It's all in Poetry

I've been searching for the right words to put in my poems. Counting syllables against the weight of someone's approval, wondering if a poem falls silent when the wrong person doesn't hear it. “They will always be mountains to cross, and we all have to bear the cross the cross to success.” Yes, there are many people who need these words. But what about those who need something else? The stories coated in lines, the emotions spilled like paint, the words that don't promise everything will be okay. So when I pick up my pen and write about a single mother struggling with herself and the world, or a couple frightened by their own love, or someone standing at the edge of a decision they don't know how to make know that it is poetry. Not every poem has to speak to everyone. Maybe it only needs to find the one person who sees themselves between the lines. The one who needed someone to put their feelings into words. The one who thought they were the only one. So I will keep...

  This drum has been beating for the past hour inside my chest, keeping my hand warm within my fiancé’s. His right hand rests on the steering wheel. Locked in. I’m in love with this man, I repeat like a parrot, over and over, trying to grow comfortable inside the words. Words I’ll soon announce to the world, claiming you as mine like nothing has changed. Like the bruised skin beneath my dress doesn’t still ache from this afternoon. How bold of you to dress me up like a present before taking me to meet my parents, your fingerprints still fading beneath my sleeves. And somehow, between traffic lights and your hand squeezing mine, I almost convince myself this is what love is supposed to feel like.

  This garden I didn’t know I was growing A garden with thorny roses that survived every storm, Sunflowers that danced with their rainbow of friends, And tulips that whispered hello with every passing breeze. Growth doesn’t have to be pretty to be real. Its roots have survived storms I don’t even dare to look back at, Lightning strikes I pray the heavens never send again. Yet here stand the colours I’ve created Shades shaped by imperfect attempts at perfection, Colours made special because they’re flawed. Because they’re mine. So take a look… I think I did a good job I never knew my petals held this much quiet beauty. It’s funny, you know I was growing all along. I just never stopped to notice it. Never stopped to appreciate me . Or the quiet privileges God gave me. It’s never too late to see, to feel, to bloom.

Harmless How did the flowers I planted smell? "Just like you, my love." I didn't think twice. Why would I? It seemed harmless. "Baby, you're late." "Work was exhausting. I fell asleep at my desk." But you brought me flowers. So I let it go. "You changed your perfume?" "Yeah. Thought I'd try something new." "I don't like it. Too feminine." You laughed. "Come here. Let me give you a massage." And I did. Slowly surrendering to sleep, your hands as gentle as they'd always been. The roses filled the room, their perfume smothering every question I was too afraid to ask. For a while, it worked. Until flowers began to wilt. Until sweetness began to rot. And when decay finally revealed what beauty had hidden, I realised you had always been an excellent liar.

  Hope is a force of belief, Helping us navigate life's mischief. Hope is something we all possess, Something we nurture and strengthen. Hope guides us through the good and bad, Giving us a reason for living, A reason to be strong, whatever the circumstances. Hope—something we must always hold on to.

Afloat, I go into the clouds, With a heart as light as a feather. Happiness overwhelms my soul, Changing my stormy weather, Turning my day sunny, With butterflies and flowers, For a colorful day. So, make each day the best, By simply being you.