Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

The Hollow Inside

Loneliness sits in my chest
like a tenant who refuses rent.
It hums,
it sighs,
it pulls the light from rooms
I thought were mine.

Grief is a mirror,
reflecting a version of me
that no one sees.

Yet even here,
beneath the weight of emptiness,
I feel the pulse of something stubborn —
a rhythm that says:
endure. breathe. rise.

Pain is the teacher
that reminds me
I am still alive,
even when life feels absent.

 

[Edna]

The Soul's Compass

Before the first breath,
the soul wandered
through stars it did not yet name.

It felt eternity
stretch like a river,
and yet,
it returned to flesh
to learn the rhythm of time,
the gravity of grief,
the sweetness of fleeting joy.

Faith is not a monument.
It is the compass
we follow blindly,
through deserts, storms, and nights
we cannot yet see the end of.

Death may come,
but the soul remembers the journey,
and even in absence,
its echo shapes everything.

 

[Edna]

The Dragon in the Mist

In the valley where fog hides the river,
a dragon sleeps beneath the roots of mountains.
No one speaks its name,
and yet the air hums with its dream.

I step carefully through shadows,
aware that reality is thinner here,
that imagination bends
where the mind dares not tread.

The dragon rises —
not with fire,
but with the truth
that wonder persists
even in the bones of the world,
even when reason tells you
there is nothing left to believe.

 

[Edna]

Midnight Rain

The rain falls softly,
as if the sky is crying
for reasons it cannot name.

Streets glisten with borrowed light,
silent rivers cutting through the dark.
I walk beneath the trembling sky,
letting every drop remind me
that even storms
need to break
to breathe.

Some nights,
the rain sounds like forgiveness.
Other nights,
it sounds like the world
trying to remember
how to feel.

 

[Edna]

Where Your Silence Lives

Your silence has a sound.
It echoes in the corners of my ribs,
a hollow place
where your name still whispers.

Love is strange —
it does not die cleanly.
It leaves fingerprints on the soul,
bruises on the memory,
ghosts in the heart
that refuse to leave quietly.

I still reach for you
in moments when the world grows cold.
Not because you're here,
but because I'm not ready
to forget the warmth
you once were.

 

[Edna]

The Weight I Carry

Some days,
I am a mountain —
silent, unmoving, unbroken.

Other days,
I am a single grain of sand,
crushed by the breath of the world.

Pain doesn't always roar.
Sometimes it just sits,
like a stone in the chest,
quiet but heavy.

But still,
I rise.

Broken,
tired,
aching —
yet somehow still rising.

There is courage in that,
even if no one sees it.

 

[NavyRet]

Edna, I look forward to reading each and every one of your poems. Your words are worthy of Poet Laureate status and I am forever amazed at the depth and breadth of the feelings your writing evokes. Thank you for all the wonderful poetry.
​

 

[Edna]

When the Soul Speaks in Shadows

My soul speaks
in a language older than breath,
a whisper woven from light and scars.

I ask it for answers,
but it replies with questions —
ones I am afraid to hold.

Why do we hurt?
Why do we hope?
Why do we keep walking
through a world
that breaks and heals us
in the same heartbeat?

Faith is not certainty.
It is choosing to believe
when silence feels louder
than scripture.

 

[Edna]

The Street With No Names

There are roads in every city
where dreams walk barefoot,
and hunger sleeps beneath blankets
made of last year's newspapers.

Children grow up fast there —
too fast —
their laughter thin,
their eyes older than the sun.

The world passes them by
with headphones on,
scrolling,
hurrying,
forgetting.

But every forgotten corner
holds a story —
raw,
unpolished,
human.

And sometimes,
those stories carry more truth
than the tallest buildings
or the brightest screens.

 

[Edna]

Winter Thinks in White

Winter speaks in quiet breaths,
soft as memory turning cold.
The earth sleeps beneath a frozen quilt,
and even the wind walks slower.

Trees stand like patient saints,
holding nothing, wanting nothing,
their branches bare as unanswered prayers.

Still —
beneath the frost,
roots dream of April.
Even silence holds a secret thaw.

 

[b1u3eyes]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back after exhausted for few months. I promise.

There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.

Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It

 

[Sienna175]

Thanks @Edna tons for keep my topic alive.

I am officially back after exhausted for few months. I promise.



Shel Silverstein, Every Thing on It