Poem 010

A girl once sat with a broken mind,

Tangled in thoughts too cruel, unkind.

Each whisper told her she was less,

A fading echo, a wretched mess.


She watched her dreams like shattered glass,

Scattered beneath the weight they cast.

A ghost in daylight, hollow-eyed,

No spark, no flame, no will, no pride.


But when the light refused to stay,

The shadows came, and made her stay.

Not demons now, but quiet friends,

Who taught her how the darkness mends.


They wrapped her close, not with deceit,

But steady arms, and truth beneath.

"You are not weak," they softly swore,

"You are the storm, the coming war."


And so she rose on midnight’s tide,

With fire stitched through every stride.

No longer begging fate to see

She forged her path, she found her key.


The dream once lost now burned anew,

A legacy that she would hew.

Not strings upon her wrists again,

She holds the threads, she writes the end.


She puppeteers, with steel and grace

No longer lost, no longer chased.

The girl they broke, she’s not the same

She is the darkness. She is the flame.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

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Poem 027

A girl chased a lantern that floated ahead,

Through forests of whispers where moonlight was spread,

She thought if she caught it, she'd finally know,

The place she was meant to arrive at and go,

So onward she followed wherever it led.


But dawn came too quickly and dimmed its bright flame,

The lantern grew distant and altered its name,

She stood in the clearing with nothing to chase,

Then saw golden sunlight spill over the place,

And realized she had arrived just the same.


The journey had given her more than the light,

It taught her to walk through the depths of the night,

She no longer needed one beacon to guide,

For she carried a spark that was burning inside,

And followed its glow toward the morning's wide sight.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

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Poem 025

A frozen window catches threads of white,

Drawn by an unseen hand throughout the night,

Each branch appears, then slowly disappears,

A fleeting kingdom made of frozen tears,

Too delicate to last for many years.


No seed was buried underneath the floor,

No careful gardener opened up a door,

Yet beauty found a place to take its form,

And held its ground against the winter storm,

As though the cold itself could keep it warm.


Perhaps the things we hide are made this way,

They need the quiet shelter of the gray,

They gather strength beyond the public eye,

And only bloom when noise has passed us by,

Then fade before the world can ask us why.


The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to be open to multiple meanings. Keep your thoughts to yourself or share them here - I'd love to hear how this poem resonates with you.

Read more