PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Beneath the thunder of our words,

a softer voice lies trembling,

not anger, but ache,

not fire, but the faint glow

of a heart wanting to be seen.

Each clash, a coded psalm,

a plea wearing armour,

the soul’s shy hand reaching out

through the smoke of misunderstanding.

We do not battle to win,

we battle to be held.

What sounds like conflict

is the sound of loneliness breaking open,

of love knocking against its own walls,

of yearning dressed in defiance.

So let us listen

not to the sharpness of tongues,

but to the hush between them,

where the true words live:

choose me,

consider me,

understand me,

accept me.

For every argument is a secret altar,

and beneath it burns

the quiet, stubborn fire

of our longing to belong.

It is not the fair-weather friend

who writes their name upon your heart,

but the one who, seeing the storm,

folds their umbrella shut,

choosing wet shoulders beside you

over comfort alone.

Anyone can walk in sunlight,

laugh in the soft meadow,

but it takes a rare and quiet courage

to stand ankle-deep in puddles,

to let the thunder bruise their sky

so you do not face the lightning alone.

Love is not the absence of rain,

it is the gentle hand that finds yours

when the world is unravelling,

the warmth that lingers in cold mist,

the voice that says without words:

“I will not leave you here.”

So bless the drenched, the loyal,

the ones who stayed when staying cost them dryness.

For their devotion shines brighter than any sun,

and their soaked clothes

are the garments of saints.

At last, dear heart, the hush you craved is near,

The dawn you whispered prayers into has come.

The ache, the ache, that long held back your cheer,

Shall yield to peace as soft as morning’s hum.

No more shall shadows slip beneath your door,

No more shall sleepless hours drain your soul.

The chaos that once claimed your nights before,

Now bows beneath the light that makes you whole.

The stars have stirred.

The winds have changed their song.

The sky itself has cleared its weary brow.

You walked through storms that lasted far too long,

But oh, how bright the sacred gift of Now.

No longer tangled in the nets of doubt,

No longer braced for battles yet unknown.

You rise, a quiet flame, no need to shout,

The universe has carved for you a throne.

Clarity wraps you like a second skin,

Each breath a balm, each step a sacred thread.

Fulfillment blooms, not somewhere, but within,

Now peace walks with you, and confusion fled.

So take this hour, this moment, soft and clear,

The new beginning you once dreamed draws near.

In shadowed streets where silence weeps,

And echoes chase the feet of time,

A whisper hums where sorrow sleeps,

“Stay soft,” it sings, “though life may climb

Its thorn-wrought walls and break your skin,

Do not let hardness settle in.”

For pain may press with quiet might,

May twist the dawn into the night,

But you, dear soul, are not your ache,

Not every bruise, not every break.

You are the hush between the rain,

The breath that rises after pain.

So let it hurt. Let teardrops fall

Like silver bells down sorrow’s wall.

Let it swell and let it sting,

Grief is a wild, untamed thing.

But let it heal. The heart, it knows

How even shattered gardens grow.

And when the ache begins to fade,

Like fog dissolved by morning’s blade,

Let it go—release its hold,

The stories pain has tried to mold.

You are more than what you bear,

A flame still dancing through despair.

So rise, as mist that greets the sun,

As rivers do when thaw has come.

Rise soft, rise fierce, rise with your grace,

The world may harden—but not your face.

Smile with the soul that’s weathered through,

There’s still a bloom inside of you.