The day my mother died, the world went quiet. Not in sound, but in meaning. I’m still clawing my way through that silence. #poetry

The ache didn’t leave when I said no.
It just stopped knocking.
Now it waits on the shelf—
with everything else I couldn’t return.
No title. No spine. Just presence. #poetry

I’ve always been told I’m too sensitive. Sensitivity, to me, is emotional intelligence—awareness, perception. I notice what others miss: the mood, the microchange, the unspoken. It’s not fragility. It’s precision. It’s design. You are not too much. You are attuned. #poetry

They build altars from the bones of the broken, dressed in mercy. I think of those before, if they watched the light dim and called it fate. They take, leaving ruin, and I’ve stopped screaming. Not out of peace, but knowing no one listens. Yet, I remain. Survival is defiance. #poetry

Some days, the weight of the past feels unbearable. The wounds are deep, the shards sharp. But then the sun rises, and light finds its way through, transforming pain into beauty. I never thought I’d feel whole again, but the colors in the cracks are mine now. And that’s enough. #poetry #healing

I hoped writing could preserve the parts of them I was losing, crafting poetic worlds to hold onto something. Yet, grief’s voice is louder. Despite my verses, some silences are too heavy to cage. Now, echoes of everything slipping away are all I hear.
#poetry #grief

The gravity of grief— I don't know how to tell people how I am. On the surface, I appear well, but inside, I'm caught between being too much and feeling like nothing at all. So I write, hoping they might finally see the weight of grief I carry and the void I drift through. #poetry #grief

To everyone who has ever hurt me:
The fractures in my past weren't weaknesses-they were thresholds. I stepped through each, not in defeat but in quiet rebellion. The remnants of who I was no longer bind me. I've built something new, forged in the spaces you tried to shatter. #poetry

Death taps politely on the walls of my world, but l hear the creak of its steps-always nearer, always taking the ones I love. Yet, in its approach, a silent confidant— a companion to the grief I know so well.
#poetry #grief