heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
Slow Heartbreak
A Poetic Exploration of Slow Heartbreak “Some heartbreaks don’t roar. They whisper — like wind leaving an open window.” There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come crashing down like a storm. It doesn’t break dishes or burn photographs. It doesn’t scream in parking lots or cry in public.
By Mehtab Ahmadabout a year ago in Poets
The Last Vote
Ethan Clarke’s hands trembled as he gripped the cold metal railing of his balcony. Below, the streets buzzed with the fading cheers from his election rally. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest provincial assembly member ever elected from his district — a victory that surprised even his closest supporters. His campaign had been different: promises of transparency, justice, and a government that worked for the people — not the powerful elite. But standing alone in his modest apartment that night, Ethan felt the true challenge had only just begun. His district was a reflection of the country’s biggest problems — corruption, inequality, and political violence hidden behind the mask of democracy. But Ethan believed change was possible. He had to believe it. The next morning, under a gray sky, Ethan sat at his new office desk, buried in letters and files from worried citizens. Then his phone buzzed: a message from Malik Shah, the party’s senior leader. “Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Meet me at the club tonight. We have much to discuss.” Ethan knew the “club” wasn’t just any place. It was where real power was traded — far from public eyes. That evening, Ethan stepped into the luxurious Elysium Club, a playground for the city’s political elite. Expensive art lined the walls, but the air was heavy with secrets and veiled threats. Malik Shah greeted him with a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations, Ethan. You’re a bright young man,” Malik said, pouring whiskey. “But politics isn’t about idealism. It’s about power. And power demands compromise.” Ethan nodded, though his heart sank. Malik slid an envelope across the table. Inside were photos and documents exposing rigged voter rolls, fake polling stations, and cash bribes to community leaders. “Look closely. These are the truths that keep the wheels turning. We all have a role in this game.” The reality hit Ethan hard: the system was far more rotten than he’d imagined. Weeks passed. Meetings with party elders became routine, their advice thinly veiled warnings. One night, while reviewing documents, Ethan discovered a contract awarded to a shell company linked to a rival faction planning to rig the upcoming national election on a massive scale. His hands shook. This wasn’t just local corruption — it was a conspiracy threatening the country’s democracy. A warning message from Malik Shah appeared on his phone: “Careful where you poke your nose, kid. Not everyone wants the truth to see daylight.” The walls were closing in. Ethan faced a painful choice: stay silent and protect his political future — or expose the conspiracy and risk everything. Late that night, his phone rang. It was Nadia, an investigative journalist he trusted. “I’ve heard whispers about vote rigging in your district and beyond,” she said. “If you have proof, this could change everything.” Ethan hesitated. “It’s bigger than just my district. But if I speak out… they’ll come after me.” “Then we need to be smart. The people deserve the truth.” Together, they gathered evidence — recordings, transaction records, eyewitness accounts — a mountain of proof revealing the dark side of the upcoming election. The risks grew real. Strange cars followed Ethan. Threatening notes slipped under his door. Finally, the day came. At a packed press conference, Ethan stepped up and laid out everything — naming names, exposing the rigging scheme. The nation erupted. Protests filled the streets. The government launched investigations. Arrests followed. But victory came at a cost. Former allies turned their backs. Party leaders branded him a traitor. His phone fell silent — except for one caller: Malik Shah. “Smart move, kid,” Malik’s voice was cold. “But remember, you’ve won a battle, not the war.” In the weeks that followed, headlines ranged from “Young Whistleblower Shakes Nation” to “Traitor or Hero?” The people were divided, but the demand for fair elections grew louder every day. Though the party disowned him and friends distanced themselves, Ethan found strength in his mother’s words from long ago: “Standing for what’s right isn’t easy. But it’s the only way to change the world.” His phone buzzed again — Nadia’s warning: “They’re closing in. Be careful.” The government formed a special committee, and the evidence was undeniable. High-ranking officials were arrested, and election reforms promised. But the scars ran deep. One evening, Malik Shah reached out with an offer: “Come back. Influence the system from within. We can protect you.” Ethan declined. The price of silence was too high. Change required more than courage — it needed persistence. Months later, Ethan stood before a crowd in his district square, no longer a politician, but a citizen activist. The movement he helped ignite was growing, inspiring others to demand accountability. As the sun set over the city skyline, Ethan smiled. The last vote wasn’t just about an election — it was about awakening a nation’s conscience.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Poets
The End of Love's Reasons
If the love is gone, it's simply gone. The specific details you're still grappling with are no longer the focus of that lost affection. All those past regrets, things he wished he'd done more of, would now be meaningless to him. Stop dwelling on the reasons he gave; what he really wanted to say was that he didn't love her anymore, not to justify the breakup.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
The Whispering Star
The Whispering Star (Gothic Narrative Style) In midnight’s grasp beyond the sphere, Where silence thrived and none could hear, A single star began to wake— Its gleam a wound the void did make. Not born from light nor heaven’s flame, No angel knew it, spoke its name. It shimmered cold, a haunted spark, A pulse that moved through endless dark. The wise-men turned their eyes in dread, For ancient texts had once half-said: “A star shall rise with voice of none, And speak in silence what’s undone.” Its shimmer flickered Morse-like screams— A stuttered code that shattered dreams. It watched. It waited. Never slept. It fed on thoughts the dreamers kept. A scholar traced its silent arc, Then vanished in the moonless dark. His notes remained, with scribbled fears: “It knows my mind. It whispered near.” A girl would wake with hollow eyes, Draw towers crumbled in the skies. She whispered words in tongues long dead: "The star has thoughts it hasn’t said." It moved against all cosmic law, No orbit held, no force could draw. Some said it crawled where time was torn— A beast disguised in stellar form. Its watchers faded one by one, Each stared too long, then came undone. And on each wall where eyes had bled, That star was drawn in streaks of red. Then came the night it ceased to burn— The blackest void, no light’s return. But in that dark, we heard a sound— A whisper deep beneath the ground. Now every child dreams the same, A voice that softly speaks their name. And somewhere, just beyond the bar, It waits… that ancient, whispering star.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
