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 Civility of Sorrow
There is, I have observed, a peculiar cruelty in those afflictions which announce themselves long before they arrive. Joy, with all her generosity, appears unexpectedly, asking nothing but acceptance. Sorrow, however, possesses the manners of a distinguished guest. It writes ahead. It allows one ample opportunity to prepare the room, to anticipate every word of its conversation, and to surrender peace before it has crossed the threshold.
By Taylor Ward2 months ago in Poets
The geography of scars
The kitchen clock ticks out a heavy rhythm in the gloom, The scent of funeral lilies lingers in the hallway room. I watched my father's ashes drift into the ocean spray, And stood before a grandmother's cold corpse the other day. Inside the funeral home, the quiet marble floors were chill, The smell of polished wood was sharp, the air was dead and still. My grief is like a heavy fog that makes the daylight blur, And yet my empty, aching arms are reaching out for her. For my own flesh and blood, who spins inside a different storm, A fragile, shaking girl I used to cradle and keep warm.
By Dianna Hoiland2 months ago in Poets
Out of time
I am running out of time. The morning traffic rushes down the street, As hurried businessmen and commuters meet. I sit inside my car and check the clock, While angry drivers start to swarm the block. I rush to meetings, checking off my list, Chasing the promotions that I might have missed. I sprint through airports, working on the fly, And watch the golden years go rushing by. Too busy building up a grand career, To notice autumn blending into the year. I am running out of time.
By Dianna Hoiland2 months ago in Poets
Measures
We’re taking measures to secure the state. A memo lands upon the crowded desk, To shield the ballot from the Kafkaesque. The system’s dismantled with careful cuts, To fix the system’s deep, systemic ruts. The agency that managed voting lines Is fired, cleared, and bent to new designs. With strict directives aimed at every zone, The federal fist begins to claim the throne. If local targets dare to hesitate, We’re taking measures to secure the state.
By Dianna Hoiland2 months ago in Poets
