sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
Young, Assaulting Movie-Beings
My— an experience, that will never escape. They’re too young to be assaulting. It's the same scary movie we used to live... right? with me in it— seeing the young and the arrested. Illegal possession, unlawful entry, and young with— and vested. Movies— "I have a dream" of becoming a hip-hop artist. “You’ve made your bed,”— I said! Now, lie in it. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
The Girl in the Mirror"
I. The Quiet Arrival She came into this world not with a roar, But a whisper folded in a lullaby. Eyes like stormclouds yet to form, A softness only silence could define. In a cradle of gentle hopes, she lay, Unaware of the battles waiting beyond day. II. The Girl with Ribboned Hair Pigtails tied with fraying pink lace, A gap-toothed smile, dirt on her knees. She built castles with broken sticks, Danced in puddles and climbed tall trees. She named the stars and called them friends, She thought the sky would never end. But somewhere behind the giggling sound, A shadow tiptoed across the ground. III. The Bruises No One Saw At school, she wore long sleeves in June, Said it was cold, though summer sang. She stared too long at empty space, Flinched at every sudden bang. They called her quiet, shy, or odd— But never wondered why she was flawed. Behind closed doors, she learned to fake A smile, for everyone else's sake. IV. First Love, First Break Then came a boy with a crooked grin, Who said she was “different, in a good way.” He traced poems on her skin with lies, Then left without a word one day. She searched the silence for his name, Blamed herself, shouldered the shame. A heart so young, too soft to bleed, Now learned how pain could plant its seed. V. The Storm Inside She cried in bathrooms, bit her lip, Let mascara run like rain. Her reflection looked like a stranger’s face, Half-mad with love, half-drunk on pain. She painted on her warpaint smile, And said she’d be okay in a while. But deep within her aching chest, The hurricane would never rest. VI. The World’s Demands They told her: “Be smart, but not too smart— No one likes a girl who knows too much.” “Be pretty, but natural— Fake girls are easy to judge.” “Be strong, but sweet— Don’t be loud. Be neat.” She learned to shrink, to dim her fire, To live beneath the world’s desire. VII. The Breakdown She broke once in the middle of a mall, Collapsed among bags and staring eyes. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak— The weight of years had split the skies. Paramedics came; she laughed through tears, “I guess I’ve been holding back for years.” They didn’t know that behind her skin, She fought a war she'd never win. VIII. Rebirth in Quiet Places She found healing not in noise, But in the hush between her thoughts. She started writing letters to herself, Forgiving all the love she’d lost. In broken journals, she made peace With scars that begged for their release. She learned that even fractured wings Can feel the wind and learn to sing. IX. The Woman She Becomes She now walks like she owns the air, Not because it was gifted—but earned. She grew from seeds of buried pain, In every heartbreak, she discerned A strength she didn’t know she held— A soul that would not be compelled. She doesn't beg to be understood. She only asks to be seen as good. X. The Mirror Speaks Back Now she stands before the glass— No makeup, no shame, no pretense. And the girl in the mirror, once afraid, Now stares back with fierce defense. “You are still here,” she softly says, “After all the loveless yesterdays.” She touches the face once lost in tears, And sees a girl who survived the years. I held your name like breath at dawn, A fragile thing that won’t stay long. The silence now is not quite peace— It’s just the place where you’re not seen. Each memory a fading thread, Still warm, though all the words are dead. If missing you were something small, I’d bury it— But it’s my all. Final Lines She was never just a fragile thing, Though the world mistook her for one. She is storms and sunrises mixed in flesh, She is the moon after the sun is gone. And though she walks with wounds beneath, Her soul still sings through broken teeth. This is the girl the world tried to bend— But she rose like fire, in the end.
By Israr khanabout a year ago in Poets
Memories I Wish I Could forget
I close my eyes but the past keeps playing like a film I never asked to watch. It doesn’t rewind. It repeats. Over and over until it feels like now. A laugh that wasn’t real. A goodbye that came too early. A promise never meant. I touch today but yesterday grips my fingers. It whispers in the voice I thought I forgot. I want to forget. But my mind remembers in colors too sharp, in sounds too loud. And I hate how some memories don’t fade they follow Still, I stand. Still, I breathe. Still, I walk forward with shadows on my heels. I carry them, not because I want to but because they remind me what I’ve survived.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
If Silence Could Speak
If Silence Could Speak By [Huzaifa dzine] If Silence could speak, she would not raise her voice. She would slip into a room like dusk at the end of day—uninvited, inevitable. You wouldn’t notice her at first. You’d hear her in the pause after a slammed door, in the space between “I’m fine” and everything left unsaid. She would perch on your shoulder like a breath you forgot to take, waiting to be heard but never demanding.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Poets
Recycled Memories
Recycled Memories By [Huzaifa dzine] I still remember the taste of her tears. Not my tears—hers, though somehow they passed through me like water through porous stone. I was seven, standing in Grandma Marguerite’s kitchen, listening to her whispers as she stirred the pot of bean soup. The wooden spoon clacked against the sides, but I heard something deeper: a trembling in her voice, a memory she carried like an heirloom passed down through generations.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Poets
The Ghost in My Mirror
The Ghost in My Mirror By [Huzaifa dzine] Every morning, I see her. She stands just behind the foggy sheen of the mirror, where my reflection should be. Her eyes mimic mine, but they are older somehow—haunted. Her skin carries the same freckles I have, but they’ve turned pale like faded ink. Her shoulders slump with a weight I never agreed to carry. Still, she waits there every day, wordless but watching, as I splash water onto my face and pretend not to notice.
By Huzaifa Dzineabout a year ago in Poets
This Poem is an Apology to Myself
I don’t know exactly when I stopped being kind to myself. Maybe it was the first time I looked in the mirror and believed someone else’s definition of beauty instead of my own. Or maybe it was the quiet moment I didn’t speak up in my defense—thinking silence was strength, or that pleasing others was more important than preserving myself.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Poets
