PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Pain, by itself, is a blunt instrument,

a raw note struck against the hollow bone of being,

it reverberates, yes, but teaches nothing

until we still the echo and listen.

For pain is not a prophet,

only a presence.

It screams, but wisdom whispers.

And only in silence can one hear

what the ache is trying to say.

When the heart bends low enough

to ask, “What is this shaping in me?”

then pain uncloaks its savage grace,

the burn becomes baptism,

the scar, a script of survival.

Reflection is the alchemy,

turning suffering into gold.

The wound that once split you open

becomes a window for light to enter.

Mistakes, now mentors; and endings,

the first seeds of beginning.

Progress does not come from avoidance,

but from allowing the flame

to temper you without consuming you.

Let it sculpt your spirit, not your story.

Each setback is an invitation to expand,

to find the pulse beneath the rubble,

the music within the bruise.

Pain without reflection is merely endurance.

Pain with reflection, is evolution itself.

They tell us time heals everything,

as though hours were surgeons,

as though calendars carried sutures.

But I have learned otherwise.

Time does not erase the wound;

it teaches the body a different gait.

The ache remains, but it dulls its blade,

no longer cutting, only whispering,

a scar that knows the weather

before the sky remembers.

And yet, in the hollow carved by loss,

something else begins to bloom.

Joy creeps in like sunlight

through the cracks of an old wall,

stubborn, insistent,

turning rubble into gardens.

We do not get over grief,

as though it were a fence to vault.

We grow around it,

branches bending wide

to make room for what is unmovable,

roots finding strength in the stone

that would not shift.

This is the quiet alchemy of survival:

pain becomes soil,

tears water the ground,

and out of what cannot be undone,

life, impossibly, flowers.

Here in this suffering, this crucible womb,

The known gods falter, their altars go blind.

Each creed, once golden, now echoes of doom,

Are stripped by the blaze of a self left behind.

The fire, a trickster, conjured by me,

Fed on illusions, I named as my truth,

Burned every surety, scorched every plea,

And laughed in the voice of my long-lost youth.

Beliefs like paper, curled in despair,

Whispered of meaning as smoke drew near;

No prayer could escape, no breath of air,

Only silence now, and the sting of fear.

Oh, sacred pyre, dark alchemist flame,

You steal without mercy, without regret.

Yet in your furnace, I learn my name,

One I had buried, one I’d forget.

Entombed in ash, no breath, no form,

Not dead, but held in the hush of becoming.

This, the still of the spiral storm,

Where soul sheds skin and blood stops drumming.

And then...

In the hush, a tremor, soft as thought.

From soot, from ruin, from what was unmade,

A flicker, a shimmer, a heartbeat caught,

A wing unfolds in the charcoal shade.

Phoenix, I rise, raw, unmasked, untried,

No longer chained to the truths I knew.

From the furnace of lies and the self that died,

Emerges a being fierce and new.

More beautiful now for the burn I bore,

More sovereign now for the faith I lost,

For to rise is not to be as before,

But to bear the bloom that survived the cost.

They do not speak of dying,

not in the quiet grocery line,

not beneath the flicker of café lights,

not when the sky loosens its robe of stars,

and oh, what a grave mistake.

For death is not some villain in a cloak,

but the oldest truth,

the shadow stitched to your soles,

the hush behind the heartbeat.

And if you dare to meet it,

not with dread, but with reverence,

you live.

Not someday.

Now.

With a fire that does not ask for permission,

you will step out of the anger rooms,

shed the shroud of “what will they think,”

and walk barefoot into your wild life,

untamed, imperfect, and exquisitely yours.

A child who has tasted death’s breath,

returns with eyes older than calendars,

not brave, but lucid.

Not reckless, but awake.

You see, it is not courage,

to sip the rain like wine,

to laugh so hard the stars come closer,

it is logic.

It is sense.

It is the compass of those who know the road ends,

so they sing while walking.

So love.

Not as a performance, but as a pulse.

Learn.

Not for praise, but for wonder.

Taste.

The peach, the kiss, the grief, the salt.

And leave behind no legacy but this:

That you were here.

Truly.

Madly.

Moment by moment, as a brief candle,

burning unapologetically in the wind.

There were words I loosed like doves in flame,

Believing then they sang my name.

They circled truths I thought were stone,

But time has taught me bone is bone.

It bends, it breaks, it mends anew,

And so, my thinking shifted too.

There were paths I carved with fervent feet,

Mistaking hunger for the heat.

I danced with shadows, dressed in pride,

I kissed ideals I now let slide.

Not out of shame, nor some disguise,

But from the way that wisdom sighs.

No, I wear no doubled face,

No costume stitched with sly disgrace.

I do not play at saint or sin,

But simply shed my older skin.

The soul, like sea, must ebb and swell,

What once was right may not still dwell.

Growth is not betrayal’s twin,

It is the echoing voice within.

That softens stone and clears the dust,

That asks, “What now deserves your trust?”

And so I rise, unchained from past,

Not fixed in marble, but made to last.

Judge me not by yesteryear,

But by the will that brought me here.

I bloom, I stumble, I redefine,

Each version still a thread of mine.

For even stars must shift their place,

And find new fire in endless space.

So let me change, and let it be,

A hymn to our humanity.

Not proof I’ve lost my truest hue,

But proof I’ve lived, and listened, too.

I close the book, its spine sighs shut,

the whisper of a thousand nights drawn in.

A chapter folds like hands in prayer,

but not all endings are so clean.

The lantern dims. The room forgets.

Yet on my fingers, dusk still clings,

not with fire, but with a bruise,

of words that bled with shaken wings.

I turned the page; it turned me back,

a mirror’s glance, a hollow swell.

The tale is done, but silence keeps,

what ink refuses to quell.

The parchment sleeps, but I remain

marked by the shadows love once wore.

We name it "past", but past is ink,

and ink remembers so much more.

So let the book stay closed awhile,

beneath the dust, beneath the rain.

The lines may fade, but not the ache,

of what was written in hurried vein.

I do not know what waits beyond

This pale horizon’s shifting seam,

The road is fog, the stars are gone,

Yet still I follow some old dream.

No map, no mark, no prophet’s voice,

No compass etched in stone or sky,

Just breath and hush, a wavering choice,

To walk, though every reason asks me why.

Each footfall hums a softer tune,

Not brave, not bold, but something near,

A whisper shaped beneath the moon,

Not “Go,” but simply, “Still be here.”

And is that not what hope becomes,

A rhythm carried in the chest?

Not knowing where the morning drums,

But rising still, and doing our best.

So let the dark be what it is,

A cloak, a gate, a sea unspun,

My soul has learned the art of this,

To step, not seeing, toward the sun.

For poetry walks where language breaks,

In silences the heart completes,

Each step a faith the future takes,

Though blind, the path beneath me speaks.

Pain is not a fleeting shadow,

nor a thief that steals in the night.

It settles deep, like roots in earth,

clutching marrow, dimming light.

It speaks in whispers, sharp and raw,

etching echoes through the bone,

a language carved in silent cries,

a weight we carry, yet unknown.

Yet, even in its cruel embrace,

where sorrow stains the breaking dawn,

the soul remembers how to rise,

though weary, aching, battle-worn.

For pain is not a sovereign king,

though it may claim the throne awhile,

it bows before the quiet strength,

that lingers in a weary smile.

We learn to hold it, not to break,

to breathe through fire, soft and slow,

to meet its presence, eye to eye,

and teach it when to stay or go.

Through tender hands, through patient steps,

we weave our wounds with threads of grace,

allowing light to find the cracks,

where love and courage interlace.

For pain is but a passing storm,

it bends, it rages, and it sways,

but hearts that learn to bear its weight,

will find their peace in softer days.

So let it teach, but not consume,

let it shape, but not define,

for even pain, when held with love,

becomes a bridge from dark to shine.

You’ve wandered long through shadowed lands,

With trembling heart and open hands,

The clocks spun slow, the sky turned grey,

Yet still, you rose to meet the day.

A thousand questions marked your pace,

Who am I now? What is this place?

But hush - the wind, it softly knows,

The soul still grows, the spirit flows.

You wore your grief like autumn’s coat,

Then shed it when the spring took note.

The stars watched on with patient eyes,

As you began to reorganize.

Your path, your pace, your whispered dreams,

No longer bound to old regimes.

You dared to laugh, to love, to try,

Beneath a less familiar sky.

And though you walk with aching feet,

The journey’s song is bittersweet.

You are not lost - you’re being led,

By threads of gold the Fates have spread.

So question all! The love, the lore,

The quiet "why," the distant shore.

You’re not alone - just newly found,

Among kind hearts, profound and sound.

Step forward now with trust, with grace,

The future waits to know your face.

For all that’s past is not yet gone,

You’re just becoming who you’ve been all along.