heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
TRICKLES OF TIME
1/We are trickles of time that fall off freely together with the ticking seconds leaving behind numbers. Naked amidst the busyness named as days...We are wanderers of fate that intertwine tackle the rivers of destiny. And never be able to digest the future.; Because we are just God's Boatswhich never the ends. Looking for its own estuary.2/We humans are mortal beings. 'Always stammering spelling the word love in prayers'. Going from one silence to another (feeling happy). Then the world is like a mirage full of expectations. We humans walk the road in thirst. We are humans travel the distance, on a path built from the desires of others (feeling alienated).
By Shafa Ichwanusabout a year ago in Poets
Echoes Between the Lines
Echoes Between the Lines A Poetic Journey Through the Silence of Unspoken Words --- There are silences that scream louder than any voice. Spaces between words that weigh heavier than memory. We speak so much, and yet, say so little. In the quietest moments of our lives—just before the goodbye, just after the confession left unsaid—we feel the ache of language that never arrived. This poem is not about what we say. It’s about what we leave behind in the air, between the lines, in the quiet pauses where our souls try to speak but our mouths do not follow. --- I. The First Silence You stood at the door with your hand still on the handle. I sat on the couch, the air between us no longer warm. You didn’t say it. I didn’t ask. But everything was spoken in the hush. Sometimes, words fail not because we don't know what to say— but because we fear what they might do once they're free. So we swallow them, let them nest in the corners of our hearts, like dust in forgotten places. You left. And the door didn't slam. It sighed. --- II. The Garden of Unspoken Things There’s a garden I keep Where everything I never said grows wild. Apologies with roots like ivy Stretching around missed birthdays And love letters I never sent. The air there smells of nostalgia— Of rain on dry ground Of perfume from someone who doesn’t wear it anymore. It is not a peaceful place, But it is mine. Each flower a sentence that got caught in my throat. Each thorn a hesitation. And still I water it— Even now. Even when I know Some things grow best in silence. --- III. Echoes in the Hallway There was that night. You remember it, too. The hallway light flickered like it knew we were both about to say something we wouldn’t. I reached for your hand, but not quite. You turned your face, just slightly. And the space between us suddenly felt like miles. How can you measure silence? In inches? In seconds? In missed chances? Or maybe it's best measured in the sound of your own heartbeat when someone walks away without looking back. --- IV. The Weight We Carry I carry the weight of what I never said. To friends who needed kindness. To lovers who needed truth. To myself, most of all. Some days, I wonder if words rot. If they spoil like milk left out too long. I feel them inside me— Curdled phrases, expired affection. But I also carry the beauty of what silence taught me: That not every truth needs to be spoken, and not every silence is empty. Some silences hold entire conversations we weren’t brave enough to start. --- V. Ghosts Made of Breath You come back to me in dreams, not as a voice but as a hush. I hear you in the creak of my floorboards, in the whisper of curtains moving though the windows are shut. You ask me things with your eyes. And I answer with my guilt. In that dream-world, I say it. I tell you everything I couldn’t when you were real and hurting. But I always wake up before you respond. --- VI. A Letter I’ll Never Send Dear You, If I had said what was in my heart, maybe we’d be different now. Maybe we’d still be strangers— but at least not liars. I held back because I thought silence was softer than truth. Because I was taught not to bleed in front of others. But I’ve since learned that silence can cut deeper than a scream. If you’re out there— I hope you’ve found someone who says it all. Who doesn’t leave you wondering what they meant when they said nothing at all. With everything I never said, Me --- VII. The Sound of Healing There is a different kind of silence now. Not empty, but still. Not lonely, but whole. It comes at night when I no longer replay the past. It lingers in the morning when I sip tea and forgive myself a little more. I have learned to listen to the space between heartbeats— to let silence speak, but not define me. Because now I know: Words don’t always have to be loud to be true. And sometimes, the most honest parts of us are found in what we never say. --- VIII. Closing the Gap We spend our lives trying to be understood. But maybe we should spend more time trying to understand what’s left unsaid. The next time silence visits you— don’t rush to fill it. Sit with it. Listen. There are echoes between the lines. And sometimes, they speak with more grace than we ever could.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
Gratitude Day
This is now my fourth Mother's day without you You're not with me, but both alive and well So for that I am so very lucky I'm sad, but I am aware it could be worse A friend of mine's teen daughter Went missing April of last year She has not since been found My heart truly breaks for her She text me happy mother's day today She knows I suffered my own loss So we shared a mutual silent sadness When I said happy mothers day back But it reminded me to be thankful Because I at least know you're both safe I know you're needs are being met And that I don't have to fear daily for you I am grateful that even if not this one Or even the one in the next year or two That I have the chance to have one again Once you're both 18, if you so choose. Emphasize the IF, but for me, I still have hope. I love you V, and I hope you reunite with your daughter someday soon ❤️.
By Tressa Roseabout a year ago in Poets
Darkened Grief.
No one ever truly heals from grief. It’s a forever thing. We might go on smiling, laughing, and enjoying the sun on our skin, but inside, there’s a darkness that even the brightest light can’t reach. Grief is a constant—like a dark cloud swirling inside us, always waiting to strike. It’s like lightning, or a snake hidden in the bushes—silent, patient. Grief waits for the perfect moment to knock us off our feet.
By April Kirby.about a year ago in Poets
