sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
About Your Bestie. Content Warning.
Hey it's Bixi. You're red lip coffee sipping bestie and adventurous poetess. I've been writing poetry since I was a kid. Something else I enjoyed writing as a kid, tall tales. I loved how exaggerated they could be. How big my imagination could get and I always wanted them to be really funny. As a teenager I'd take little notebooks and fill these notebooks with humorous short stories. In these stories the main characters and all other characters where friends and people I knew. If you know anything about my sense of humor, I'm sure you can imagine just how stupid these stories were. Let me clarify for those of you that are starting to get to know me. By stupid, I mean stupid funny. These stories were absolutely ridiculous, yet comical.
By Bixi Hernandez4 months ago in Poets
Fact or Fiction
Fact or Fiction Depending on who’s asking Tell me— do you want the truth, or the version that keeps things easy? Because I’ve learned answers aren’t always about honesty. Sometimes they’re about safety. Sometimes they’re about survival. Fact or fiction— it depends on who’s asking. If you come gently, I might hand you something real, something unpolished, still breathing, still fragile in my palms. But if you come with judgment hidden behind curiosity, if your questions feel like traps instead of bridges— then I’ll give you fiction. Not lies— just edited truths. The kind that fit your expectations, the kind that don’t challenge what you’ve already decided about me. Because truth is expensive. It costs vulnerability. It costs being seen without a guarantee of being understood. And not everyone earns access to that. So yes— sometimes I rewrite the story. I swap out pain for “I’m okay,” replace confusion with confidence, turn chaos into something that sounds like control. And you nod, satisfied, because it makes sense to you. But sense is not the same as truth. Fact or fiction— it shifts with the room, with the tone of your voice, with whether your presence feels like a place I can rest or a place I have to defend myself. Because the truth is— I am both. I am the story I tell and the one I keep hidden. I am honesty and hesitation. I am the version of me you understand and the one you never will. So if you’re asking— be careful how you ask. Because the real answer isn’t just in my words… it’s in whether I feel safe enough to give it to you.
By Samson E. Gifted4 months ago in Poets
Heaven, Are You Listening?
Heaven, Are You Listening? Faith spoken through clenched teeth I don’t come gentle anymore. Not with folded hands or polished prayers that sound like certainty. I come with fists in my mouth, holding back questions that taste like doubt. Because faith— the kind they taught me— was supposed to feel like peace. But mine feels like pressure, like trying to believe while everything around me is breaking the promise. Heaven, are You listening? Or am I just speaking into a sky that learned how to echo but never answer? I’ve whispered. I’ve shouted. I’ve gone silent long enough to hear my own heartbeat beg for something back. And still— still— the quiet stretches. They say, “Trust the process.” They say, “He’s on time.” But time feels different when you’re the one waiting with empty hands and a heart that’s tired of hoping in circles. I want to believe. I really do. But belief isn’t always soft. Sometimes it’s sharp, like holding onto something that keeps slipping through your fingers. Sometimes faith sounds like clenched teeth, like, “I’m still here… even when I don’t understand.” Because I’ve seen people lose everything and still say “God is good.” And I wonder— is that strength, or is that surrender to a silence we’ve learned to name holy? Heaven, are You listening? Because I am still speaking. Still showing up with words that don’t feel holy enough, with doubts that refuse to bow, with a heart that keeps breaking and calling it devotion. If You’re there— meet me here. Not in perfection, not in polished belief, but in this raw, unfiltered reaching. Because this— this trembling, stubborn, questioning kind of faith— is the only kind I have left.
By Samson E. Gifted4 months ago in Poets
I Am Not a Machine
I Am Not a Machine A rebellion against burnout worship I was taught that worth is measured in output— how much I can carry, how long I can run without collapsing in public. So I turned myself into a system: wake, work, produce, repeat. No errors allowed. No downtime permitted. No room for the quiet voice that kept asking, “Is this living… or just functioning?” They called it discipline. I called it survival. Because in a world that claps for exhaustion, rest starts to feel like failure. You scroll and see the grind glorified— “no days off,” “sleep when you’re dead,” like burnout is a badge of honor you earn by slowly disappearing. But listen— I am not a machine. I do not run on commands. I do not reboot after every breakdown like nothing cracked inside me. I feel things. I break. I pause. And none of that makes me less worthy. I am not a factory of productivity, spitting out results to prove I exist. I am not built to be efficient at the cost of being human. Because there are days when my mind is tired before the morning even begins, when my body whispers “stop” but the world keeps shouting “go.” And I’ve learned— ignoring that whisper turns it into a scream. Burnout doesn’t arrive loudly. It creeps in quietly, disguised as ambition, as “just one more task,” as “I’ll rest later.” But later keeps moving. And suddenly, you don’t recognize yourself outside of what you produce. So this— this is my rebellion. I choose rest without guilt. I choose balance over applause. I choose to exist beyond deadlines and expectations. Because I am not a machine. I am a person learning that slowing down is not falling behind— it’s coming back to life.
By Samson E. Gifted4 months ago in Poets
Progress Still Bleeds
Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds (But I Keep Walking) Even Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds in Silence Progress Still Bleeds, Just Not Like Before Where Progress Still Bleeds Progress Still Bleeds Beneath the Surface Progress Still Bleeds, and That’s the Truth Progress Still Bleeds Through the Smile Progress Still Bleeds—But It Moves Forward
By Samson E. Gifted4 months ago in Poets
