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.

Even though the road was rough with thorn and cry,

And nights fell heavy on your weathered brow.

Still, morning leaned its gold against the sky,

And dared you to begin again somehow.

The storms have carved their truth upon your skin,

With winds that sang of loss, and rains that stung.

Yet in their rage, they taught the strength within,

The song you’d never known your soul had sung.

But oh, remember, not just dark and gale,

Not just the hollow ache of trials passed.

There were sunrises soft and sunsets pale,

That held you close when nothing else could last.

A hush of fire upon the waking hill,

A lavender goodbye across the sea.

These moments, small and luminous and still,

Were love’s own way of setting your heart free.

So walk, dear soul, through shadow and through light,

And let each dawn restore what storms have worn.

For even sorrow, tempered by the night,

Must kneel in grace when golden day is born.

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.

Live life unfettered 

Lasso the Morose 

Seek not only the sullen

For there, a lily can never grow

Darkness and Light, the circle of life

Always cherish the beauty 

that blazes through the night

Be a seeker of knowledge

Whilst traveling through the sands of time

Your brilliance beckons 

Those who wish to shine

May your viridescent dancing orbs

Never dwell too long in desolation 

Let Lunar dreams harvest your divine energy

And soak into the roots of your soul 

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.

What if I told you, in hush not heard, but felt,

That the ache you name as longing

is the echo of a promise kept?

Not in some far-off fortune,

but in a chamber of the Now

where time folds in upon itself

like linen soft with memory.

You want it deeply, don't you?

That golden glint behind your ribs,

the ache that doesn’t bruise but burns,

not a wound, but a whisper.

It is not born of lack.

It is the future’s fragrant breath

blooming backward into your soul.

These aren’t dreams, my love,

they are breadcrumbs dropped

by a wiser You who’s already danced

through that doorway,

wearing the life you crave

like sunlight wears the morning.

Intuition isn’t guessing,

it’s remembering,

as the river remembers the sea.

Desire is not begging,

it is recognition,

a soul pointing to its own reflection

just beyond the veil.

So walk like it’s yours.

Breathe it. Speak it.

Dress your days in its colour.

Let the vision not be a someday shrine

but a mirror, a map, a marrow.

Because what you want is not ahead,

it is within,

waiting only

to be believed in.

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.