heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
Blink in Time. Content Warning.
This was created today after working on another video that went south for a while. I thought about my tooth pain and the wealthy and their sadistic grins as they stomped on the ants, and all I gain is tooth pain. It is commentary written from my tooth pain brain of dreams of extreme pain and extreme society pain of grief, power, greed, destruction, and fucking rainbows. We will rise. Ants build colonies to the top of the highest building in Manhattan throwing over the few elite white small, tooled patriarchy men.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
Mother, the Light I Lost
She didn’t knock when entering hearts. She didn’t wait for anyone’s praise. She didn’t cry when she was hurting. She simply smiled, and kept going. That was what made her a mother. She wasn’t someone you met. She was someone you felt. Like sunlight behind curtains. Like warmth on winter fingers. Like prayer in a quiet night. And then She vanished. Not with a scream. Not with noise. Not with goodbye. But quietly. Like a breeze that forgets to return. Like a whisper that stays inside. Like breath you forgot to exhale. The house changed. Not just in sound. But in spirit. The stove is a stranger now. The chair still faces the wall. The clock ticks like it’s crying. No scent is sacred like the one left on her scarf. No hum haunts like hers behind closed doors. No silence screams like the one she left behind. Time moves. But hearts don’t. Time forgets. But we can’t. Because she wasn’t just ours. She was the home. The peace. The sky above every tear. Her grave is not cold stone. It is the place where love lies but never dies. This isn’t one story. It is the scream of every soul who lost their first home. Their first prayer. Their first light. She didn’t teach how to live without her. Because she never planned to go. Even now She stays. In teacups. In folded sheets. In lullabies no one dares sing. She is gone. But she is not. She is breath in every "I miss you." She is the silence that still listens. When a mother dies, the world continues. But something sacred ends. And what remains Is sorrow that never learns to speak.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
