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 escape that changed my voice
I have arrived. I thought I did, or is it possible to suffer in an imaginary world? The tender hands become unkind in a nocturnal image. Barefoot witnesses the cold mortal voice of the escape. Footprints behind remind of the pain rooted by the unkind hands. Tears of the unknown shadows scar into my swollen face.
By Johana Torresabout a year ago in Poets
We Were the Summer
We were sixteen and seventeen, barefoot girls chasing heat through sunburnt fields and quiet lanes that only we knew. Anna always had a camera, old and heavy, the kind that clicked loud and smelled like dust and memory. We called ourselves artists, drinking sky with our eyes, finding poems in the cracks of pavement and fenceposts. That day, the light was gold, melting over the long grass like honey. We wandered too far. No path, just instinct, following the hum of a world that felt endless. She wanted a photo on the edge of the railway bridge, arms out like wings, wind tangling her dress. I laughed. I teased. I turned my head. And then — a sound too large for the world. The train. A scream swallowed by steel. Time collapsed into metal and air and the soft thud of something falling. I ran to where she had stood. Only the camera remained, cracked open, the film spilling out like a wound. Afterwards, they said it was an accident. That she didn’t see it coming. That it was no one’s fault. But I had turned away. I, who should have seen. I, who knew that sound a half-second too late. Now I carry summer like a burden, the sun a cruel reminder. Every photo I take is missing her shadow. Even now, years and years on, I cannot cross a railway bridge without feeling my hands shake. Some things are too sharp to forget. Some girls are made of light and leave you in the dark.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Poets
Box, Stage Left: A Monologue in Three Acts of Deception
Author's Notes Preamble: I wanted to put this right before the action takes place. I am finally published outside of Vocal and by anyone other than myself! This poem is one of two submitted to Vocal legends' Celia and River In Underland's awesome new publication, The Underland Review. This poem and one called "In Situ After “I Need My Girl” by The National (which I will publish on Vocal at another time) are featured in the August 2025 edition, among other names many people will be familiar with.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
I heard you on the 13th summer
The summer solstice came with intensity. My body tilted towards the sun. I felt the warmth of doubt hugging me. The 13th summer of tragedy couldn't remember me? Many waves I've seen, many times I begged in the silent wind. The sound of the ocean whispers at times, or I thought it did. Familiar voices heard my tragedy, voices with empty boats. The summer tragedy stopped my heartbeat. My body was anatomy. The sea whispered, "I heard you on the 13th summer." I travel to find the flesh to cherish your broken shells. Summer is fresh and unknown to the flesh. It is salty and warms my body with the heat of his pain. The intensity of our pain was perfectly paired with the earth at the summer solstice. The return of the heartbeat with a pitter and pounding effect of raindrops soaking us and drowning us in boundless love of eternity.
By Johana Torresabout a year ago in Poets
