#wildandfree - Hello Poetry

I came here to clear my head— or at least… that’s what I told myself. The Cairngorm Mountains don’t ask questions though— they just stand there… like they’ve already heard it all before. And maybe they have. Because up here— everything feels older than me. Older than my worries, older than my mistakes, older than the things I can’t quite let go of. The peaks don’t rush. They don’t chase anything. They just rise— slow, stubborn, certain— like they’ve made peace with being exactly what they are. And I’m walking— boots crunching through gravel and frost, breath hanging in the air like unfinished thoughts— trying to figure out how to do the same. There’s a kind of silence up here… but it’s not empty. It hums. Wind brushing past my ears like it’s trying to say something— like it’s been saying it for thousands of years and I’ve only just turned up to listen. And then— I swear— I catch movement on the ridge. Not fear. Not danger. Just… something unexpected. A man— full kilt, wild grin, spinning like the mountain gave him music only he could hear. Boots stamping, arms wide, laughing into the wind like it belonged to him. And for a second— I forget everything heavy. Because how can you carry weight when someone’s dancing on the edge of the sky? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the mountains aren’t just about solitude. Maybe they’re about release. About letting go of the version of you that needed answers— and becoming the one who can just… stand there, breathe it in, and laugh at the sheer madness of being alive. Below me, rivers carve their way through the land— not asking permission, not checking the map— just moving forward because that’s what they do. And I realise… maybe I’ve been trying too hard to control the path instead of just walking it. Up here— nothing fights the wind. It bends. It shifts. It survives. Even the mountains— as solid as they seem— are changing, slowly, quietly, over time. And somehow… that doesn’t make them weaker. It makes them eternal. Now, I stand here— between sky and stone, between who I was and who I might become— and for the first time in a while… I don’t feel lost. I feel small. I feel free. And somewhere— on a distant ridge— that kilted stranger is still dancing, like joy is the only thing worth carrying. And maybe— just maybe— he’s right.

0

Mar 21

Mar 21, 2026 at 11:04 AM UTC

LongJohnPaulBaldry

Up There, the Mountains Speak

I came here to clear my head— or at least… that’s what I told myself. The Cairngorm Mountains don’t ask questions though— they just stand there… like they’ve already heard it all before. And maybe they have. Because up here— everything feels older than me. Older than my worries, older than my mistakes, older than the things I can’t quite let go of. The peaks don’t rush. They don’t chase anything. They just rise— slow, stubborn, certain— like they’ve made peace with being exactly what they are. And I’m walking— boots crunching through gravel and frost, breath hanging in the air like unfinished thoughts— trying to figure out how to do the same. There’s a kind of silence up here… but it’s not empty. It hums. Wind brushing past my ears like it’s trying to say something— like it’s been saying it for thousands of years and I’ve only just turned up to listen. And then— I swear— I catch movement on the ridge. Not fear. Not danger. Just… something unexpected. A man— full kilt, wild grin, spinning like the mountain gave him music only he could hear. Boots stamping, arms wide, laughing into the wind like it belonged to him. And for a second— I forget everything heavy. Because how can you carry weight when someone’s dancing on the edge of the sky? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the mountains aren’t just about solitude. Maybe they’re about release. About letting go of the version of you that needed answers— and becoming the one who can just… stand there, breathe it in, and laugh at the sheer madness of being alive. Below me, rivers carve their way through the land— not asking permission, not checking the map— just moving forward because that’s what they do. And I realise… maybe I’ve been trying too hard to control the path instead of just walking it. Up here— nothing fights the wind. It bends. It shifts. It survives. Even the mountains— as solid as they seem— are changing, slowly, quietly, over time. And somehow… that doesn’t make them weaker. It makes them eternal. Now, I stand here— between sky and stone, between who I was and who I might become— and for the first time in a while… I don’t feel lost. I feel small. I feel free. And somewhere— on a distant ridge— that kilted stranger is still dancing, like joy is the only thing worth carrying. And maybe— just maybe— he’s right.

100

My heart is too big, Grinch Stole Christmas or who zooming who? I'm just a pea in the *** With visions of flying with no wings. This life's overstayed – soon to be wasted. Next life, maybe I'll become the wind, wild and free. "Hugo, they call me"... I run with the Santa Ana winds. Raw, untamed, and restless – that's my heart's language. Absence of time.

0

Nov 21, 2025

Nov 21, 2025 at 8:53 PM UTC

mcarthur-hunt-jr

Hunt

My heart is too big, Grinch Stole Christmas or who zooming who? I'm just a pea in the *** With visions of flying with no wings. This life's overstayed – soon to be wasted. Next life, maybe I'll become the wind, wild and free. "Hugo, they call me"... I run with the Santa Ana winds. Raw, untamed, and restless – that's my heart's language. Absence of time.

1

My girl is made from fire and stardust. She feels like a child of the wind and the rain, Her wrath—an unprecedented hurricane. But love her, speak sweet words to her, And she is the cool breeze on an extra hot day, The reason you feel like it might be bearable to go out and play. She’s a light spring shower, Covering the earth with blooms, Bringing it all back to life. Oh, but don’t you dare stand in her way— She is divine feminine rage. The storms before—I swallowed them whole, And now I’m beginning to see That maybe all of that was to make sure She had an unshakable roar. And oh, is it beautiful to see That no one will stand in her way. Her words spill like lava, As steadfast as a bull, Yet her heart is still so full. Sweeter than honey— Until you challenge her storm, Until you test her form. And if you do, just know— I’ll pray For you To make it out alive. Because you see, my girl is made of stardust and fire— Two untamable things, Two forces together, unchained, Burning, rising— Unshaken, unbound, Stretching far above and below the ground. So think twice before you stand at her door, If you wish to endure the unfazed wrath Of all the women who came before. She is the storm, the flame, the roar— A force the world will soon learn Can never be ignored.

0

Mar 18, 2025

Mar 18, 2025 at 12:56 PM UTC

LindenLark

Fire and Stardust

My girl is made from fire and stardust. She feels like a child of the wind and the rain, Her wrath—an unprecedented hurricane. But love her, speak sweet words to her, And she is the cool breeze on an extra hot day, The reason you feel like it might be bearable to go out and play. She’s a light spring shower, Covering the earth with blooms, Bringing it all back to life. Oh, but don’t you dare stand in her way— She is divine feminine rage. The storms before—I swallowed them whole, And now I’m beginning to see That maybe all of that was to make sure She had an unshakable roar. And oh, is it beautiful to see That no one will stand in her way. Her words spill like lava, As steadfast as a bull, Yet her heart is still so full. Sweeter than honey— Until you challenge her storm, Until you test her form. And if you do, just know— I’ll pray For you To make it out alive. Because you see, my girl is made of stardust and fire— Two untamable things, Two forces together, unchained, Burning, rising— Unshaken, unbound, Stretching far above and below the ground. So think twice before you stand at her door, If you wish to endure the unfazed wrath Of all the women who came before. She is the storm, the flame, the roar— A force the world will soon learn Can never be ignored.

39