sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
When the Moon Loved a Girl
She strolled unshod through midnight, not since the world had harmed her, but since it had overlooked her. Her heart was delicate thunder wrapped in quiet, reverberating in places no one challenged to listen. Each evening, she climbed the slope behind her little town, where the wind whispered privileged insights through pine trees and the sky extended wide sufficient to hold her pity. The moon observed her. Not like a man observes a lady, but like a soul recognizes another soul still learning how to sparkle through the breaks. The stars flickered over, flashing in deference, but it was the moon that remained. Each night. Immovable. Calm. Steadfast. He never inquired her to grin. Never requested delight from her distress. Instep, he reflected the delicate silver of her despondency, making it see like enchantment. She would whisper her considerations into the sky. "Will I ever be more than nearly?" "Will somebody remain, indeed when I am unloveable?" The moon never replied in words, but his light continuously extended a small closer, brushing her cheek like a guarantee, like: "You as of now are." And so, a young lady who felt like sunset started to gleam in pieces. A few evenings, she would chuckle once more. And in spite of the fact that her giggling was broken like porcelain, the moon held each shard as sacrosanct. There came a time she didn't cry as much. She begun planting blooms at the best of the slope. To begin with violets, at that point lavender, at that point sunflowers— like trust sprouting beneath the night sky. And the moon? He gleamed brighter. Since adoring her didn't cruel sparing her. It implied seeing her gotten to be her claim protect. One night, she remained a small longer on the slope, eyes closed, palms open to the stars. And after that she whispered, “I think I'm affirm now.” The moon did not dim. He did not turn absent in pity. Instep, he shone with calm delight, knowing that he had never been her light— as it were the reflect to assist her discover her claim. And as she strolled back down the slope, the night still wrapped around her, but so did the warmth of something else— a self rebuilt, a heart re-bloomed, a young lady now not holding up to be chosen since she had chosen herself. Still, when the moon looks down, he grins delicately. For in his noiseless, ethereal way, he had cherished a young lady. And she had at last learned to adore herself.
By Maharuf Islamabout a year ago in Poets
