#untoldstories - Hello Poetry

There’s a space I remember, between what I saw and what I was told. A room with no doors, only windows I couldn’t open. I learned to speak in half-truths, to nod when I didn’t understand, to carry the weight of voices that weren’t mine. Time passed like dust in sunlight— soft, blinding, impossible to hold. And yet I moved through it, learning that even when the air is heavy, a breath is still a victory. Somewhere in that room, I left pieces of myself, tiny fragments of courage waiting to be found again.

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Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:21 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Room Between

There’s a space I remember, between what I saw and what I was told. A room with no doors, only windows I couldn’t open. I learned to speak in half-truths, to nod when I didn’t understand, to carry the weight of voices that weren’t mine. Time passed like dust in sunlight— soft, blinding, impossible to hold. And yet I moved through it, learning that even when the air is heavy, a breath is still a victory. Somewhere in that room, I left pieces of myself, tiny fragments of courage waiting to be found again.

17

We only spoke through voices, distance humming through the line, but sometimes you don’t need to see someone to recognise a familiar silence. I could hear it in the pauses, in the careful way the words were chosen, like every sentence had already been checked before it was allowed to breathe. Children learn that skill early in houses where storms live. Which truths are safe to say. Which ones must stay buried somewhere behind the ribs. I know that language. I was once a child who heard half the story and carried twice the weight. The quiet conversations behind doors, the names whispered with tension, the strange feeling of understanding things no one ever explained. And somehow the pieces children are given are never the ones that make sense. Sometimes the story changes depending on who is telling it. Sometimes the truth gets bent so the people holding it don’t have to look too closely at themselves. Children don’t question that. They just hold the pieces they’re given and try to make a world out of them. But the heart notices things long before the mind understands them. That quiet confusion. That heavy feeling that something doesn’t quite fit. I remember carrying that too. What I know now that I didn’t know then is something simple but powerful— Children are not responsible for the storms around them. They are only the ones learning how to stand while the thunder rolls overhead. And sometimes, years later, when the world grows quieter, the truth slowly finds its way through the cracks of old stories. When it does, it changes everything. But it also reveals something else— The child who survived it was always stronger than they were ever told.

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Mar 9

Mar 9, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC

Anonymous_Flame

The Words We Learned to Carry

We only spoke through voices, distance humming through the line, but sometimes you don’t need to see someone to recognise a familiar silence. I could hear it in the pauses, in the careful way the words were chosen, like every sentence had already been checked before it was allowed to breathe. Children learn that skill early in houses where storms live. Which truths are safe to say. Which ones must stay buried somewhere behind the ribs. I know that language. I was once a child who heard half the story and carried twice the weight. The quiet conversations behind doors, the names whispered with tension, the strange feeling of understanding things no one ever explained. And somehow the pieces children are given are never the ones that make sense. Sometimes the story changes depending on who is telling it. Sometimes the truth gets bent so the people holding it don’t have to look too closely at themselves. Children don’t question that. They just hold the pieces they’re given and try to make a world out of them. But the heart notices things long before the mind understands them. That quiet confusion. That heavy feeling that something doesn’t quite fit. I remember carrying that too. What I know now that I didn’t know then is something simple but powerful— Children are not responsible for the storms around them. They are only the ones learning how to stand while the thunder rolls overhead. And sometimes, years later, when the world grows quieter, the truth slowly finds its way through the cracks of old stories. When it does, it changes everything. But it also reveals something else— The child who survived it was always stronger than they were ever told.

55

I sometimes wonder if boys who wear specs feel love a little differently Not because they see less clearly, but because someone somewhere once helped them choose how they'd be seen It's a quiet sort of intimacy when she scrolls through your indecision, pauses, and says "this one suits you." And somehow in that moment it’s not just about specs. It’s about being understood gently and still accepted Maybe it’s absurd to romanticize frame choices, but love has always lived in absurdities. In screenshots of shortlisted pairs. In a voice that says, "trust me on this one," and you do not just with glasses, but with things far deeper She doesn’t touch you, not really But she leaves traces in the shape of your reflection, in the way you begin to carry yourself, unknowingly echoing her taste And even if she’s not yours, even if nothing’s ever said or claimed, there's something sacred about wearing what she picked. It’s a closeness unmeasured, a kind of nearness no label can hold. You walk into the world every day with something she once chose sitting quietly on your face. And maybe that's enough sometimes love is just the privilege of being seen before you've even figured out how to see yourself And funny thing is, no one notices. No one sees how you pause a second longer at the mirror not out of vanity, but memory. No one hears the silence you carry in your chest when you put those specs on, like you’re slipping into a version of yourself curated by someone else’s kindness. Someone who saw you not as you were, but as you could be. There’s a kind of longing in that a longing without ache, without urgency. Just presence. A quiet respect for what was never yours to keep but always yours to carry. And sometimes, I catch myself wondering—when she sees someone else now, does she ever recall that call, that chat, that frame? Does she ever think, “He really did choose what I picked”? Or was I just a passing moment in her day, while she became a permanent corner in mine? But I never asked. That’s the thing about this kind of love it doesn’t need closure It’s made of choices, not conclusions. And that’s what makes it last longer than most.

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Jul 8, 2025

Jul 8, 2025 at 4:52 AM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

Of Specs and Silent Intimacies

I sometimes wonder if boys who wear specs feel love a little differently Not because they see less clearly, but because someone somewhere once helped them choose how they'd be seen It's a quiet sort of intimacy when she scrolls through your indecision, pauses, and says "this one suits you." And somehow in that moment it’s not just about specs. It’s about being understood gently and still accepted Maybe it’s absurd to romanticize frame choices, but love has always lived in absurdities. In screenshots of shortlisted pairs. In a voice that says, "trust me on this one," and you do not just with glasses, but with things far deeper She doesn’t touch you, not really But she leaves traces in the shape of your reflection, in the way you begin to carry yourself, unknowingly echoing her taste And even if she’s not yours, even if nothing’s ever said or claimed, there's something sacred about wearing what she picked. It’s a closeness unmeasured, a kind of nearness no label can hold. You walk into the world every day with something she once chose sitting quietly on your face. And maybe that's enough sometimes love is just the privilege of being seen before you've even figured out how to see yourself And funny thing is, no one notices. No one sees how you pause a second longer at the mirror not out of vanity, but memory. No one hears the silence you carry in your chest when you put those specs on, like you’re slipping into a version of yourself curated by someone else’s kindness. Someone who saw you not as you were, but as you could be. There’s a kind of longing in that a longing without ache, without urgency. Just presence. A quiet respect for what was never yours to keep but always yours to carry. And sometimes, I catch myself wondering—when she sees someone else now, does she ever recall that call, that chat, that frame? Does she ever think, “He really did choose what I picked”? Or was I just a passing moment in her day, while she became a permanent corner in mine? But I never asked. That’s the thing about this kind of love it doesn’t need closure It’s made of choices, not conclusions. And that’s what makes it last longer than most.

8

We are galaxies wrapped in human skin, Infinite and diverse Short, tall, curved, angular, Painted in every shade beneath the sun. We carry stories like hidden constellations, Symphonies unheard by casual ears. Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers More than the roles they give us. Some wear scrubs that heal, Some don suits that lead, Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams But always, there is more beneath the surface. We are silent strategists, Mapping emotions with a glance, Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic. We repair not only what has been broken. We restore what is unseen. We write novels at midnight, Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace. We climb walls others fear facing, And drive highways under moonlit skies. They see simplicity where we hold storms, Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers. Mother. Worker. Wife. Labels are too small for the worlds we contain. Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply. We are not just women We are universes waiting to be discovered, Galaxies hidden in plain sight, Architects of futures yet unwritten.

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Jan 21, 2025

Jan 21, 2025 at 1:50 PM UTC

SoulPhelan_Unbound

Galaxies Beneath the Surface

We are galaxies wrapped in human skin, Infinite and diverse Short, tall, curved, angular, Painted in every shade beneath the sun. We carry stories like hidden constellations, Symphonies unheard by casual ears. Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers More than the roles they give us. Some wear scrubs that heal, Some don suits that lead, Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams But always, there is more beneath the surface. We are silent strategists, Mapping emotions with a glance, Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic. We repair not only what has been broken. We restore what is unseen. We write novels at midnight, Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace. We climb walls others fear facing, And drive highways under moonlit skies. They see simplicity where we hold storms, Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers. Mother. Worker. Wife. Labels are too small for the worlds we contain. Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply. We are not just women We are universes waiting to be discovered, Galaxies hidden in plain sight, Architects of futures yet unwritten.

30

Four walls …two bodies Trapped words ...white noise. A house on fire... You... me … standing burning Pretending the fire isn't roaring.

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Aug 26, 2019

Aug 26, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC

monica-mourad

Unspoken

Four walls …two bodies Trapped words ...white noise. A house on fire... You... me … standing burning Pretending the fire isn't roaring.

5

gabing hindi mapakali, gustong humagolgol, ngunit walang luhang pumapatak, sikip ng dibdib ay hindi maintindihan, ilang kilometro na ang takbo ng isip, ngunit ikaw lamang ang iniisip, Papalayain na ba ang sarili? o hahayaan nalang na magkusang mawala, dahil nagmimistulang bangkay na at hindi na maramdaman ang muling umibig. ang makita kang masaya na, ay akin ding kasiyahan, mga katanungan ko'y hangang tanong nalang. sinusubukang ngumiti tumawa ngunit, aking lamang pinaglalaruan ang aking sarili, dahil sa halip tuwa at saya ang aking maramdaman ay parang normal lang. PAPALAYAIN NA AKING SARILI, sa nakaraan nating ako lang ang nakakalam, na parang ako lang ang nakakaalala. ito na nakakaramdam na pala ako ulit. SAKIT pala ang aking nararamdaman, na ako'y napag iwanan na, na ako nalang ang nabubuhay sating nakaraan. TAKOT, na ako'y tuluyan mo na palang nakalimutan, TUWA na ikaw ay masayang masaya na, ngunit sana ang mga tanong gustong itanong saiyo, matuldukan na, pangamba ko lang ay hindi nanaman ito sagutin. pangamba ko din ay baka hindi mo na ako ituring na kahit parang kapatid lang, yon ay aking tanging hiling. ngayon ay siguro panahon na para, Palayain na aking SARILI, ngayon luha na ngay bumuhos sa umagang gansa ng sikat ng araw, at ngayon sa huling pagkakataon ipapadama sayo, K. ikaw lang, mahal kita, minahal kita, at kung baliktarin man ang mundo at kung saan pwede na ang TAYO, K. mamahalain parin kita. mahirap man sakin ngunit siguro ngay ito rin ang iyong inaantay ang, Palayain na aking SARILI.

0

May 11, 2019

May 11, 2019 at 11:50 PM UTC

mXc

Papalayain na aking SARILI

gabing hindi mapakali, gustong humagolgol, ngunit walang luhang pumapatak, sikip ng dibdib ay hindi maintindihan, ilang kilometro na ang takbo ng isip, ngunit ikaw lamang ang iniisip, Papalayain na ba ang sarili? o hahayaan nalang na magkusang mawala, dahil nagmimistulang bangkay na at hindi na maramdaman ang muling umibig. ang makita kang masaya na, ay akin ding kasiyahan, mga katanungan ko'y hangang tanong nalang. sinusubukang ngumiti tumawa ngunit, aking lamang pinaglalaruan ang aking sarili, dahil sa halip tuwa at saya ang aking maramdaman ay parang normal lang. PAPALAYAIN NA AKING SARILI, sa nakaraan nating ako lang ang nakakalam, na parang ako lang ang nakakaalala. ito na nakakaramdam na pala ako ulit. SAKIT pala ang aking nararamdaman, na ako'y napag iwanan na, na ako nalang ang nabubuhay sating nakaraan. TAKOT, na ako'y tuluyan mo na palang nakalimutan, TUWA na ikaw ay masayang masaya na, ngunit sana ang mga tanong gustong itanong saiyo, matuldukan na, pangamba ko lang ay hindi nanaman ito sagutin. pangamba ko din ay baka hindi mo na ako ituring na kahit parang kapatid lang, yon ay aking tanging hiling. ngayon ay siguro panahon na para, Palayain na aking SARILI, ngayon luha na ngay bumuhos sa umagang gansa ng sikat ng araw, at ngayon sa huling pagkakataon ipapadama sayo, K. ikaw lang, mahal kita, minahal kita, at kung baliktarin man ang mundo at kung saan pwede na ang TAYO, K. mamahalain parin kita. mahirap man sakin ngunit siguro ngay ito rin ang iyong inaantay ang, Palayain na aking SARILI.

22

A thousand different scenarios I build in my head, laying awake at night, watching the forlorn sky and try to conjure up the reaction you give me as it finally dawns you. But the scenarios dissolve as reality crashes and it settles in my stomach like a ton of bricks that you will always remain oblivious to what you mean to me.

0

Jul 21, 2018

Jul 21, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC

DiaryofJane

A thousand different scenarios

A thousand different scenarios I build in my head, laying awake at night, watching the forlorn sky and try to conjure up the reaction you give me as it finally dawns you. But the scenarios dissolve as reality crashes and it settles in my stomach like a ton of bricks that you will always remain oblivious to what you mean to me.

13

Those hands show the many years of continuous hardship, but with the beautiful struggle and time all is subdued. This enduring hands tells story's that her mouth couldn't dear to utter, strong, brave was she for silently withstanding the ever tiring battles of life. These hands are not mine, but they still need the same comforts and care that my own crave for. Listen to the hands echoes, let them ring loudly into your ears, while her words can be seen through her delicate hands, she still remains quiet as the graves that she finds homely... -Ethiiochick

0

Jun 4, 2016

Jun 4, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC

ethiiochick

Her hands...

Those hands show the many years of continuous hardship, but with the beautiful struggle and time all is subdued. This enduring hands tells story's that her mouth couldn't dear to utter, strong, brave was she for silently withstanding the ever tiring battles of life. These hands are not mine, but they still need the same comforts and care that my own crave for. Listen to the hands echoes, let them ring loudly into your ears, while her words can be seen through her delicate hands, she still remains quiet as the graves that she finds homely... -Ethiiochick

5

Sometimes, life is all about regrets Regrets about the hearts we break Regrets about the risks we take Regrets about the friends we make Regrets about the words we say Regrets about the path we choose Regrets about the things we lose Regrets about the secrets we share Regrets about the secrets we hear Regrets about the promises we make Regrets about the decision we take Yet, no regrets Is all we say.

0

Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC

Guledawoodi

Regrets

Sometimes, life is all about regrets Regrets about the hearts we break Regrets about the risks we take Regrets about the friends we make Regrets about the words we say Regrets about the path we choose Regrets about the things we lose Regrets about the secrets we share Regrets about the secrets we hear Regrets about the promises we make Regrets about the decision we take Yet, no regrets Is all we say.

14