Poems About ""

Words, words, I play with words
hoping that some combination—
even a chance combination—
will say what I want.
What's left unsaid
will always find a way
to scream.

Walk with me
as slow
as you can
for I want it
to last
as long
as it can.

I love red,
not in the way most do,
with roses or sunsets,
but in the way it bleeds—
bleeds from my soul.
I wear it on my skin
like a silent scream,
a language only I understand,
when the world becomes too...

She's a beauty in a broken place,
Wearing strength behind her face.
Planned to leave, but stayed instead,
With battles fought inside her head.

Heart of glass, but still she stands,
With pearls and scars in both her...

When the silence gets too loud
Old wounds start to bleed
Your demons are exposed
And start to feed
Chest tightens. Breaths get faster.
Heart races.
I can't breathe.
"You're worthless."
The voices...

We jumped the fence, no time to think,
Landed hard near a muddy brink.
Smelled like cow dreams, damp and raw,
But freedom hit us like a roar.

We crawled through thorns, we bit our lips,
Took every blow, survived the...

I do not rise each day to fight,
but to remember I was never lost.
Not broken,
Not forgotten,
Just hidden behind the noise.

There is no bell to ring,
no altar to kneel at—
only the hush between heartbeats
that...

To my sanctuary I return—
A tranquil night.
I wash the city away
From the ebony of my skin
Under a soothing stream,
Warm as the sun
That I long to see
On such a lonesome night.

If I could bask in my own love,
and give myself to myself
as I give to others,
then I would be whole.
But self cannot complete self,
and only flesh can cure flesh.
Thus, I remain unfinished,
until I can find...

He walks the path, feet light, yet sure,
Balancing life on rails obscure.
The sun hums soft in golden tones,
A fleeting warmth he calls his own.

Illusions dance, they pull, they sway,
Yet he won’t let them lead...

We are not just survivors,
patched up with scars and silent battles.
We are architects,
laying bricks of hope on the ruins of yesterday.

We are not just wanderers,
drifting where the wind may take us.
We are...

The humble carpet brush 
sweeps away
cigarette ash, 
    moth scales, 
    dried tears,
and angel dust.