love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
Human angels
They are like angels dressed in the nothingness of everyday life. Their brightness fills every chaos and deafness, entering the silence of the mind without saying anything. With a smile and a glance, they say more than anyone else after hours of conversation or lectures. They enter the soul and purify it. Their sound is the most delicate particle of existence that a human being can perceive. , and she carries information for the youngest to make their lives better and for the oldest to make their lives better. She believes and acts, she does not introduce doubt, she gives faith and strength, she does not squeeze, but teaches by herself and her work, giving herself completely but not forgetting about herself.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 9 months ago in Poets
Loved by Two
When Two Silences Loved the Same Name She had a way of entering rooms without announcing herself. Not loud. Not shy either. Just… present—like sunlight finding a crack in the wall and deciding to stay. Her name was Ayla, and people often said she was beautiful, but that word never stayed long enough to describe her. Beauty felt too flat. Ayla was movement. She laughed with her whole body. She listened as if words mattered. She noticed small things—torn book spines, tired eyes, the way silence sometimes begged to be spoken to. Two boys loved her. They loved her differently. And that difference mattered more than any of them understood at first. Evan loved Ayla quietly. He loved her the way you love rain when no one else is around—standing still, letting it soak you, never asking it to fall harder. Evan was steady. He remembered things Ayla forgot she had said. He brought her tea without asking when her voice sounded tired. He sat beside her, never in front of her, never behind—always close enough to share warmth. Evan didn’t announce his love. He practiced it. Lucas loved Ayla loudly. Not careless—just intense. He loved her like fire loves oxygen. Lucas made grand gestures. Late-night calls. Words that arrived wrapped in poetry and urgency. He looked at Ayla as if she were the answer to a question he’d been asking his whole life. When Lucas entered a room, people felt it. When he loved, people noticed. Including Ayla. At first, Ayla didn’t choose. She laughed with Lucas and rested with Evan. She danced in one world and breathed in another. She told herself it was harmless—just connection, just life happening. But hearts don’t live in theory. They live in moments, and moments began to stack like unsent letters. Lucas asked questions about forever. Evan asked how her day had been. Lucas wanted Ayla to be his future. Evan made her feel safe in the present. The truth arrived quietly one evening. Ayla had a bad day—the kind that leaves your bones tired. She didn’t want noise or answers or passion wrapped in promises. She wanted stillness. Lucas called. His voice was warm, hopeful, full of plans. She let it ring. Evan didn’t call. He showed up. No speech. No expectations. Just a bag of groceries and a knowing smile. He cooked while she sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest. He didn’t ask her to explain. He didn’t try to fix her sadness. He shared it. And in that quiet kitchen, with steam rising and night settling into the windows, Ayla felt something click—not loudly, not dramatically. But completely. Choosing someone doesn’t always feel like fireworks. Sometimes it feels like coming home. Ayla chose Evan. Lucas didn’t beg. That’s what surprised her most. When she told him, his eyes didn’t harden. His voice didn’t sharpen. He listened—really listened—and nodded as if he had suspected this ending long before it arrived. “I loved you out loud,” he said softly. “But you loved him in peace.” Lucas walked away with his dignity intact and his heart bruised but beating. He learned that loving deeply doesn’t guarantee being chosen—and that loss doesn’t mean failure. Some loves teach you how to stay. Others teach you how to survive leaving. Evan never celebrated winning. He simply kept loving Ayla the same way he always had—patient, attentive, unafraid of quiet. He understood that love wasn’t a prize to claim but a responsibility to carry. And Ayla? She learned that love isn’t about intensity alone. It’s about consistency. It’s about who remains when the noise fades.
By LUNA EDITH9 months ago in Poets
It was not love, it was a disease
Maybe she recognized him, but pretended that she was no longer there, that all those memories and experiences had turned her into someone he would never know again. The last flame of love, lit a year ago, full of hope, continued to toss her life left and right, straight ahead, until suddenly it fell inexorably to the ground and said, “Enough, this will never happen again.” Your chosen one will never happen. It is a walking illusion of hatred towards yourself and others. The fire went out forever, the flames died down, and she never spoke to her again.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda 9 months ago in Poets
68 Whiskey
sixty eight whiskeythe crucial care of cold boneswhen winter's voice wars * A/N: "68 Whiskey" (pronounced Sixty-Eight Whiskey) refers to the U.S. Army's Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) for the Combat Medic (Healthcare Specialist), using the NATO phonetic alphabet for the numbers and 'W'. These medics provide crucial emergency medical care on the battlefield, acting as first responders for injured soldiers, managing trauma, and offering primary care, often holding EMT certifications.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden9 months ago in Poets
