Poetry Everyday

[Edna]

The Ocean Keeps Its Secrets​

They said the ship was lost—
swallowed by storms,
claimed by the deep.

But I think the sea
simply loved it too much to let it go.

Now it sleeps beneath the waves,
its timbers dreaming of wind,
its sails slowly turning to silence.

Sometimes, when the moon is kind,
you can hear it—
a sigh,
a song,
a longing for light.

Not all things that vanish
are gone.
Some become
part of the eternal tide.

 

[Edna]

The Weight of the Last Breath​

Death does not knock.
It stands at the edge of the room,
watching,
waiting for the silence to grow heavy enough to break.

The air turns thick,
the walls lean closer,
and the heart — once so loud —
begins to whisper its goodbye.

There is no sound when the soul departs.
Only the body remembering
how to be empty.

The eyes remain open,
not from fear —
but from awe.
For death is not the ending;
it is the moment the story becomes too vast
for words to hold.

 

[Edna]

When the Candle Bows Its Flame​

I watched the candle die —
not suddenly,
but in surrender.

It flickered once,
as if in protest,
then bowed its flame
like a prayer returning home.

We call it death,
but perhaps it is simply
light choosing to rest
in the dark that birthed it.

Maybe we never truly vanish.
Maybe we dissolve
into the quiet beyond sound,
into the same stillness
that waits for us all
with open arms.

 

[Edna]

The Reaper’s Mercy​

We fear death,
but death has mercy.
It comes not with rage,
but release.

It unties the body
from its constant ache,
unhooks the soul
from the chain of breath.

It closes the eyes gently,
like curtains after a long play,
and whispers —
"You have seen enough."


The living mourn,
because they cannot follow.
But the dead —
the dead walk in a silence
that feels like peace.

---

 

[Edna]

The Weight of Yesterday​

Yesterday never leaves.
It lingers at the edge of the room,
folding itself into corners of thought.

You try to move on,
but it follows —
soft footsteps in the dark.

It is not cruel.
It only wants to be remembered.
But remembering
is its own kind of pain —
like pressing on a bruise
to prove it still hurts.

 

[Edna]

When the Stars Forget to Shine​

There are nights
when even the stars grow tired.
Their light falters,
and the sky feels heavier than sorrow.

On those nights,
I lie awake and whisper your name,
hoping it might reach whatever corner
you now call home.

The world moves on —
but grief has no calendar.
It just sits beside you,
quiet,
like a friend who knows
there are no words left to say

 

[Edna]

Paper Boats​

I write my thoughts on paper boats
and let them drift down memory’s river.
Some sink fast.
Some float until the horizon swallows them.

Each one carries a fragment of you —
a smile,
a scent,
a moment caught in sunlight.

I never see them again,
but I like to think
they reach you somehow,
somewhere beyond the bend.

 

[Edna]

The Silence Between Us​

We no longer speak,
but I still hear you
in the pauses between thoughts.

You live in the air that hangs
after a sigh,
in the breath that almost becomes your name.

Distance is not the worst part.
It’s the silence —
how it learns your voice,
then uses it
to echo what’s gone.

 

[Edna]

The Last Light​

At dusk,
the world holds its breath.
The sky bleeds into the earth
and everything glows
for one last trembling moment.

That’s what love felt like —
a light that knew it would fade,
yet burned anyway.

And when darkness came,
I did not curse it.
I only whispered,
"Thank you for the warmth
before the cold."

 

[Edna]

The Things We Never Said​

There are words
that still live inside my throat,
rusted and heavy.

They come to me at night —
half-formed,
half-forgiven.

I wish I had said them
when your heart was still listening.
But silence built its walls,
and pride kept the door closed.

Now I speak them to the wind,
hoping it carries their ghosts
to wherever you are.

 

[Edna]

The Room with Your Echo​

Your laughter still lingers
in the walls of this room.
I’ve painted,
moved furniture,
changed the curtains —
but it stays.

It hides in the corners,
comes alive with the dusk light.
Sometimes I catch it
and almost smile,
then remember
how it ended —
not with shouting,
but with distance.

How strange that love
can leave so quietly,
and yet echo forever.

 

[Edna]

Forgiveness Is a River​

I once thought forgiveness
was a door to be opened.
But it is a river —
slow, winding,
sometimes dry for years.

It doesn’t erase the past.
It carries it downstream
until the edges soften,
until the stones lose their sharpness.

One day,
I looked back
and realized
I no longer bled
when I remembered you.

 

[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.

 

[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.