inspirational
Inspirational poetry is just the thing to lift your spirits or rejuvenate your creativity.
Can You Love Without an Outcome?
Don't deny the journey just because there's no outcome. Every moment of joy and sorrow is a way to adjust your course toward happiness. The increasingly clear image of happiness in your heart is the star that guides you.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
BACKSEAT BLUES. Content Warning.
Backseat Blues I had a dream the other night. This morning, I was thinking about the world today in 2025. My thoughts took me back to 1955. My poppa owned a 1953 Chevy. We drove everywhere in that car. I remembered an event in 1955. I was five years old and as I watched the trees, mountains, deserts fade away as my poppa drove that Chevy like he was king of the road. Mom and Dad were cool. Now I am seventy-six. I closed my eyes today, drifted back to midnight as I lay in the back of that old yellow 1953 Chevy listening to Hank Williams on the radio sing, '‘I am so Lonesome I Could Cry.” I can still hear my poppa sing that tune softly. Mom would look over at Poppa, smile, then turn back and smile at me. I would hum the tune, then cry. I looked up at the stars, and I asked God, the Universe, “Was I Born Before?” For a day I dreamed about my archives, and I am now smiling at the end of the evening before midnight as I can still hear my Poppa sing to Hank Williams as we drove that old 1953 yellow Chevy down life’s highway.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
The Room I Stayed In
I’m sitting in a room I barely recognize. The walls are chipped. The corners hold pieces of me I swear I threw away. Old versions of myself are scattered everywhere— the girl who begged for love, the one who let everything slide, the one who thought she’d never make it out alive. The floor creaks when I breathe. Light sneaks in through the blinds, like it’s been trying to find me this whole time. Dust floats in the air, and I just watch it fall— settling on everything I used to be. I used to think healing meant repainting, making it look brand new, like none of this ever happened. But now I think it’s this: sitting here with all the broken pieces, letting the cracks stay cracks, letting the dust stay dust, letting the flowers push through on their own. There are weeds here too, and memories that still hurt if I touch them. But the room is alive— and maybe that’s what matters. Not making it perfect, but letting it breathe again. So I stay. I stay long enough to hear my own heartbeat, to feel the floor steady beneath me, to know I am safe here. I stay until I believe it.
By Carolina Borgesabout a year ago in Poets
