear dressed as structure? Is it warmth? Is it war? Or just… A name we carry, heavy and unsure?

35

They said, “Enjoy your childhood.” But forgot to mention how the world starts weighing more the moment you understand it.

0

Apr 12, 2025

Apr 12, 2025 at 2:05 AM UTC

itz_strawblee

Growing up

They said, “Enjoy your childhood.” But forgot to mention how the world starts weighing more the moment you understand it.

7