sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
Leaky Faucet
A. My thoughts are a leaky faucet B. Drip drop (Make it stop)
By Bixi Hernandezabout a year ago in Poets
Plastic Hearts in Concrete Gardens
I passed a tree today—Or was it a lamppost shaped like one?Its leaves made of solar panels,Photosynthesizing data instead of sun.A man stood beside it,Scrolling through the void,Searching for meaningIn an algorithm’s ploy.He wore ambition like perfume—Sprayed thick in the morning,Faded by dusk.His dreams stored in spreadsheets,His laughter in drafts.He had no time for sunsets,No language for stars.Only meetings and deadlines,And invisible scars.O modern man!You builder of towers,Drinker of lies,How you have bartered the skyFor a fluorescent flicker,The fragrance of soilFor a silicon whisper.You speak in emojis,But feel nothing inside.A thousand “likes”—And still your soul cries.Once, men wept at poetry.Now they scroll past itTo watch a cat dance.Once, love was inked on parchment.Now it’s swiped left—Or worse, left unseen.You—yes, you—Who once painted myths on cave wallsNow snap selfies before mirror malls.Your gods wear brands,Your prophets post reels,You bow not in templesBut before touchscreens of steel.Tell me, O child of machine,When did silence become awkward?When did the wind lose its voice?When did you trade the forest’s sighFor the ringtone of shallow choice?You walk through gardensBut see no bloom—Only Wi-Fi signals,And digital gloom.The bee hums its sermon,The river chants psalms,Yet you answer onlyTo vibrating alarms.Nature waits—Patient as a forgotten mother.She sends butterfliesAs handwritten notes.She weaves clouds like poemsAcross the morning’s throat.But you read none.Your eyes—barcoded.Your heart—remoted.Your soul—overloaded.Where is your affection?Where is your awe?Your sense of beautyNow obeys the lawOf viral trendsAnd sponsored ads,Of flawless filtersAnd grinning fads.O man of concrete dreams,Have you not tiredOf conquering machines?Have you not hungeredFor a touch unscanned,A whisper that needsNo broadband?Your gods once asked for prayers,Now they ask for data.Your spirit once bloomed like spring,Now it ticks like beta.And still you pretend—Pretend that this is progress.Pretend that your emptinessIs just success in process.You laugh in pixels,Cry in memes,But feel no fire,No depth, no dreams.How many friends do you needBefore one listens?How many photosBefore one captures your soul?How many roads pavedBefore you noticeYou’ve buried the meadow whole?You’ve mastered space,But lost your place.You’ve mined the stars,But missed the graceOf holding handsWithout a screen.Of hearing “I love you”Without a machine.There is no poetry in your breath,Only caffeine and carbon.There is no stillness in your step,Only errands and burden.You boast of freedomsWhile wearing chainsOf finance, fear,And fabricated gains.O modern man—How much more shall you forget?Your childhood laughter,Your grandmother’s gaze,The taste of rainIn simpler days?You bury the moonBeneath neon lights,Replace lullabiesWith podcasts at nights.You know the priceOf everything you own,But not the costOf a rose fully grown.Listen!For the sparrow still sings,Though you deafened your earsWith wireless things.The earth still breathesBeneath your wheels.The sky still dreamsDespite your deals.Return.Not to the cave,But to the cave of heart.Not to the past,But to the partOf you untouched by code.Unlabeled, unread,But very much alive—Though nearly dead.Seek not the noiseBut the hymn behind it.Touch the grassAnd truly find it.Let not your legacyBe chrome and cement,But the echo of a manWho finally went—Back to his soul,To truth and trees,To mystery, love,And deeper seas.So here’s a mirrorIn words I write:Not to shame you,But reigniteThe fire you leftIn a forest, forgotten—Where truth still growsAnd man is not rotten.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
The First Time We Forgot to Feel
The first time I cried,I was a breath wrapped in silence,not shame.A mother’s lap—a temple.A father’s palm—a planet.Even pain had poetry back then.They say, the first time is divine.Unrepeatable.Like the first fire we touched,and learned: it burns.But modern man,he walks through fireand calls it home.I remember the first time I lied—it wasn’t for greed,nor to gain.It was fear—a soft, trembling beastasking me to survive.But the first time we lied and felt nothing—Ah, that was modern.That was industrial.That was branded in chrome and Wi-Fi,and no one wept.The first time we loved—yes, I recall it clearly.Love wore no labels,spoke in clumsy, sacred stutters,hands sweating truthlike a prophet too young to preach.But now,Love comes with terms and conditions.It expires in inboxes,like spam in the soul.We match. We swipe. We ghost.We call this progress.The first time we touched art—do you remember?Finger-painting the chaos of our hearton grandmother’s wall,and calling it masterpiece?She smiled. She knew.But now,Art is a code,filtered in aesthetics,algorithm-approved beautywithout blood.We don’t make art—we manufacture content.The first time we questioned God,He didn’t burn us.He listened.He waited.But the first time we replaced Himwith trends and influencers,He vanished from our eyeslike a lost bookmarkin the holy textwe never finished.And now,we mock what we once bowed to.We drown in debatesand stay thirsty for wisdom.The first time I stood against injustice—I trembled,but my spine remembered Eden.My voice was untrained,but it struck like thunderin the courtroom of conscience.Now?We share a post,forget by lunch,and pat ourselves for braveryfrom the comfort of the couch.The first time we saw death—it wasn't in films.It wasn’t sanitized.It smelled, it wept, it cracked something holy in us.We asked: What lies beyond?Now we ask: How many likes did their tribute get?The first time we kissed—it wasn’t perfect.Teeth clashed, breath battled,but our souls danced barefooton the edge of forever.Now,We kiss like rehearsed lines.We love like we're waiting to leave.We marry contracts,not hearts.I recall the first time I saw the starsand believed they were watching me.I prayed without words.My faith wasn’t a religion—it was awe.But now,We mock mystery.We dissect meaning.We laugh at wonder.Our telescope grows sharperas our vision dims.We are the sons of prophetsand daughters of poets,but we walk like orphansabandoned by meaning.The first time I read a book—not for school,but to escape,to bleed into the inkand come out wiser—I met myself between the margins.Now,We scroll.We skim.We forget.The first time we failed—we cried.But we learned.Oh, how deeply we learned!Failure was a teacherdressed in ashes.Now,Failure is a meme.We don’t fail.We “rebrand.”The first time we heard music—not noise,but soul,something that made the bones weep—we knew we were not machines.But now,Beats without depth.Noise without nuance.Songs with no sadness.And hearts with no echo.The first time we lost someone—it was not just a person.It was a universe gone.We remembered every breath,every laugh,every unfinished sentence.Now?We archive them.Filter them.Forget them.We let death trend and die again.The first time I prayed—I wasn’t told how.I just fell inward.There was silenceso loud,even angels paused.But modern man—he prays for Wi-Fi.For views.For viral resurrection.We traded altars for screens.Sincerity for sarcasm.Soul for sale.The first time I apologized—I meant it.I bled it.It was more than a word;it was humility singing in the ribs.Now?We type: "Sorry if you were hurt."And call it closure.The first time I was alone—I wasn't lonely.Silence was a symphony.I met the stranger insideand he spoke truthsthe world had forgotten.But now,Solitude terrifies us.We fear our own thoughts,so we bury themunder noise and narcissism.The first time I held a child—I trembled again.Life was reborn in my arms.That small weightheld every answer I ever sought.But we raise childrenwith screens,with fear,with deadlines,not lullabies.We are men of ambition,but not of purpose.Women of brilliance,but not of peace.We do everythingfaster.Sharper.Cheaper.But never first—like it matters.Because the first time we feelis the last time we’re human.And I ask you now,dear reader,have you rememberedyour firsts?Or have you edited themout of memory?The child in you still weepsfor the first snow,the first “I love you,”the first time you meant itwhen you said:“I’m afraid.”But we have become menwho wear armor of ironyand womenwho bury love in logic.We are the speciesthat forgot to feel.The generationthat laughs at depth.The civilizationthat celebrates the hollowand shuns the whole.And yet,the first time I wrote this poem—I felt something again.I remembered.So maybe,maybe you will too.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
