"quietest" poems
I need you to understand that it is okay to have a soul that is both tender and tired. I need you to understand that it is okay to be gentle with yourself, that is okay to feel what you are feeling. I need you to know that it is okay to not be okay, that it is okay to feel sad even if you do not fully understand it. I need you to know that you are the product of what is both hopeful and haunted within you, and it is okay to exist in this world as someone who is simply figuring out how to balance that.
Because this is what they don’t tell you — being a human is a confusing and messy thing. Life will amaze you in the most stunning ways, and it will also break your heart. Life will gift you the kinds of lessons that grow you and build you and help for you to bloom into the person you have always hoped to be, but it will also carry within it the kinds of losses that stay with you, that change you and mould you in uncomfortable ways. Life will demand for you to heal even when it hurts. For you to be brave, for you to fight for yourself.
Because at the end of the day, bravery isn’t a battlefield. It isn’t fast cars, or stunted risk. Bravery is the quietest thing you will ever know. Bravery is getting up in the morning when your bones are heavy and your heart does not want the light to crack within it. Bravery is being gentle with yourself, especially when it isn’t convenient or easy, especially when you are not a shining example of the person you strive to be.
But most of all, bravery is the way you stretch towards the light. It is the way you bloom in the direction of goodness, even when you may not know what you are reaching for. Bravery is allowing yourself to believe that you are growing, even when it does not feel like it. Bravery is knowing that there is more for you, that you will save yourself like you always have before; that you will survive.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Only the closest
people to my heart,
know my love of the
cemetery.
Oh how I yearn
to walk its endless
pathways and through
its fresh-cut prickly grass.
The quietest place on
the whole entire earth.
A symbol of love
and grief all wrapped
together in the black
box of death,
tied with a silver
shining bow
of memories.
And what better than
the cemetery and,
you?
You didn’t even flicker
at my thought of having
a picnic in the cemetery.
And thats when,
I knew.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.
Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.
Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.
Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.
Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.
Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;
till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
there she stands in a skirt and heels
pretty little wallflower
a sheepish grin and a request
he smiles his twisted smile
and winks "no problem"
and they walk and they talk and
hours pass
happy little wallflower
she says excuse me but
he knows her too well already
her quietest struggle revealed
no choice but to trust
silly little wallflower
days pass and they're together
deeper and deeper she falls
one night she panics and he turns away
more days pass without a word
a passive moment, now her life
simply passes by
stupid little wallflower
she sees him with other girls
he doesn't stop to think
and weeks have gone
she's almost moved on
another man approaches
fickle little wallflower
sweet manners, kind gestures, he's
genuine, friendly, she wouldn't mind
giving it a try so she goes to visit
and the first is there
pleading "stay with me"
pitiful little wallflower
her foolishness her downfall
she recedes from each
the wallflower all again
minutes pass and she finds herself alone
with him a curtain's breadth from humanity
heedless little wallflower
he calls to her, she stays reserved
he calls again and she has no hope. she is his
they lie together, she is only content
even knowing it can never last
pathetic little wallflower
every moment put to memory
he walks away without a goodbye
and still she smiles
her pretty little wallflower smile
Mar 27, 2010
Mar 27, 2010 at 12:15 AM UTC
The snowflake is castellated cold,
Of chill crenellations and turnings narrow.
Court of pie-powders and gray-skied brazier smoke,
Of inner mazework dimmed to ****** holes,
Or the hooded machicolations from tower spire
Of oily darkness and arrowslits of Greek fire.
—
The snowflake is Medieval reliquary,
The frozen skull of rain and blood clear of sin,
Wind-captive with its prayer of quiet
On quietest lips, close to wine and sacrament.
Or the chapel and its waxen paramours
Of incorrupt body and candlelight upon the moors.
—
The snowflake is the mighty frozen spark,
Fire-forged and ironwrought,
Under the eye of Hephaestus,
Blacksmith of sorrow’s wind.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
"Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun."
In valleys of springs and rivers,
By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
The quietest under the sun,
We still had sorrows to lighten,
One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
When I was a Knighton lad.
By bridges that Thames runs under,
In London, the town built ill,
'Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still.
And if as a lad grows older
The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
That handselled them long before.
Where shall one halt to deliver
This luggage I'd lief set down?
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
Nor London nor Knighton the town:
'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
And little 'twill matter to one.
2.8k
the quietest words are the loudest
knowledge and open eyes to the real world
through prose i speak and speak alone
nobody encouraged me to be outspoken
i was a shut-in, trapped for months
like anne frank, with only power in writing
i found power in words, nobody taught me
how to live, but i learned how to exist in
a world lost in it's sin, a mediocre society
lost in it's power of indulgences and faith
with paper and pen, i can capture honesty
the most brutal tragedy, the most beautiful love
i've never felt intense fear, like hanging off a cliff fear
but i've been pushed to that cliff one too many times
i've always been scared of heights and losing someone
but my fears are all in my head, my heart is power
my heart is courage, my heart is love
it is the first and last thing i have
- kra
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
The frost is always the whitest
On the corn-crib and the barn,
The house is always the quietest
When folks are asleep on the farm,
The locusts and crickets the chirpiest
Though they may not stay in tune,
The darkness is the nightiest
When there is no moon.
2.4k
If you ask me, he lit the match that set the Moon on fire
It’s not a myth; I was there, when I had no home
And I walked in Saturn’s ring rain for so long it sloughed off my skin
I marched, trying to flatten the crater I’d made
Because I was ashamed of it
I was the last meteor to hit his heart; the loudest
But that was so long ago
The quietest revolutions are usually the most violent
If you ask him, I smelled like Genesis and Revelation from the inside
******* insatiable
I slathered honey on my cheeks and boiled my blood
so hot until my arteries turned charred black
I licked my wounds from the impact and discovered just what the hell was poisoning me
If you ask me, I didn’t know him last night and I won’t know him on the last night
But my God, he inspires me
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 8:28 PM UTC
i woke up and
sometimes in the quietest
of times i hear my own heartbeat
but i truly wanted to hear yours
beating together with mine
but oh how I worry and sigh
because there's this voice
inside my head telling me
"your hearts are never going
to beat side by side
as you will die unknown"
c.r
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
Clunton and Clunbury,
Clungunford and Clun,
Are the quietest places
Under the sun.
In valleys of springs and rivers,
By Ony and Teme and Clun,
The country for easy livers,
The quietest under the sun,
We still had sorrows to lighten,
One could not be always glad,
And lads knew trouble at Knighton
When I was a Knighton lad.
By bridges that Thames runs under,
In London, the town built ill,
'Tis sure small matter for wonder
If sorrow is with one still.
And if as a lad grows older
The troubles he bears are more,
He carries his griefs on a shoulder
That handselled them long before.
Where shall one halt to deliver
This luggage I'd lief set down?
Not Thames, not Teme is the river,
Nor London nor Knighton the town:
'Tis a long way further than Knighton,
A quieter place than Clun,
Where doomsday may thunder and lighten
And little 'twill matter to one.
1.9k
Stunning she called the morning to gather it was her reflection that made all luminous and she
Turned from side to side all quarters of sun and shade settled in precise conforming feature it
Had no deviation it had no desire but was content to be her blossoming statement where her
Hair softly flowed down the sides and back was illusion and reality colliding slipping into a soft
Dark unspoken richness that defied appropriate telling her forehead was the first mold God
Used to make the first Angel from this creation dreams were first formed they arose mist like in
The quietest indulgence of the mind the eye brows were the seeding place of richest
Placements on fine porcelain it would begin the guessing of wonder how can such creation be
The eyes were jewels not mined in any worlds that we know cheeks aglow from fires deep
Within jungles unexplored by man the nose pristine you have to venture forth to rarest tents
Where nomads set in the midst of tapestry where inlaid golden folds lay with purist
Silver and emerald cloth and distilled breathing of goddesses and gave them a fitting that
Staggered the thoughts of those who came to look on these sights her lips were desire
Encapsulated in pink the entering of layers rivaled one another one on the top and between
Teeth a mix of ivory and pearl to be exposed was to lose ones breath and cast away
Reason briefly the chin the master stroke the line flowing from the ear was the perfect order
Holding all in eye appealing perfection the neck was enthralling understated composure
Shoulders rounded joining the graceful arms that premiered as musical a ***** that completes
Everything into perfection curvaceous loveliness man proclaims his strength woman surpasses
Him through soft quiet femininity that even assures his success through these powers that rise
Not from pride but from gifts that is profound and indescribable not better than man but the
best of man resides in her heart of hearts
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Splintered decisions
Now here’s the fun part
Finding which way is quickest to the stars
The quietest outro with the detour to mars
Despite all the downpour I’ve cut through and charted a path to the new
Looked past what you’ve put me through
I know I’ve done the same
All this time and the shame still plays in the back of my brain
Symphonies of deceit and false image of grandeur
Reliquaries built on the blood of the meek
High and mighty was the sheep
Lofty in aims getting fat for the feast
Deigned to believe it a wolf and was greeted with punctured lungs
Blood spilled from the throat of the unsung
Devoured on behalf of its insolence
Now the grave screams to be undone
At last I return to where I begun
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
Stay back
Don't get to close
The quietest of us
Fear the most
We fear
And fight our demons
While life passes by
But no one can hear a sound
No one sees enough to ask why
The prison of silence can be torture
Being here all alone
But for some of us it's a blessing
To not have someone asking if we're home
For me it's best to be kept away
So those around me don't hurt
For my heart is constructed of ice
But my mind is built of fire
Conflicting within me
Making my need for isolation more dire
Here in my kingdom of ice and fire
I am the queen
Ruling however I please
With a civil war on the horizon
Yet floating through time with ease
So you wonder why people ignore us
Well for some know all to well
That the quietest of us can be the most dangerous
The wild cards that can't be helped
But don't worry
Not all of us strike poison
So if you dare go greet them
Make sure to bring your knives
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
Darkness.
He settles on my skin like an absent touch; His hands the hands of a past love tracing my outline and raising my skin.
He whispers to me in dreams. What was once, and what could be, he lingers in the thoughts I can't control.
He breathes silence in the space between us, enclosing every inch of my body in his icy exhalation.
He is the coldest of comforts.
He is fearful, but I do not fear him.
His chasm of understanding and attentiveness is an infinite book of blank pages to be filled. He hears me. He listens.
He Is the giver of time that nobody wants. He provides. When I am at war with my thoughts at 3 AM, he is on my side.
He does not lie, unless it is along side of me. On top of me. All around me. He is consuming.
He is untrustworthy, but I have given him mine.
He is the quietest of melodies. His song cradles me into sleep, and I feel him beside me as I drift away.
When I awake in the morning he has always left, but is never really gone.
In the brightest of rays, I can still see him.
He controls me like an illness, but only with my consent.
Darkness.
If ever I wanted to leave him, would he let me?
Could I cleanse my soul after his touch?
If I ignored his approach in the eve,
would he still be kind to me when the daylight faded?
I'm afraid to find out.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
it was a Sunday afternoon
when I walked across the park
there were already a dozen people
gathered at the house across
throughout the years, this park has seen my many roles
a lover, at age 16
gently caressing the hair of the boy I adored
a wife, at age 26
exchanging vows with the man I loved
a mother, at age 36
kissing the spot where my son had scratched himself
it was a Sunday afternoon
when Death took away the love of my life
with his fleeting cloak and gleaming scythe
he was the love of my life
when he was putting on my wedding ring
or when he was cradling Jim
and even when he walked out on our suburban dream
he had always been the love of my life
and here I was
at age 46
in the park
the first time of my life when our roles had differed
I, the widow
and he, the dead man
it was a Sunday afternoon
and it was one of the quietest Sundays I ever had.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
She’s a writer.
She’s doing time, handcuffed in the dead of night,
locked up in prison with just the lonely voices of her mind.
And the demons of her past are wardens,
floating in corridors, keeping her in sleep deprived misery.
She’s a writer.
Every word she scrawls is a letter to her broken heart,
because with all due respect, it is an idiot.
It falls for the wrong people, it longs for the wrong places.
It shatters and she is forced to resuscitate it daily.
She’s a writer.
She didn’t choose it, every poem and story is a risk.
Work is accomplished by the light of constellations
and ink is just the blood of her soul pouring out on a page.
She is brave, in one of the quietest possible ways.
She’s a writer.
And that’s how she stays alive.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
Now that it's June, we'll sleep out in the garden
and if it rains we'll just sink into the mud
where it is quiet and much cooler than the house is
And there is no clocks or phones to wake us up
because I have learned that nothing is as pressing
as the one who is pressing would like you to believe
And I am content to walk a little slower
because there is nowhere that I really need to be
I find that life is easier when it is just a blur
with no details to confuse who or what or where I was
So when the ending comes, the full regret will seem obscure
But these are the days we dream about when the sunlight paints us pure
and this apartment could not be prettier as when we danced up there alone
This TV is old, the color is ****** do you see
the difference in the shades?
But the green is still close to green, my love
and I believe we are the same
and we'll stay like this, all green and gold
The light collects and projects your heart on a movie screen
and if you close your eyes
we will always be the way we were that night
You crawled inside of me
and you slept in my blood, the way you sleep now
The quietest hush has consumed this house
and when the doctors are gone and you sweat through the bed
with all these pictures and pills they piled around your head
Just rest now, and in a moment you will know everything
Was it just a dream?
It's too vague now to recount
An outline of the one you loved in a life that was not longer will be stands
above you as you sleep.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
lying in the bed of an old pick up
parked in the loneliest part of Arizona
in the quietest pitch-black hour of night
i see a breathtakingly beautiful scene
that would rival VanGough's Starry Night
looking out across the desert horizon
i see a glowing pumpkin moon
sinking slowly into the shifting sand
like an orange midnight sunset and
the silhouetted limbs of a gnarled Joshua tree
against the midnight blue dome of
the clear dark sky illuminated by
millions of dazzling pinpoints
like diamonds shattered into pieces
and scattered through the night
though lightyears and galaxies away
I outstretch my hand trying to touch them
wanting to swirl them around with my fingers
and paint new pictures in the cosmos
I try to outline the constellations
but Orion and Cassiopeia
are lost among the sparkling stars
just as I am lost to the world for a brief moment
-sg
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
The strongest people are often the quietest,
Their shoulders broad enough to bear the weight of the world.
They listen when others crumble,
Piecing together broken hearts with steady hands.
Their words soothe,
Their presence steadies,
And their silence feels like a refuge.
But when their own walls begin to crack,
When the weight they carry grows too heavy,
Their voices falter.
Soft cries for help,
Eclipsed by the noise of lives they once held together.
Their pain fades into the background,
A whisper swallowed by the chaos of others.
They are seen as unshakable,
An unyielding constant in a storm.
But even the tallest trees sway,
Even the strongest pillars crack under strain.
Still, they stand,
Hoping someone will notice the way they lean,
Hoping someone will hear the faint echoes of their ache.
But most days,
Their own needs dissolve into the shadows,
Invisible in the light they give to others.
And in the stillness of their loneliness,
They wonder if anyone will ever listen
The way they have listened all along.
Feb 12, 2025
Feb 12, 2025 at 10:21 PM UTC
Writer’s block does not exist,
there’s only uncreative writers,
and those who don’t care enough
to care so much.
As the former,
I will write this in my quietest voice:
I am okay,
I am okay,
I am okay.
Few would care to know,
fewer would care if they knew.
But it is the truth,
and I am in no business
of making truths I cannot keep.
I no longer write with tired eyes.
I no longer think with shaking hands.
I am no longer transparent,
or translucent,
or opaque.
I am okay.
I know this because I woke up today.
Simply that.
I woke up today,
and I am not empty.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
It makes me think of the cloud
Human heart-shaped humble
Floating alone against an onyx horizon
We see it because of the lightning
It wants us to know of its presence
Through inner struggle
I imagine that is how the heart works
Lightning bolts from the top to the base
From the sides
The smallest thunder
Even little voices stop us in our tracks sometimes
On a porch in a cabin in the woods
Even when we get away
Some things never leave us
It smells like citronella
but still feels like bug bites
a certain kind of back-of-mind reminding
It tastes like laughter
and feels like deep breaths when I need this more than ever
Life suckerpunches you in the gut
And sometimes feels like killing yourself backwards
When you finally get that gasp
You realize how sweet your own breath actually is
It is so sweet
Like them
A perfect collection of breath forming smoke
from the cold
and the ****
and the cigarettes
It warms me
Fills me like a lone lighting cloud competing with the beauty of a horizon
with simple flashes of light and the quietest thunder
Hear me heartbreak and simple chatter
Makes me think of the boy with the hospital gown smile
and the hopeless optimism
My beautiful back-of-mind bug bite
when we both need this healing
Healing is a fire sometimes
That feels like at any moment
It will burn out
But the embers pulse a diligent glow
to bring this back to life
Bring me back to life you poorly polished diamonds
We will reflect your light and bend the beams an entire spectrum
Notice me and this quiet voice
The smallest thunder and flashes of light like living Morse code
The simplest message
And this feels so much like a bent harmonica inhale
A beautiful gasp
A collection of smoke made from ***** lung laughter that doesnʼt rain
Only begs you to join it like the voice of god in a thunder storm
He speaks Morse code lightning
If you look carefully the voice is always there
The answer is always
you
The answer is always
you
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
sentences go off like gunshots.
the smallest of sounds have the loudest of consequences.
whispers make waves.
the quietest of confessions carry the most catastrophic concussions.
words are weapons and our mouths are at war.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
you call out
"god help us"
in the quietest voice,
and I hear in it a desperation to be heard.
it's the way a mother would die for her child, as if it were no choice at all.
and the same sort of love that it takes
to stand between bullets
and your sister.
it's how a husband will do anything and everything to protect his wife.
it's what matters.
it's the way it should be.
you would lie down your heart to save what it beats for.
and at the the end of the day,
at the end of time,
it will be what saves us all.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC