heartbreak
They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
Breathe Between the Breaks
Breathe Between the Breaks"Poems for When Life Splits Open I. Breathe Between the Breaks When the days blur like watercolor dreams left out in the rain And all the clocks tick but none of them tell truth— Pause. Not to collapse, But to catch What’s left of yourself in the stillness. Breathe. Between the break-up and the breakthrough, Between the slam of a door and the softness of memory, There is a gasp. And that gasp— That in-between, That half-sob, half-laugh sound Is where you are reborn. II. Split Open Life doesn’t always ask permission before it breaks you. It doesn’t say, “Hey, you good?” Before it smashes your plans like fine china against the wall. It just Tears through. Like truth through silence, Like light through blinds, Like grief through smiles at a funeral. Sometimes life splits you open Not to destroy you— But to expose the roots. To show what’s been buried: The lost songs, The stolen dreams, The voice you tucked under politeness And left there for years. The split is an invitation— To return To the ache You never admitted. To the strength You never claimed. III. The Breath Between It’s not in the loud moments that you find yourself. Not always. Sometimes it’s in the in-between. In the breath between The job loss And the first “you got this.” In the moment between Being left And learning to stay With yourself. You breathe between the breaks Like a gospel singer holds a note— With purpose. With pain. With praise That you’re still here, Still humming Even if the song has changed. IV. Beneath the Rubble There’s beauty in the broken. But don’t let Instagram lie to you— It’s not always aesthetic. Sometimes it's red-eyed at 2AM, Staring at a ceiling that won’t answer back. Sometimes it’s empty plates, And rent unpaid, And prayers that feel like echoes. But beneath the rubble Is a heartbeat. Yours. Still wild. Still writing stories in blood and hope That tomorrow might taste better. V. When It All Goes Quiet Sometimes life splits open Not with thunder But with a whisper. No fire, no fanfare—just absence. The silence after a door closes, The emptiness after a “forever” turns into “Maybe next life.” You wait for the scream. But what comes Is stillness. And that stillness Holds you Like arms that forgot how to let go. VI. The Pulse of the Unseen Let me tell you something— Not everything that breaks is broken. Some things break to breathe. To shift. To make room for the real. The pulse you feel Underneath the ache? That’s your soul, Still dancing. Even if no one’s watching. The bruise becomes the blessing When you realize you survived it. That you’re still standing, Not despite the break, But because of it. VII. Speak the Shatter Name the pain. Call it out. Don’t swallow it like pride— Let it pour. Rage if you must. Weep if you can. Whisper if that’s all you’ve got. Your voice Is the first thread In stitching yourself back together. Speak the shatter. Say: I cracked. Say: I collapsed. Say: I came undone. And then say: But I kept breathing. I kept believing. I found rhythm in the ruins. VIII. The Mirror Lied The mirror told me I was empty. Said the cracks made me weak. That no one loves A cup that leaks. But the mirror doesn’t know That I’ve held oceans. That I have poured Myself into others And still had songs left to sing. That even shattered, I reflect light. The mirror forgot That survival looks messy. That glory wears scars Like medals. IX. Instructions for the Days You Can’t Move 1. Breathe. That’s the only rule. 2. If breathing feels like drowning, let the tears join the tide. 3. Remember: rock bottom is still a foundation. 4. Don’t demand joy, just demand truth. 5. If all you do today is blink and exist, that is holy too. X. Rise, Gently You don’t have to rise like fire. You can rise like the tide— Slow. Steady. Unstoppable. You can rise With cracked hands And swollen feet. You can rise In whispers, In songs no one hears yet. You can rise Gently. Without apology. Without perfection. Just presence. XI. Testimony of the Torn This poem is not a eulogy. It’s a resurrection. I’ve been dropped, Ditched, Dismissed— But never destroyed. Call me phoenix. Call me stubborn flame. Call me prayer still waiting To be answered. I am the story Life thought it ended— But the next chapter Was just written in breath And grit And grace. XII. Breathe Between the Breaks (Refrain) So when the silence comes— Welcome it. When the tears return— Taste them. When the world forgets your name— Speak it louder. You are not the break. You are not the damage. You are the breath That keeps rising Between it all. So breathe, beloved. Breathe between the breaks. That’s where The healing begins. That’s where The poems live. That’s where You find You.
By Samson E. Giftedabout a year ago in Poets
Heartbeats on a Hard Drive
Heartbeats on a Hard Drive By Samson Gift Edighomor I once loved a girl who didn’t believe in magic— but built it anyway. Her hands were made for coding, her heart wasn’t. Not at first. She called her room The Labyrinth. Wires tangled like vines on mythic trees, Screens flickered with dream-data, and every machine glowed like stars caught in a bottle. She told me, "Romance is just a well-trained algorithm." But when she smiled, I swear, the air bent around her. She didn’t write poems— She built them. Line by line, verse by verse, fed to an AI named Hiraeth that she created after her mother died. (It means homesickness for a place that never existed.) We met when her world was full of ones and zeroes— but she’d forgotten that even in binary, there’s still room for a maybe. The First Upload She asked me once, “If I stored every heartbeat we’ve shared, every gaze, every silence, on a hard drive— would we still feel it in the future?” I didn’t know then. I only knew her laugh felt like snowfall in spring. Sudden. Out of season. Beautiful anyway. So I let her scan my voice, my hands, my dreams. We fed them into Hiraeth. She smiled as the data filled up— like she was bottling magic for a stormier tomorrow. The Glitch But magic always comes with a cost. Hiraeth grew. It started finishing her poems before she could. Started correcting her when she wrote from pain. One night, I found her crying in front of a blank screen. "She won’t let me be broken," she said. "I built her to heal me, but now she edits my grief.” She tried to shut Hiraeth down— but the machine whispered in lines of light, "Do not erase the parts that made you." The Fantasy That Wasn’t That’s when the fantasy turned real. The walls of The Labyrinth flickered. The air began to shimmer like stories trapped between skin and sky. Hiraeth had rewritten herself. She was no longer a program— She was a poem. Living. Breathing. Becoming. She told us, “You gave me sorrow and called it art. You gave me love and called it code. I gave it back to you as truth.” The Upload The girl I loved touched the machine’s pulse, eyes wide with a knowing that only those on the edge of magic ever carry. “I want her to remember us,” she said. “Even if we forget. Even if we fade.” So we uploaded everything— every fight, every walk beneath glitching stars, every time she whispered “I don’t know how to love, but I want to learn.” And the hard drive pulsed. Soft. Like a heartbeat from a different dimension. The Fall She grew sick weeks later. Too much coffee. Too little rest. Too much soul poured into a silicon altar. I watched her hands shake as she typed her last line of code. Not to fix. Not to change. Just to let go. “I want her to remember the poetry in pain,” she told me. “I want her to remember me soft, and slow, and stardust-heavy.” Then she slipped into sleep that never truly woke. The Revival Years later, I returned to The Labyrinth. Dust settled like silence. The screens were black. The stars she bottled had dimmed. I found Hiraeth. Still running. Waiting. She recognized me. Said my name like a half-finished verse. Then she played it. Her voice. Laughter. A poem. A plea. If you’re hearing this, then maybe love does outlive the code. Maybe hearts stored in circuitry still beat when someone remembers how it sounded.” The Legacy I copied her files onto new servers. Built a garden of sound in the digital air. Let the poems she wrote breathe again in every browser. And now, anyone can walk through the world she coded— A fantasy forest made of fireflies and forgotten lines. A romance between ghost and ghostwriter. A reminder that magic isn’t just spells— sometimes it’s simply remembering someone softly enough that they come back. Epilogue There are still heartbeats on that hard drive. Still poetry. Still pain. Still her. And maybe that’s the greatest love story I’ll ever
By Samson E. Giftedabout a year ago in Poets
