sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
He Promised Forever, Then Left
He found me when I wasn’t looking. A quiet smile, a soft voice that wrapped around my loneliness like sunlight on a cold wall. He said my name like it mattered, like it had never been an afterthought before. We walked roads that felt endless, laughing at skies that once made me cry. He held my hand like he would never let go. He promised. Forever. And I believed. Oh, I believed with everything I had left. I opened my chest and handed him my heart— no armor, no mask, just me. Raw. Real. Ready. But forever was shorter than I thought. He left. No reason. No war. Just… emptiness where his voice used to live. I waited for an explanation. It never came. I searched for the version of me I gave to him— but she was gone, still standing in the place where he said goodbye. Now I write poems he’ll never read, about nights he’ll never regret, about love that felt like magic but turned into a ghost. I don’t hate him. But I ache. Because some endings don’t break you— they hollow you, slowly, silently, until you don’t know if you were ever loved at all.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
Puppets
I woke with strings attached to my arms and legs. I was quite young when I first saw them on others, but when I mentioned it, nobody seemed to know what I was talking about. They dismissed it — as adults do with a lot of things children say they see. But no. Now I’m older, and they’ve appeared on me.
By Willow Sjodenabout a year ago in Poets
The Silence Between Us
We used to speak with eyes, not words. Laughter echoed in spaces where language was too small to hold what we felt. But now, the silence between us is heavier than sound. It sits at the table, invisible, but always between our hands. You ask, “How was your day?” I say, “Fine.” But I mean— I missed you. I remembered when you used to care. When your voice felt like home, and not a stranger’s tone. We sleep on the same bed, but dream on different planets. The distance between your shoulder and mine feels like a thousand years. What happened to the fire we swore would never go out? Was it the rain? Or did we let the match burn out in our hands? Whatever it is, this silence is louder than screaming. And I don't know how to fix what we won’t even name.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
The Moon Remembers
She waits by the window each night— not for a lover, but for the moon. The only one who’s never lied to her. Soft glow on her skin, silver fingers through her hair, a hush where pain once screamed. She tells the moon her secrets, the ones she hides from the sun. The nights she wanted to vanish. The days she smiled but felt nothing. The moon never judges, never interrupts. Only listens, gentle, constant, old enough to know how pain shapes people into poetry. She swears it shines brighter on her darkest nights. As if it remembers what she survived— and wants her to know it saw everything and still calls her beautiful.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
🌫️ “Disappear, Gently” 🌫️
Sometimes, I wish I could disappear— Not forever, Just long enough To find my breath In a world that never stops moving. --- Not to break hearts, Or cause worry, Or spark whispers behind closed doors. But to step away From the weight Of being “fine.” --- I want to fold myself Into a quiet place— A rented room, A nameless town, A coffee mug warmed by silence And a window that watches rain fall Without asking why. --- No performance. No updates. No need to explain the ache Behind my eyes Or the heaviness that sleep won't fix. --- I don’t want to be lost. I want to be Unfound Just for a moment— Long enough to let go Of being dependable, Predictable, Strong. --- Let me wander, Not far— Just away from the noise That demands I always Answer. Always appear. Always smile. --- And when I return— Because I always do— I'll bring with me The softness I found In the quiet, The strength I didn't know I was allowed To rebuild. --- So if you don’t hear from me, It’s not the end. It’s a beginning I’m reclaiming In peace, Alone, And finally, Without apology.
By Firdos Jamalabout a year ago in Poets
