sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
The Sadness Of Fand
Introduction This is my tenth piece inspired by Justine G. Cappelli's beautiful artwork. This is a Dechnad Cummaisc inspired by the artwork rather than the actual legend, but taking in elements from Justine's story of the legend that inspired the painting.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 5 months ago in Poets
The Version of Me Who Stayed
I did not bury her. I dragged her. That’s the ugly truth. I dragged her through locked doors, through old messages, through rooms where nobody asked why I got so quiet. I dragged her through every almost-love that knew how to hold me just close enough to keep me starving. And she let me. That’s the part I hate. She kept calling it loyalty when it was really fear with better posture. She kept saying, just give it time, like time hadn’t already put its hands on her throat. She stayed where she was unwanted and called it patience. She apologized for bleeding on the knife. I want to be gentle when I talk about her. I want to say she was young. Say she was trying. Say she didn’t know better. But some nights, I look back at her and think, girl, how many times did they have to show you the door before you stopped decorating it? How many silences did you have to swallow before your stomach started calling it home? She was not weak. No. Weak would have left sooner. She was something worse. Hopeful. Hope will have you standing in the ruins with a broom in your hand, trying to make a house out of damage. Hope will make you holy to people who only ever wanted somewhere soft to wipe their hands. I lost her slowly. Not in one clean break. Not with thunder. Not with some beautiful, movie-scene goodbye. She went missing in the middle of my own life. A little less voice. A little less laugh. A little more “it’s fine” with teeth marks in it. I still find pieces of her. In my chest when someone takes too long to answer. In my hands when I want to reach for what already hurt me. In the sick little part of me that still wants an apology from people who would choke on accountability before they ever swallowed pride. I mourn her. The girl who answered anyway. The girl who waited like waiting was proof she was worth coming back to. The girl who confused endurance with love because nobody taught her the difference before the damage did. I mourn her, but I do not want her back. Let her stay gone. Let the soft little fool rest. Let the loyal little ghost stop haunting my hands. I am done building shrines out of what almost killed me. I am not healed. Do not put wings on this. I am still angry. Still scarred. Still reaching for myself in places I should have never had to crawl out of. But I am here. And she is not. That is not peace. That is what survived.
By Tifani Power 5 months ago in Poets
