Write poetry. Get feedback. Discover poets.

In silence, words disappear, Unspoken—louder than any sound. A heart longs to be understood, But the world is too vast, too harsh. A voice is lost in the noise— Not because it isn’t there, But because it’s afraid to be heard. A soul bears the weight of mistakes, Carrying the heaviness of regret, Trying to mend what was broken. And then—I see...

The Iron Cage** Within a prison built of bone and sinew, He dwells, a captive, where no sun shines in. His flesh, a battlefield where armies clash, And joints, once fluid, now are bound in ash. Psoriasis, a crimson, crawling tide, Leaves burning trails where life should freely glide. Arthritis, with its gnawing, twisting grip, Has stolen...

You made a comment today. And suddenly I was back— Not in a memory, But in a feeling I thought I’d outgrown. That room with too many voices, Too many eyes that never met mine, Only glanced, judged, And moved on. They never said I was too much. They didn’t have to. It was in the empty seat beside me, The way they shifted in shared silence, As if my...

They call her a voice of brown pain, But we’ve heard louder cries, from fields soaked in sacrifice, from mothers who buried sons, not metaphors. They sold us short, for lowercase lines and over-capitalized lies— as if formatting could mask the absence of truth. She speaks of lands she never walked, names wounds she never bore, calls for borders...

Goodbye my old friend, You’ve slowed in your old age You should know, your openness and creativity Helped break me from my cage I may be the only one who visits you now But I hope you wake up Some way, some how, If anyone reads this You’re in the right place Please come here often And quicken my friend’s pace Thank you to all who’ve come and...

I am not the face you see, Nor the body that you claim. I am the whisper in the wind, I am the call of the same. Not bound by land, nor by creed, Not by the words you speak or write, I am the spark within your soul, The silence that holds the light. Moksha, Tawhid, or Christ’s embrace, Brahman’s heart, or Allah’s grace— These names are threads,...

thousands of miles from where my name means something in a city where no one knows me— it still feels like home. not the warm kind. not the kind with open arms and someone waiting at the door. the quieter kind. the colder kind. the kind i’ve known for as long as i can remember. i’ve always known loneliness. it was never loud. just steady. like...