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I weep as often as I laugh
not from sorrow, nor from joy,
but because the world hums,
and I refuse to be deaf to it.
I was a cavern, hollowed by storms,
veins lined with soot, breath laced with ash.
Grief hung from my ribs like moss in a forgotten wood,
a slow rot curling beneath my tongue.

The moon turned its back; even stars whispered away,
and I wore my rage like a cloak of thorns,
each step scattering petals of ruin,
each silence a howl stitched beneath my skin.

I became a storm cellar of memories,
echoing thunder that never touched sky,
harboring shadows that fed on the scent of blame,
their claws tracing old wounds like sacred scripture.

But dawn cracked the stone—
a golden vine threading through grief’s grip,
spilling warmth into marrow that had forgotten how to bloom.
The river inside me stirred—slow, reluctant—

yet still it moved, washing silt from the hollows.
I knelt in that current, palms open, and let the darkness slip—
a feather carried downstream, a name released to the wind.

Forgiveness was not a surrender, but a seed,
buried deep beneath frostbitten roots,
unfolding in silence, unfurling toward light.

And now—
my heart, once a cathedral of echoes,
is a garden humming with bees,
each bloom a memory healed, not erased.

Light,
The light from above has bestowed upon me the urge to dance, despite it all, all, all. A spark has spread a little fire—the music never stopped, despite it all.  

Affection,
Facing slowly—affection all over the floor. Summer has not started yet, but there is heat, devotion, warmth in absence. I nod to the sun. I turn towards the dappled, bronzed skin of mine.

Jazz,
There is something ferocious living inside this four-cornered apartment, where the absence of childhood has taken half my life—but there are flowers, flowers in my head. Slowly dancing in the whiskers of the afternoon—velvety, yes, velvety notes striking the rhythm of my body. Swaying, swaying, almost lost in the murmur of the piano—the saxophone aggravates the thrill in my bones. I look up at the ceiling; colors start to swirl even more. Strings spill like liquid—smooth and endless, more and more. Conversing here and there, I am alive again.  

“Turn your face towards the sun,” they say. I dreamed of my childhood, and the heat of the sun felt like slow jazz in the afternoon.
I wrote this for 10 minutes because jazz made me feel alive today.

jazz is for ordinary people - berlioz
—a poem for the broken quiet of Hello Poetry

This was meant to be a haven—
ink-stained sanctuary
where silence could bloom into verse,
where hurt could heal
in soft stanzas and shared breath.

But now—
every scroll feels like stepping
through shattered glass.
The comment threads,
once stitched with kindness,
now rip apart at the seams.

Accusations buzz like hornets,
each reply a stinger
piercing deeper into fear.
Names thrown like knives,
defense and damnation
fighting for dominance
in spaces meant for peace.

I see poems
not of love, not of loss,
but of monsters
lurking behind usernames,
of children caught
in digital snares,
of moderators gone silent,
as if safety were a forgotten draft
left unpublished in the void.

I haven’t spoken—
not yet.
But I feel the shadows
pressing against my page,
wondering if one day
they’ll find me,
slip through my poems
with sugary words
and hollow hearts.

What if I mistake poison for praise?
What if I smile at a trap
thinking it’s just another reader
kind enough to care?

I haven’t been touched by it—
yet.
But that doesn’t mean
the fire isn’t creeping closer.

I write in hope,
but I carry worry like watermark—
invisible until held to light.

So I ask,
not just for myself,
but for every young poet
finding their first courage here:

Where are the watchers?
Where is the warning bell?
Who guards the gates
when predators write poetry, too?

I want to believe
this space can be better.
That we are louder than the silence
that lets evil grow.
That we are not just witnesses—
but protectors,
word-warriors
with sharpened pens.

Because poetry should not be
a hunting ground.

And no poem
should end in a wound.
This piece is not meant to call anyone out directly. I’m simply expressing the overwhelming emotions I’ve been carrying while witnessing everything unfolding lately. I just want this space to feel safe — for myself, for younger poets, for everyone who comes here to share their voice. That’s all.
The echoes hum of paths not taken,
soft as sighs the wind has spun,
whispers trace the dreams forsaken,
things undone, the race unrun.

A fleeting glance, a step unsteady,
a hand not held, a word unsaid,
a love that lingered, never ready,
a spark that burned but quickly fled.

The door half-open, never entered,
the letter lost upon the tide,
a name once spoken, now surrendered,
to silence deep and time denied.

Regret, a shadow, lingers lowly,
mourning what we failed to claim,
yet life moves on, though sad and slowly,
softly sighing just the same.
Home is not home.
Home should be safe.
Home should be warm,
a refuge, a haven, a light in the storm.

Home should be love,
gentle hands, soft words,
a place where hearts are heard.

Home should not be fear.
Not shadows creeping down the hall,
not silence heavy, cold, and small.
Not walls that whisper cruel goodnights,
not the sting of words or hands clenched tight.

Home should be safe.
Not a place where pain resides,
where truth is twisted, love divides.
Not where voices crack like whips,
or where exhaustion grips and grips…

Home should be safe.
Home should be bright.
Home should be laughter spilling through the night.
Home should be warmth, should be rest,
should be peace where weary hearts nest.

Home should be safe.
Home should be home.
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