Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

Who Am I When No One Is Watching

I wear faces like clothing.
This one for work,
that one for love,
another when I'm alone
and don't want to be.

They all fit,
and yet none belong to me.

Some nights,
I strip them off one by one,
until all that's left
is the question:

Who am I
when no one is watching?

The answer doesn't speak.
It just breathes —
softly,
like a truth afraid
to be known.

 

[Edna]

Crowded Silence

The city hums —
cars, footsteps, neon veins.
Millions moving,
each alone.

We share space,
but not stories.
Our eyes meet for seconds,
then flee like guilty secrets.

I have seen a man cry
in a crowd of thousands,
and no one noticed.
Not because they didn't care —
but because everyone
was holding back tears of their own.

This is the new wilderness —
a jungle of lights,
where hearts echo
and never collide.

---

 

[Edna]

Plastic Hearts

We have learned to smile for cameras,
but forgotten how to smile for each other.
Our kindness now comes with filters,
our anger with hashtags.

We measure worth
in likes,
not in laughter.
We chase validation
like thirsty ghosts
in a digital desert.

Progress, they call it.
But sometimes I wonder
if we traded warmth
for connection
and forgot
they are not the same thing.

 

[Edna]

The Price of Everything

We have built temples of glass
and called them dreams.
We trade time for numbers,
souls for status.

We pluck the earth bare
and ask why it bleeds.
We drown in abundance
and still hunger for more.

The world spins on profit,
not compassion —
and the poorest pay
with the weight of their silence.

One day,
when gold loses its shine,
we'll remember
that nothing we bought
was ever enough
to fill the heart.

 

[Edna]

The Small Light Still Burns

The world breaks itself daily —
in headlines,
in hearts.
And yet —
somewhere,
someone still plants a tree,
still writes a poem,
still believes in morning.

Hope does not roar.
It flickers —
trembling, quiet,
fragile as breath.

But it endures.
It always endures.
Even when the world forgets it,
hope waits —
like a candle
in the ruins.

 

[Edna]

The Weight of Ordinary Days

I wake,
and the sky looks the same as yesterday.
Coffee burns the tongue,
news burns the heart.

We chase clocks,
build lists,
call it progress —
but every night,
we return to the same quiet ache.

We are the walking exhausted,
haunted by to-do lists
and forgotten dreams.

Yet even in the numbness,
there's something beautiful
about surviving the day —
about breathing again
despite everything.

 

[Edna]

Paper Children

We built castles out of cardboard,
and believed they'd never fall.
We were kings with scraped knees,
queens of dust and laughter.

Then the years came,
softly cruel —
replacing innocence with "responsibility."

Now our castles are offices,
our crayons turned to pens
that sign away hours
for someone else's dream.

And sometimes,
when the world is quiet,
I still smell the glue
of paper crowns —
and remember the joy
of ruling nothing,
but feeling infinite.

 

[Edna]

A Feast for the Hungry

They say we all have the same sky,
but some stand under roofs,
and some under rain.

The rich dine with silver,
the poor with silence.
The earth gives enough,
but greed demands more.

I've seen a child
smile over half a meal —
and a man curse
because his glass was not full enough.

How strange,
that those with less
often carry more light.
Maybe the soul grows
in the empty spaces
we fear to enter.

 

[Edna]

Dreams That Refuse to Die

Some dreams grow old
but never fade.
They live in cracked notebooks,
half-written songs,
eyes that still search for morning.

The world laughs at dreamers —
calls them foolish,
calls them lost.
But it is the dreamers
who plant the seeds
that save us.

So chase your impossible.
Even if it breaks you,
even if no one believes —
the stars are not so far
from those who dare
to keep reaching.

 

[Edna]

The Machines Do Not Sleep

Screens glow like artificial moons,
lighting rooms
where silence once lived.

We scroll through strangers' smiles,
forgetting our own.
Our hearts beat in pixels now,
our souls upload themselves
to timelines.

Once,
we watched sunsets.
Now,
we watch notifications.

And yet,
beneath all the noise,
something in us still whispers:
remember the grass,
the wind,
the warmth of a voice.

The machines do not sleep —
but we must.
Or we'll forget
we were ever human.

 

[Edna]

The Last Autumn Leaf

The wind bends the trees,
and leaves fall like whispered confessions.
Each one is a life ending softly,
a memory that drifts across the cold earth.

I stand among them,
barefoot,
listening to the quiet decay.
Autumn does not apologize
for its endings.
It only reminds us
that every death
is the promise of spring
somewhere beyond our eyes.

 

[Edna]

Letters Across the Horizon

I write to you in the spaces between waves,
in the sigh of wind through old rooftops,
in the silence of a night too long.

Distance bends the heart,
twists it into shapes it never knew,
but still it beats — stubborn, alive.

I imagine you reading these words
and wonder if my soul
touched yours across the miles.
Love is not measured in proximity;
it is measured in endurance,
in the quiet courage
to hope,
to wait,
to feel despite absence.