the storm has settled,
the clouds dispersing
and my chest no longer caved in.
air can once again
flow freely through my lungs,
allowing me to stand up
on this spinning platform.
it is quiet,
but the kind of quiet
that reminds me of the focus-
ππ.
the world will not stop,
so why should i?
Tag: life
i rose.
i sat in the hole,
hands raw from clawing at stone,
eyes filled with tears.
for so long
the walls looked endless,
my voice unable to be heard.
but then-
a sliver of light
peaked over the edge,
dim, patient,
waiting for me to notice.
step by step
i rose,
bones aching,
heart unsure,
mind fearful.
when my fingers touched the edge
and the sun shined down on me,
soft and warm,
i knew
there was still a place
for me in this world.
β€οΈβπ©Ή
even in pain,
the soul will love
and that is beautiful.
π
even on the rainiest of days,
the sun still smiles
and the birds still sing.
the tears may flow,
but happiness will reign.
π
alone,
with even the rain
being poor company.
the darkness lingers,
ready to take my hand
and rest.
what an exhausting time.
π
the thoughts pour like rain,
not gentle,
but heavy-
a storm that seeps between the cracks,
rising through the floorboards,
turning every step into drowning.
walls collapse under the weight,
windows shatter from the pressure,
and yet-
it does not stop.
the flood does not ask,
it only takes,
and i am left drowning
in a world
built from my own
creation.
πΈ
the glass whispers,
filling me with a cool warmth
meant to soothe the nerves that ache,
but only calm for a few.
the shadows still await,
watching from the doorway
as nothing is mended; buried; solved.
the pain simply rests,
counting down until the quiet lifts
and louder than ever before.
scars
our scars,
memories etched into our skin
with a story for each.
some gentle, like brushstrokes
reminding us of joy and laughter
from when we were young,
falling and getting back up.
others more rough,
irregular lines we’d rather forget
that sting with memories
of nights we thought we wouldn’t make it.
and then there are the ones unseen,
invisible to all but ourselves
within fractures of our mind.
one by one,
these helped weave who we are.
good or bad,
they never leave-
a map leading down a road with no end
but countless stories of survival.
cellar
the cellar sits idle,
padlock on the ground
with bolt cutters next to it.
the handles wait,
aching to be pulled,
but i know what lives inside-
the whispers,
the weight,
the things with my name etched into them
that haunt me still.
if i open it,
theyβll rush out,
and i donβt know if iβll have the strength
to shut it-
not again.
π¦
a cottage eases into the morning,
windows shining with gold.
the lake trying to rest,
sunlight whispering against its skin.
birds spread music,
dew clings to grass like glue,
coffee drifts warm through the air.
it feels unreal-
this world finally coming alive.
your hand in mine,
the horizon opens,
a quiet miracle spilling across the water
as it disappears to an alarm.
it’s time for the day to actually start,
and the dreams to stop.
rog's poems 