love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
A Love That Transcended
In the city's vibrant streets, where art and music filled the air, Alex, a young and talented artist, lived for his passion. His paintings were a reflection of the city's energy, its rhythm, and its beauty. Every brushstroke, every color, every detail was a testament to his love for the city and its people. Alex's art was his escape, his sanctuary, and his soul.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
A Love Enveloped in Mystery
The city streets whispered secrets to those who dared to listen. For Alex, a young artist with a heart full of passion and pockets empty of wealth, the city was his canvas, his muse. He painted its vibrancy, its life, its soul. Every alleyway, every street corner, every face that passed by was a potential subject for his art. His paintings were a reflection of the city's energy, its rhythm, and its beauty.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
A love that burned bright, only to vanish in the shadows
The lantern festival came to Willowbrook every autumn, when the river sparkled under a thousand floating lights. It was there, in 2015, that Luca, a boy with patched jeans and calloused hands, first saw Amara. She stood by the water’s edge, her silk dress catching the glow of the lanterns, her laughter soft as the breeze. Luca, barely twenty, worked odd jobs at the docks, his pockets empty but his heart full of dreams. Amara, a year younger, was the daughter of Victor Hargrove, the town’s wealthiest man, owner of Hargrove Industries, a company that employed half the town.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
Forever Yours: Sweet Words to Bridge the Gap
The gravel crunched under Clara’s boots as she walked the familiar path to the old postbox on Maple Lane. It was a relic, its once-vibrant green paint now faded to a soft sage, kissed by years of rain and sun. Every Tuesday, for forty-two years, she’d made this pilgrimage, a single envelope in hand, her heart stitched into every word. The ritual began when she was twenty, her hair still long and her dreams still wild, and Henry was the boy who made her believe in forever.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
Should You Hold On, Or Let Go?
When it comes to emotions, I believe the best approach is this: You can still appreciate the things you like, but you must allow yourself to not have them for the time being. Similarly, you can still oppose things you dislike, but you have to allow them to exist.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
This Body Is Not a Battlefield
I used to believe my body was a thing to be conquered. I thought if I worked hard enough, punished it fiercely enough, shaped it into some image of perfection, I would finally feel peace. I would finally feel worthy. But the truth is, for most of my life, my body and I were at war. It began quietly—subtly. Not with hatred, but with comparison. A glance at a magazine cover. A comment passed at the family dinner table. The silent noticing that my thighs touched while others didn’t. That my belly didn’t lay flat in dresses. That no matter how much I held in my breath, something always felt like “too much.” By the time I turned thirteen, I had internalized the battlefield. I began keeping score—calories, steps, flaws, and victories. I would suck in my stomach in every mirror, pinch the skin at my waist, and wish I could peel it away. I believed that shrinking would mean winning. That control over my body meant control over my value. And the world rewarded me. “Wow, you’ve lost weight!” “You look amazing—what’s your secret?” “You’re so disciplined.” I smiled. I pretended those words were medals. But they were chains. Every compliment tightened the grip of my disordered thoughts. I wasn’t being praised for being healthy. I was being praised for disappearing. No one talks about how lonely it feels to be applauded while you’re slowly falling apart. My hair thinned. My periods stopped. My joy vanished. But I kept pushing, kept waging war, because I thought if I gave up—I would lose. But what exactly was I winning? The moment everything shifted was quieter than I expected. I wasn’t in a hospital or at the end of some dramatic breakdown. I was sitting in the shower, knees pulled to my chest, exhausted—not just physically, but spiritually. I remember whispering, almost to myself, “I’m tired of fighting.” And that’s when I realized something that broke me and healed me all at once: this body isn’t the enemy. It never was. My body had carried me through every storm. It held me through grief. It healed wounds I didn't even understand. It tried to tell me I was hurting long before I ever listened. It didn’t ask to be punished. It just wanted to be trusted. That day, the war began to end. Not all at once. There were setbacks. I still flinched at my reflection. Still heard echoes of old voices telling me I wasn’t “enough.” But slowly, I began to unlearn. To rebuild. To choose softness instead of shame. I started feeding my body because I loved it—not because I was afraid of it. I moved not to burn calories, but to feel alive. I allowed rest without guilt. I stopped following people online who made me hate myself. And I started dressing in ways that made me feel radiant, not hidden. One of the hardest parts of healing is that it doesn’t look glamorous. No one throws you a party when you choose to eat instead of skip a meal. No one cheers when you stop weighing yourself or delete the tracking apps. But those small acts of peace? They’re revolutionary. My body, now, is no longer a battlefield. It’s a garden. It’s a home. It’s a canvas of stories—stretch marks from growth, scars from survival, curves carved by time and care. It breathes, it bends, it breaks, and it builds. And I love it—not because it looks like the world’s ideal, but because it’s mine. I wish I could go back and hold my younger self—the girl counting calories in her notebook, running until her legs gave out, trying to carve herself into someone else’s image. I would whisper to her what I know now: “You don’t have to earn your existence. You don’t have to shrink to matter. This body is already enough.” If you’ve ever felt at war with your body, let this be a ceasefire. Not tomorrow. Not when you lose ten pounds or tone your arms. Now. Today. Look at your body not as an obstacle—but as an ally. Listen to it. Feed it. Move it. Rest it. Because you are not the war. You are the warrior. And warriors deserve peace. ---
By Jane Smith about a year ago in Poets
