Every Day Poems

Being a writer
is like an open ticket for the
world to observe what goes on
in your mind, to read aloud your
shambled thoughts
and invade every angle.
Like a garden with flowers,
they pluck out their favorites
and trample the grass.

— Myra

In the end, I realized it was never just about the hurt—the sting of being wounded by people I adored, or the sharp edge of their words cutting where I was most vulnerable. Even as the pain lingered, I found myself loving them deeply, perhaps even more fiercely than before.

But something essential shifted.

I no longer trusted them. I could no longer look into their eyes and feel the warmth of being able to open these wounds without the fear of being pushed down.

I could never be the same again.


#agony

~©Darkpit

KID. ADULT. KID.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn to draw.
As an adult, I don't
even know how to draw
a boundary.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn to say no.
As an adult, I struggle
to decline.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn to maintain.
As an adult, I have
only learned to mess
things up.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn to let go.
As an adult, I cling
even to toffee wrappers,
given by my loved ones.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn to live.
As an adult, I merely
survive and rest less.

If I were a kid again,
I would learn what's
necessary,
so I wouldn't have to
unlearn what's not.

~ jeeya

It's almost sad,
Almost sad when they sound
different around others,
When you'll notice you haven't
seen this part of them.

It's almost sad,
When you know it's because
they're not comfortable around
you,
Or perhaps you don't give
them enough reason to be
themselves.

~Myra

It isn't a place on earth but a moment in time I wish to escape to.

The silhouette that a cactus tree casts on a red car with the sound of flute filling a room like an incense floats and conquers a space. It transfixes my gaze inside the black like a black hole absorbs all.

And though nothing exists for the pleasure of my sight and the reassurance of my mind I know there lies beneath it a sense of wonder and calm that can subdue the most chaotic of voices.

In the month of November,
when you bought that white blanket for me so dearly,
I felt loved and adored, purely and sincerely.
This gift of yours keeps me warm,
shielding me from all harm.
The chilly winds can’t reach me,
because this white blanket protects me.

White like a swan, soft like snow,
it speaks of your love each time I wrap it slow.
It taught me what warmth, comfort, and coziness mean —
I never thought, even after you left, I’d still feel this serene.
It reminds me of your gentle, steady presence;
the fabric always feels so delicate on my skin.

Your love is here, still with me, in this white blanket —
I never got to say this, but thank you for gifting me this warmth, I'll never forget.

– Iris

Words lay heavy on my ribcage
And I’ve tried pouring them on paper yet the heaviness is still the same.
It’ll only disappear once I pour them into you.
But I can’t.
So I hope you’re reading this.
I’m sorry how things turned out between us.
I’m sorry I never gave you a second chance,
I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions,
I’m sorry I misunderstood, and rushed into deep thinking.
I’m sorry,
but my bruised heart,
fears being given back to the person who punched it.
Wether you meant to or not.

Breathe into this dead air and you shall know the desperation of acceptance,

Breath into those delicate eyes and you'll forever instill the agony of a slow burning dance,

Breath into the heart that was raided and you'll know your hands can't be a steady balance,

Breath into your intoxicated senses and you'll know the taste of a longing trance.

        -so don't breath in, breath out.

A very loud scream from the vocal cords can be heard by everyone,
But a very loud scream from the soul can be heard only by a few, if any at all.
It is a sad reality, isn’t it? That a thousand of silent cries for help go by unnoticed, not because people don’t want to listen, but because they can’t hear them.

But sometimes we are unable scream because we are drowning in our own pain,
Sometimes we are unable scream because we have lost our voice to inner demons and can’t seem to find it again.
And sometimes we have been silent for too long,
that we have forgotten how to scream.

Our soul tries to compensate through small, silent signals and expressions, subtle signs of our inner pain.
But if these signs are a scream,
shouldn’t everyone be able to hear them, then?
Yet many seem deaf to these inner cries, blind to what is invisible but damn obvious.

So when our signs are not enough and our silent pleas for help do not reach anyone, we are forced to turn the mental pain into physical.
We press our body against the inner pain, a bush of thorns that pierces through our skin. It’s as if we have to break through our own skin just to get the help that we so desperately need.
Our agony,
Now visible for all to see.

We thought we had chosen to show these signals,
But when we no longer can eat, no longer can talk, no longer can sleep;
When we become utterly exhausted, with dark circles beneath our eyes and our skin pales, our body shows signs of fatigue, it eventually becomes clear
that it was never a choice to begin with.

- Original in Swedish