Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

The Smell of Rain on Old Letters

I found your letters today —
creased, yellowed,
tasting of years.

I read them
like one drinks from a forgotten well —
with fear and need.

Your words still know how to hurt,
but they also know how to hold.

Outside,
rain fell softly —
as if the sky, too,
was trying to remember
and forgive.

 

[Edna]

What the Heart Keeps

I have let go of so many things —
names, places,
whole seasons of my life.

But not you.
Not the quiet way
you once looked at me
as if I were something
worth staying for.

Time has taken everything else.
But memory —
it refuses mercy.
It keeps what the heart
was never meant
to forget.

 

[Edna]

The Noise Inside

My thoughts are not quiet.
They rattle like bones in a drawer,
each one whispering a different what-if.

Anxiety is not loud to the world,
but inside —
it screams.

You learn to smile
while your pulse runs like wildfire,
you learn to speak
while drowning in invisible air.

And yet,
every morning,
you rise again —
proof that even chaos
can learn the rhythm of survival.

 

[Edna]

Fear Wears My Face

I see it in the mirror —
the same reflection,
but the eyes are older,
haunted by what they imagine.

Fear walks with me,
hand in hand,
like an unwanted twin.
It knows every door in my heart
and rattles them at midnight.

But courage —
courage is not the absence of fear.
It is the whisper that says,
"Step forward anyway."

 

[Edna]

The Pulse Beneath the Storm

There are nights
when my chest feels too small
for my own heartbeat.
It hammers,
it claws,
it begs to escape.

Panic —
it is not death,
but it feels like meeting it halfway.


Still,
beneath the storm,
there is a pulse that refuses to quit.
It says,
"You are still here."
And somehow,
that becomes enough.

---

 

[Edna]

The Fire and the Tremble

Courage is a fragile thing.
It shakes,
it sweats,
it cries before standing.

People think it roars —
but sometimes,
it only whispers.
Sometimes, courage
is just breathing
when your body says run.

It's not glorious.
It's raw.
It's survival.
It's the quiet rebellion
of staying alive
one more hour,
one more heartbeat.

 

[Edna]

Fear, Meet Light

I once believed fear was my enemy.
Now I see it as a teacher.
It drags me through darkness
only to show me
how bright a single flame can be.

Every trembling step
is still a step forward.
Every tear
is proof of effort, not weakness.

And when dawn breaks,
it doesn't shout —
it simply arrives,
soft and golden,
like courage returning home.

 

[Edna]

The Weight of Ordinary

We wake,
we rush,
we fill the hours like boxes on a shelf.

People pass,
faces blur,
and somehow this — this endless motion —
is called living.

We speak of dreams between deadlines,
of freedom between traffic lights.
We smile through exhaustion,
call it duty,
call it being good.

But late at night,
when the world pauses to breathe,
we hear the truth:
that the ordinary
is just the beautiful we forgot to notice.

 

[Edna]

The Place That Time Forgot
Once, I ran barefoot through sunlight,
and the earth knew my name.
The wind was a friend then,
and rain — a story waiting to be told.


Now the road is paved,
the trees are gone,
and I walk carefully,
afraid to stain my shoes.


But sometimes,
a smell — of dust, of mango, of rain —
tears open the years,
and I am there again:
a small voice laughing in eternity,
not yet aware
how far time carries us
from ourselves.

 

[Edna]

The Ones the World Forgets
They build the cities,
but do not live in them.
They harvest the fields,
but go hungry at night.

Their hands are cracked maps
of a country that ignores them.
Their names are written
in the dust beneath wealth's feet.

Injustice is not a scream —
it's a silence,
a turned head,
a closed gate.

And yet—
they rise each morning,
with eyes still burning with dignity,
with hearts that refuse
to forget their worth.

 

[Edna]

The Fire That Won't Die
Dreams begin small —
a whisper in a crowded mind,
a spark inside the noise.

The world will tell you,
"Be realistic."
As if gravity owns the soul.

But dreams are stubborn.
They live in sleepless nights,
in the pulse beneath failure,
in the quiet promise
that tomorrow might still listen.

So light your fire,
even if no one else sees it.
Sometimes,
burning alone
is how dawn begins.

 

[Edna]

Screens
We talk more,
but speak less.
We share,
but rarely touch.

Our faces glow
in blue light silence,
our souls scroll endlessly
looking for something
that feels like connection.

The world fits
in the palm of our hands —
and yet we feel smaller,
emptier,
more distant than ever.

We built a net to catch the world,
but forgot
how to hold each other.