They can break your heart, but they can't break your soul; poetry about lost love that comforts and uplifts.
If only You loved me You held me You saw me You cared If only You listened You heard me You noticed You shared If only
By Zenaabout an hour ago in Poets
How much do you love me? John asked his Elouise, Is it that hard? Cannot you see? I threw a bottle in the ocean today
By Calvin Londonabout 2 hours ago in Poets
All roads lead to you— not in the way maps promise arrival, but in the way grief redraws every street until there is nowhere else to go.
By Brie Boleynabout 4 hours ago in Poets
You didn’t knock differently. Same voice. Same softness. Same way you said my name like it still belonged to you. And for a second,
By Lori A. A.about 4 hours ago in Poets
The days of untroubled quiet in a tension-free body and mind are rare. Life is not simple or easy, and many times, not even fun.
By Andrea Corwin about 4 hours ago in Poets
Write an elegy poem that mourns a person, place, time, or idea that has been lost. My mother, my sister and my youngest brother are all gone
By Denise E Lindquistabout 7 hours ago in Poets
I saw you. I said nothing. I did not know what to say. I saw you and I loved you As I did in a bygone day. I saw you.
By C. Rommial Butlerabout 8 hours ago in Poets
What You Leave Behind There are things that cling like shadows, Old voices that call your name, Moments that refuse to loosen,
By George’s Girl 2026 about 11 hours ago in Poets
memorially broken pieces sensorially spectral or shrapnel remnants shards create charades façades fragmental particles
By Paul Stewartabout 11 hours ago in Poets
George Eliot: "It is never too late to be what you might have been." — Suburban Tourist - The time spent — nay wasted — won't come back
By Paul Stewartabout 12 hours ago in Poets
hidden in the shadows of doubt, fear and regret I got lost in the shallows where it's hard to forget that nothing really matters
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout 13 hours ago in Poets
I am a house that watched its own foundation crack, a soil that stole a sweetness it could never return. I remember the Tallahatchie not as a river,
By Meko James about 13 hours ago in Poets
